I’ve been thinking about death and rescue, how much of what I do is motivated by them. Let me explain:
If I’m a famous novelist I’ll be saved. If I don’t grow fat or old or ugly, rescue will arrive. If I meet every deadline, complete every task, make no mistake ever, death will be averted. All of which implies I think I need saving. That frozen five-year-old is suspended in the moment of knowledge before the event. She knows she’s going to die and as she has no one to turn to, she thinks the responsibility of saving herself lies with her. Also the blame if she fails which she will again and again not because she is useless or fat or old or ugly or talentless or scared or lazy or unpleasant or annoying but because she is five and her death is inevitable.
Here’s another point.
The reason why the famous novelist bit works is because it will make me big enough to be noticed and implicitly say I must be pretty special, leading, inexorably, to my rescue. That’s the subtext: the reason no one’s coming is because they don’t know I exist.
So this is what I said to her as I ran through the woods one morning:
The reason they’re not coming is not because they don’t know. It’s because they don’t care. And the reason they don’t care is not because you’re not worthy but because they are preoccupied with their own suffering. They know you exist, but that doesn’t change a thing. It doesn’t matter how big or famous you get, they still won’t realise they’re failing you. No amount of success or shouting is going to make them aware. You can stand down. Also it isn’t your fault that they don’t realise. It’s their problem, not yours. It’s not a comment on your worth or a reflection of your value. It’s a comment on their parenting. Which is quite shit.
And then I said this:
Go ahead and die. Accept the worst is happening. Instead of fighting the horror of what’s coming, surrender to it. Let go. You’re not alone. I’m with you. I can’t die for you but I can stand by you, accompany you to the door and I will be there on the other side to greet you. So let yourself die. Then the whole rescue thing can be dropped. I won’t have to be a famous novelist or put every waking minute into the losing battle with age. Fat and ugly will no longer be weapons in your hands, I can be imperfect. We can all relax.
So she died. I watched her through scenarios; falling five flights onto metal railings, a death in the basement, being disappeared the day of the rainbow rucksack. Over and over we played out her death as I ran through the woods, feet pounding, breath loud; she fell, was torn apart, vanished. We saw her funeral, the lives after, the regret and grief, the mourning. We watched it all. A death on repeat in that house so that I can stop holding my breath, frozen in that moment, waiting for it to come.
Thanks Tor. I wanted to get these ideas and this process across simply, so that a five-year-old could understand it. That’s what I was thinking about when I wrote it.
Brilliant and highly relatable!