acceptable.
“Okay,” says Helen, looking at her watch. “Before we finish up, I want to remind everyone that next Friday is our Bring a Survivor Meeting.”
This excites me I think more than the others. I haven't told anyone about my petition yet because I plan to bring it to the next meeting, when our numbers will be doubled and I can get twice as many signatures. I don't know if that will matter, considering that legally they're all worth about as much as a politician's promise, but I'd rather send off my petition with as many signatures as I can possibly get.
I'm also excited to see Ray and the twins again. At least Ray. Maybe he'll bring along some jars of venison for the group.
“Now,” says Helen. “For the remainder of our time, I want everyone to pair up with another survivor and practice giving and receiving honest, emotional contact.”
Tom, who is sitting next to Rita, pairs up with her before I can make my move, while Jerry bolts over to Naomi, leaving me and Carl sitting at opposite ends of the semicircle, staring at each other.
“Oh for Christ's sake,” Carl grumbles, then stands up and walks over to me. “Come on, Andy. We might as well get this over with.”
I stand up and more or less embrace Carl, face-to-face, though I'm four inches taller, so I'm looking at the top of Carl's head. His hair is graying and matted, his scalp dry and flaky. He needs to shampoo more often. He also needs a stronger deodorant or body fragrance. But I can't exactly complain.
Hugging is meant to give us the feeling of acceptance, of emotional and physical comfort, to remind us that we're still human beings. So far, all I've felt is awkward. I'm not homophobic, nor am I in a constant state of arousal like Jerry. But I don't think the exercise is providing anything but the opportunity to remind me that my left arm is as useless as a deflated basketball.
“Focus on how this makes you feel,” says Helen, walking around the room, speaking with a soft, gentle voice. “Don't think about how this relates to a prior memory or to a feeling you want to recapture. Remember, we're not here to dwell on your past. The past was your existence before this.”
She's said this to us before, at almost every meeting, and told us to reinforce the idea with positive visualization that focuses on
now.
So what you're supposed to do is start with your first memory after the accident or the shooting or the dog mauling. This is what matters. This is where your new existence began.
hen asked about their first memory, most Breathers recall breast feeding, riding a tricycle, being afraid of the dark, getting dressed for bed, discovering their bellybutton, playing with bugs, their first day of school, their first stuffed animal, or their first Christmas.
No one remembers their birth.
Getting evicted from the womb and squeezed out through the vaginal canal. Your skin covered in amniotic fluid and placental blood. Emerging into a noisy world with strange smells and blinding lights. Someone with a white mask and gloves grabbing your soft, malleable head with a pair of forceps.
No wonder newborn babies cry.
My new existence, my zombie birth, began with the realization that little girls would drop their ice cream and run away screaming at the sight of me.
How's that for a first memory?
I guess it could have been worse. I could have reanimated while the mortician was packing my body cavities with autopsy gel.
In addition to memories we'd like to repress and self-image complexes, the undead suffer from a host of afflictions thatwould challenge even the most compassionate and skilled therapist. Of course, most of these afflictions are caused by Breathers.
I'm thinking about Annie.
I'm thinking about how I'm not allowed to see her. Or talk to her. Or write letters or e-mails or communicate with her in any way. I just want to know how she's doing, to know that she's okay, to know that she's coping.
To simply know that she
is.
When your
“Okay,” says Helen, looking at her watch. “Before we finish up, I want to remind everyone that next Friday is our Bring a Survivor Meeting.”
This excites me I think more than the others. I haven't told anyone about my petition yet because I plan to bring it to the next meeting, when our numbers will be doubled and I can get twice as many signatures. I don't know if that will matter, considering that legally they're all worth about as much as a politician's promise, but I'd rather send off my petition with as many signatures as I can possibly get.
I'm also excited to see Ray and the twins again. At least Ray. Maybe he'll bring along some jars of venison for the group.
“Now,” says Helen. “For the remainder of our time, I want everyone to pair up with another survivor and practice giving and receiving honest, emotional contact.”
Tom, who is sitting next to Rita, pairs up with her before I can make my move, while Jerry bolts over to Naomi, leaving me and Carl sitting at opposite ends of the semicircle, staring at each other.
“Oh for Christ's sake,” Carl grumbles, then stands up and walks over to me. “Come on, Andy. We might as well get this over with.”
I stand up and more or less embrace Carl, face-to-face, though I'm four inches taller, so I'm looking at the top of Carl's head. His hair is graying and matted, his scalp dry and flaky. He needs to shampoo more often. He also needs a stronger deodorant or body fragrance. But I can't exactly complain.
Hugging is meant to give us the feeling of acceptance, of emotional and physical comfort, to remind us that we're still human beings. So far, all I've felt is awkward. I'm not homophobic, nor am I in a constant state of arousal like Jerry. But I don't think the exercise is providing anything but the opportunity to remind me that my left arm is as useless as a deflated basketball.
“Focus on how this makes you feel,” says Helen, walking around the room, speaking with a soft, gentle voice. “Don't think about how this relates to a prior memory or to a feeling you want to recapture. Remember, we're not here to dwell on your past. The past was your existence before this.”
She's said this to us before, at almost every meeting, and told us to reinforce the idea with positive visualization that focuses on
now.
So what you're supposed to do is start with your first memory after the accident or the shooting or the dog mauling. This is what matters. This is where your new existence began.
hen asked about their first memory, most Breathers recall breast feeding, riding a tricycle, being afraid of the dark, getting dressed for bed, discovering their bellybutton, playing with bugs, their first day of school, their first stuffed animal, or their first Christmas.
No one remembers their birth.
Getting evicted from the womb and squeezed out through the vaginal canal. Your skin covered in amniotic fluid and placental blood. Emerging into a noisy world with strange smells and blinding lights. Someone with a white mask and gloves grabbing your soft, malleable head with a pair of forceps.
No wonder newborn babies cry.
My new existence, my zombie birth, began with the realization that little girls would drop their ice cream and run away screaming at the sight of me.
How's that for a first memory?
I guess it could have been worse. I could have reanimated while the mortician was packing my body cavities with autopsy gel.
In addition to memories we'd like to repress and self-image complexes, the undead suffer from a host of afflictions thatwould challenge even the most compassionate and skilled therapist. Of course, most of these afflictions are caused by Breathers.
I'm thinking about Annie.
I'm thinking about how I'm not allowed to see her. Or talk to her. Or write letters or e-mails or communicate with her in any way. I just want to know how she's doing, to know that she's okay, to know that she's coping.
To simply know that she
is.
When your
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