ABSTRACT
As I lay in my dark room at night, all I could think about was Mathew in that coffin; Mathew in an unfamiliar place, surrounded by those unfamiliar bodies. In my mind I had not really accepted the fact that Mathew was dead, or the concept of his spirit having been released from his body. I thought of him deteriorating in that coffin, and that thought was unbearable. I wanted to go and dig the coffin up to see if he still looked like my Mathew, to see if he still looked peaceful and had that same glow that had surrounded him when I last saw him. This kind of thinking really distressed me and deepened my growing fears. I was suddenly afraid of everything—the present, the future. I never had so many pronounced fears before we lost Mathew, or else they hadn’t showed themselves before this. And even worse, I hid all these fears, as my family had never supported any debility in anyone, especially their children. For if demonstrated, these fears would be disregarded or set aside as weakness, and weakness was completely unacceptable to them. This reaction was the basis of my anger toward my family, because I felt that they never took me seriously. I also couldn’t bear the front I had to put up due to their total lack of sympathy, or their inability to recognize my state of terror. And because they didn’t accept my fears, I found them exceedingly difficult to accept in myself. It was no wonder I always felt trapped and confused, that I decided the only way out was to die. And although I considered that option for a few years, I was afraid to kill myself because I thought of the grief it would cause my parents. Even in my thoughts of suicide my parents were interfering. It was always them, always them—never me. I felt no comfort at all in their pseudo concern, and because their neglect and denial was ruining my life, I decided that as soon as I had an opportunity to do so I would get away from them.
