Childhood memory
I have an intense irrational fear of dead people. It is not your normal, “I don’t like dead people" reaction... my fear borders on the goddamn psychotic. How did I get to be like this? Well, pull up an easy chair… light up a cigarette or, whatever your poison is, and let me tell you how it came about. When I was 11 years old my mother’s aunt Millie died. I remember Aunt Millie as a stern-faced humourless old hag who rarely smiled. She scared the bejesus out of my siblings and me every time she came to visit. Thankfully it was not that often… but it was often enough for us to dislike her. Anyway, she died and the whole friggin family had to attend the funeral. It was one of those open-coffin funerals and we all had to walk up to the coffin in single file and pay our last respects. Oh yeah! Who in the name of God makes up these scary rituals? Now if you thought that I was scared of her when she was alive, it was nothing compared to the fear I felt growing in the pit of my stomach as I was made to walk up to the coffin. I prolly would have pee-ed my pants and only my own childlish sense of pride and dignity prevented me from doing it. I tried all sorts of dumb excuses… I feigned tummy ache, extreme grief, threw a bloody tantrum, but my "we-have-to-keep-appearances" mother would have none of it. I could hardly breathe and I somehow had this terrifying vision that Aunt Millie would reach out from inside the coffin and take hold of me as I filed past. Yep… too much television and too may scary movies makes for a very active imagination when you are 11. Anyway… I finally got to the coffin. My mom’s ahead of me, followed by yours truly, and then the rest of the family. As I rounded the coffin and looked down on Aunt Millie’s very dead face, the world seemed to stop. My mouth was dry and I was by now as pale as a bowl of left-over porridge. My mom, prolly thinking that she would help me overcome my fear, took my hand and before I could stop her, touched it to the cold forehead of my dead aunt. Oh noooooo….. That was it... I went stiff and froze on the spot. After an eternity, I somehow managed to pull my hand from my mother’s grasp. And in doing so, I lost me balance and staggered backwards, all the while making a high pitched moan in the back of my throat. I knocked over the vase of white lilies that stood behind to the coffin. And man… did those lilies scatter! I think Aunt Millie scared the bejesus out of them too. And then I scarpa'd… down the aisle and straight for the church door, much to the amusement of my older siblings. Mom and Dad stood there… horrified… but there was nothing they could do, I was down that aisle as if ten thousand demons were chasing me. They found me hiding behind a tree at the back of the church… still in shock. Dad bribed me with sweets… hehe… they made me forget about Aunt Millie. Up till today, I still struggle with going to funerals. I know my fear is irrational and that I should get over it, but until then make sure there is a bottle of tequila or some lithium for me at the door of the church. Screw the therapy… hehehe… drugs and alcohol are much more fun.
