From my journal dated May 23rd 2012 (age 17)

Out of the hundreds of books I’ve read, some specific passages remain with me, long after I finish reading. These passages need not come from exceptional stories; in fact the particular passage I’m thinking of at the moment was a scene from a fairly ordinary book.

After his best friend’s death, a boy becomes depressed, paranoid, and perpetually afraid. He’s haunted by his friend, whose body he discovered. One night he’s home alone and he goes for a walk and hears his dead friend speak to him or something. The boy runs home, terrified. Anyways, the part I remember is when the boy proceeds to go into his basement in the pitch dark and sit there until he is no longer afraid.

I just think that’s a beautiful idea. The process of facing your fear and sitting with it until you are no longer afraid.

Anyways, I guess that was my intro to talk about my fears; in particular my phobia, of seeing dead animals. It’s a fear I cannot explain; in fact, fear doesn’t really describe the emotion I feel. I know a dead animal on the road cannot hurt me and people point out all the time that I eat dead animals every day. It’s just something about the mutilation that freaks me out. I like to think that I’m slowly gaining control of my fear – I can now look at a whole dead fish on a plate without much difficulty. But really, I don’t think this phobia will ever go away. I guess it’s just another small thing in our universe that is irrevocably unexplainable.


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