Catharsis

Early December 2008. I am at the Crown Plaza Wuzhou in Beijing. This massive hotel overlooks the Birds’ Nest stadium where the Summer Olympics took place just a couple of months earlier. As the director of a global engineering company I have been in the Forbidden City for a week now to try to close a deal with the Chinese government. The lack of progress has stressed me out to no end.

It is 5:20 a.m., I wake up with a severe hangover after last night’s negotiations. It is still dark outside, befitting the black mood which instantly settles over me like a cruel contraption. 

I realize the phone has woken me up, I believe it has been ringing for a while but I am not sure. The noise is thunderous. My heart palpitates, the muscles in my chest contract and I cannot breathe. A familiar anxiety takes hold, worsened by the feeling of being very far from home.

I pick up the phone and try to speak but nothing comes out. My throat is very dry. I hear my sister call out my name in an alarming voice. She sounds very nearby, for a moment I think she is here in China rather than at home in Belgium. My aorta pulsates down to my stomach. I have a metallic taste in my mouth as if I have been drinking mercury or lead last night. Maybe I have.

She tells me mother is dead. 

I lose it, I go to pieces. The voice of my sister trails off. Like in a nuclear meltdown, my stress chemicals reach boiling point. I have the very real sensation of accelerating without brakes down a slope leading into a solid and unforgiving wall. Raw panic rolls in and deepens for minutes which seem like hours. 

Until suddenly I reach escape velocity and my mind shuts down. My consciousness shifts to a lower stratum, deeper instinct takes over to preserve the self. No fight or flight, but freeze. Like an animal that will stand still so that its predator will not see them, I go into a state of stupor in order not to lose my mind. I become a detached observer, I do no longer participate. Closed for business. 

Lying still on the bed, breathing shallow, I see myself at the age of five, walking hand in hand with my mother in the freezing cold of a winter wonderland. Our feet make crispy noises on the snow. Everything around us is silent, honoring this moment. I feel enveloped in my mother’s mystery and secure in her blessing. A precocious child, I am eager to learn, and my mother readily answers all my questions. My world is centered on her, I conform to her. There is no visible cause for concern, yet I am terrified of losing her. Separation anxiety has me overwhelmed and, in fact, so has existential fear. They say that by the age of five, you very much understand the human condition. 

Well, I did. 

I emerged from the age of innocence with a hard and fast grasp of the concept of death. The terror of the realization that I was mortal literally took my breath away. First I could not believe it. Deep at heart, I did not feel at all that I would die. I had just learned about the world, full of symbolic meaning, and my place in it. I was a unique creature with cosmic significance. I had a contribution to make. I was good at being me and getting better every day. Surely it would be a cruel joke for me to have to die. This tragic destiny would befall lesser souls, but surely not me?

My mother had me at forty-two, an unplanned pregnancy after a very dark episode when my parents lost a son with the same name. Even today I still cannot believe that simple fact. My parents gave me the same name. No pressure.

As a replacement child - planned or not - I carried the burden of my parent’s unresolved sorrow. I had difficulty finding my real self, as my primary function presented itself to be the container for the soul of my dead brother.

Very early on, it was imprinted on me that I was an unexpected gift of life, their last-born, precious and treasured. The underlying sense being that I was the improbable miracle offspring. Whether they were ever spoken out loud or not, I remember the words “What are the odds of conceiving at that age and having a healthy and gifted baby son? We need to protect this one with our life.” 

I later realized that this maternal over shielding prevented me from accessing my own powers, of finding my center. I started in life by walking on air, not on solid ground. A charmed beginning for sure because I escaped from the dangers of my mother’s midlife pregnancy. It seemed to me I had used up all my luck just getting born, and going forward, the odds were severely against me. Whatever happened next, I should not get separated from my mother.

The very same mother that is dead now.

I am a grown man in a Beijing hotel room but I feel like I am that five-year-old boy again, walking at the hand of his mother, holding on to her for dear life. For dear life…, the irony of that is not lost on me.

The fact that she is gone hurts like nothing has hurt before. I am now forced to think the unthinkable, to speak the unspeakable. That what I have feared my whole life has now happened. This means that I too can and will die, the end of a myth that only I believed in still.

I am alone while the sun comes up over another day in Beijing. I weep. I will also weep on the flight back home tomorrow. And I will bury my mother. And I will talk to my father and my siblings, really talk, and I will feel better. Because we are alive. 

I can still love my mother even now she’s gone. That I was given the same name as my dead brother I now consider a gift of devotion, highly unsettling as it has been on my journey to this day.

I feel like a lifelong spell has been lifted. I am still here even though my mother is not. Through all the pain, I feel restoration and new possibilities. The purgation of childish emotions has cleansed the path forward.

I am my own man now.

Author's Note

A new version v3 has been uploaded based upon your feedback, many thanks to all of you.

Reviews

[Linda Marie Van Tassell]

As I read "Catharsis," I felt a numb attachment to your experience. Our parents leave their thumbprints on our very soul; and whether they are here or not, they impact our lives and who we are forever. I have no parents. I have no grandparents. Relatives on either side are completely unknown to me. Death has brushed his wings against those who should have loved me the most. Sadly, they were lost souls who, being shattered themselves, could do nothing other than shatter me as well. I am fragments of them all. My soul has been cut by their sharp edges, but I am strengthened steel - forged in the fires of loss and heartache.

