Kill the Weak

The internet was never a good place for hypochondriacs, but it is uniquely frightening right now. There’s an invisible murderer somewhere, maybe everywhere. Every twitch, every feeling, every ache, every pain, every sneeze, every skip of the heart might be a symptom. Tiredness and confusion might be symptoms. Virtually every manifestation of physical or mental stress might be a symptom. I threw up a few days ago because I drank too much, and as I watched half-digested pasta and crimson wine erupt out of my face, I felt genuine relief that it was not a symptom.

When this murderer comes, it may kill by lung damage, heart damage, kidney damage, liver damage, or stroke, so far. It might kill you quickly or slowly. It is absolutely coming for you, and if it doesn’t kill you this time, it might come again. There’s no defense except to hide, no treatment except machines to keep you breathing.

Coronavirus is the existential spectre of death made real. The unimaginable terror in a wilfully forgotten future is now coming tomorrow, for everyone.

I’ve lived with a pathological fear of death for 34 years, since I saw the sun consume the Earth in a science documentary and started screaming as I realized the future is the destruction of all things. I manage it fairly well, but when the panic rises I am not recognizably myself. I scream and I hit things. If I manage to stop myself from doing that, and I have to now, I collapse mentally. I lose my sense of humor. I let my ego crumble. I don’t think, or speak, or move. It’s not emptiness, but fullness: I erase myself to let the sheer and perfect horror of the universe wash through me. When it recedes, I return.

It’s not receding anymore, so I’ve had to maintain a beachhead in my mind to continue functioning as maybe a quarter of the person I usually consider myself to be. There isn’t a lot of room for complex thought or emotion. When too much gets through, I sob. Usually in my kitchen, for some reason.

It is not virus or the lockdown that has crushed my spirit. It isn’t even facing my worst fear every day, all day. Years ago, I wrote “We cannot dismiss everyone who supports Trump as stupid or evil.” Maybe it was true then, but I regret my words. We may now dismiss them. Personally, since the White House thinks we’re in a “war” against coronavirus, I would like to see a large portion this murder cult hanged for war crimes. I would go to that execution. I would cheer. I would shout for more.

Because I no longer believe I live in a country with greedy assholes, or ignorant people trying to get by the same way I do. I no longer believe that it is my task to better myself and find harmony with people I cannot understand. I believe I live in a country full of dangerously stupid monsters.

This is the only way I can make sense of the world anymore. I’m tired of trying to explain the simplest concepts to people who refuse to understand things like gravity, vaccination, carbon, and that hurting others is bad. If they’re monsters, I can stop trying. Doesn’t understand basic compassion? We don’t expect that from monsters. Tells doctors treating patients to go back China? I would definitely expect that from a monster. Holds up a sign reading “sacrifice the weak” for reasons I can barely fathom. But nobody knows what motivates monsters, and there’s no reason to ask.

The thing that has crushed me is I agree with that guy right now. We just have different opinions on what constitutes weakness. The total inability to construct a social safety net sounds weak to me. People unable to endure the mildest inconvenience without yelling at someone are weak. People who take guns to protests to intimidate others are obviously weak. People who need guns to intimidate others are pathetic by their own monstrous fucking standards. In the face of the fear all thinking beings share, people who decide to throw strangers in the fire to keep themselves warm are weak. People who exploit pandemic for profit display a weakness of spirit so profound that death could only be a mercy.

I have lived with rage for much of my life, but I have not truly wished death on another human until 2020. Even my worst fantasies have always required my bloodied foe to be alive, so they could be humiliated. There has to be a speech. They have to drag themselves to their feet and avoid eye contact. This is the kind of fantasy for the time when you get to ponder the struggle for a nation’s soul.

This is now a struggle for my life and the life of everyone I love. It is also a struggle to find the slightest light glinting off a future the tiniest bit better than the present. I fear I won’t be a part of that better future, because I discovered, halfway through my life, that I have the capacity to want a stranger to die. Not even out of anger. Anger is hot. Hatred is cold, and thinks itself righteous. I have found common ground with the worst people in the world.

So in the presence of death I weep, and hope I’m not a monster.