I never used to concern myself too much with the idea of my own death. It didn’t really scare me. I don’t believe in an afterlife (or at least one where your consciousness continues fully intact), so the thought of “one minute you’re there, the next you aren’t”… well, what does it matter? The seconds before death might be hella scary, but you’re not going to worry about it once the lights go out.
But that all changed for me as a parent and in light of this ongoing, possibly resurging pandemic – every time I think that I or someone else has put me in any danger of catching this thing, I spend two weeks barely sleeping, nightly panic attacks and tears, because the thought of what my death will do to kiddo is all I can think of. I don’t want to devastate her.
Ugh. I only *just* stopped having nightly panic attacks/nightmares and sudden crying jags over her family being broken up and her losing her childhood home, both things that hurt her terribly despite her brave front.
I just don’t want her to go through any more pain.
It’s the same thing with relationships. I haven’t been in one since my marriage was ended. I used to think Lorelei on Gilmore Girls was crazy. Now I get it. Maybe in a few years, when Kiddo is older.
Anyway, I’m a mess, but I manage to keep it together during the day, at least. Last two nights were brutal. My face is so swollen from lack of sleep I look like I’ve been in a fight.