I can’t remember the first time I had this fantasy, but it was when I was younger, much younger. I can’t really guess beyond that. It would be a guess based on nothing.
I used to fantasize, at first when I’d be flying back and forth to Israel, that something would happen to me. That I would be hurt in a freak accident either when I was in the country or on the plane.
I call this my semi-suicidal fantasy, because I feel some strange need to label it.
I never fantasized about taking my own life. And usually I only fantasized about getting hurt, not getting killed.
But really, all these fantasies were rooted in something totally different, I wanted to know who would show up. Who would show up to my hospital room or to my funeral. I wanted to know who loved me.
When I read Hunger by Roxane Gay last week, I was floored when she wrote, “When I broke my ankle, love was no longer an abstraction.”
I suddenly had a realization, not that I was seeking proof of love, I knew that all along, but that I wasn’t necessarily alone in this doubt of the love around me.
I want you all to know that I am seeing a therapist, that she knows about this fantasy, that I’m working through it. I feel a need to tell you all that it doesn’t happen as often now. That when it does, I know what to do, who to turn to. I wish I could tell you that I’m healed, that I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that I am loved now. But healing is work, and I’m still working.
I mostly just want you to know you’re not alone. I was very confused by this fantasy when I was younger. I was scared of it. And I was also ashamed of it. Sure that something was wrong with me that I was thinking this way. So I told no one about it. Now I’m telling you, on the off chance one of you reads it and feels less alone, less ashamed.