That you had such an affinity for your mother at an early age, fearing her loss, tells me that you not only walked hand-in-hand with her. You walked heart-to-heart. It's only natural that her journey away from you would impact you so deeply. It also strengthened you, allowing you to realize that you could stand on your own. It's a beautiful reflection of your relationship with your mother, a reflection that so many would love to have with their own mothers, myself included.

I learned to stand and survive on my own at a very early age, far too soon for anyone to endure. Yet, we are stronger than we even know; and it's moments like this that cause our spirits to rise to the occasion.

Your parents must have loved each of their children deeply. To have lost one son and then have another to whom they bestowed the same name is deeply unsettling. On the one hand, it seems an incredible burden to the child. On the other, it seems a gift of sheer devotion. They never let go.

My own mother had a best friend who died while trying to give herself an abortion with a coat hanger. I always found it unthinkable that I was named after someone like that. It always seemed like a curse or a jinx upon my life. While I wouldn't choose to do the same, if I try to look at it from the other side, I see it as a way to keep that person's memory alive. While my mother may have had many beautiful memories of her friend, my only knowledge of her was death at her own hands while trying to end the life of another. What it means to me must have meant something completely different to her.

Your story is believable, whether real or not, so I can only speak of it as if it were. When I write, I always want the reader to feel what I'm feeling at the time that I write. If fiction, you did a splendid job of evoking emotions as if it were real. The agony of loss, the pain of separation, and the numbness of the moment are all very tangible to the reader. The flood of memory in that moment is sensate. I feel your pain.

In the end, "Catharsis" speaks of your journey and your strength and your growth towards a future bereft of fear. I have very personal reasons to relate to this story. Nonetheless, I think everyone can.

Thank you for sharing.

Here are a few corrections that need to be made ...

" ... Forbidden City for a week now to try (to) close a deal with the ..."

" ... the muscles in my chest contract and I cannot breath(e)."

"Raw panic rolls in and deepens for minutes which seem (like) hours, ..."

" ...I do (remove) no longer participate."

" ... shielding prevented me of (replace with the word 'from') accessing my own powers, of finding my center.."

There are also a number of punctuation errors that need to be corrected throughout.

[Philip Muls]

Thank you Linda for your detailed and professional feedback. You made me understand that I am privileged that indeed I walked heart-to-heart with my mother. And getting the same name is a burden yet indeed also a gift of devotion. I am sorry for your own situation.

[Amory Grey]

Oh man, I truly admire your writing style; this is a powerful piece, I felt the desperation and sort of felt in a state of trance I can't really explain. I like that finishing sentence "I am my own man now," simply brilliant.
Cheers

[Philip Muls]

Thanks Amory, I appreciate your feedback.

[modtoddinc]

This was an enjoyable and sad read for me. When we learn of the mothers death, my heart skipped a beat and I immediately read on with my own mother in mind; to me, this is excellent writing. When the reader has empathy for the characters, the author has done their job. Thank you for sharing your artwork. Great story.

Peace, Todd

[Philip Muls]

Thanks Todd, much appreciated.

[BrokenWingedPhoenix]

You did an excellent job describing anxiety. I fight anxiety on a daily basis and if I didn't know better I'd say you do as well (from your description of it). You take the reader on a emotional ride, and it is executed very well.

[Philip Muls]

Thanks for your kind words. Yes I also fight anxiety. Take care !

[RT]

As usual, you bring home what it means to be human. The feelings we all have - you express so beautifully in your pieces. I think you have the perfect base for a book. Small chapters linked to show the world as an emotional being.

There are a few small suggestions I would make to you...
I think small, concrete details of the hotel room might give your piece texture before it goes completely internal. (Maybe the glowing red numbers of the clock next to the bed? The color or feel of the sheets?)

Add a comma here: As director in a global engineering company, I have been.......
The paragraph where the phone is ringing - I would keep the sentences choppy. Get rid of any extra commas that lengthen the sentence.

After you go back and play with this piece and add/subtract from all the comments - I would love to read your next draft. You amaze me with your skill and ability to express so much emotion so clearly...

[Philip Muls]

Many thanks for constructive feedback RT, I will work on this piece.

[Philip Muls]

Question, how could I really test whether this is book material ? I have no experience in the publishing world...

[RT]

Honestly, I can't say that I am an expert on publishing. But I certainly think your work is worth publishing. The question would be how to find the right publisher or how to publish your own and get it out to the world... Maybe somebody on here knows how to do this. :)

[emmajoy]

' I am my own man now.'

Your story is very dramatic: at first everything seems emotionally enhanced by being in a place where stressful negotiations and a hangover have left you weakened, perhaps. Then comes the news, there are almost theatrical thoughts in your mind, plus, they were immediately about YOU and how YOU felt rather than tears and regrets for your beloved mother. Yes, you did eventually describe your relationship with her, your name and why, etc.. but.. perhaps it's the non-stop use of first person voice that turns a wonderful story into pity for self. That final line more of less clinched that for me.

[Philip Muls]

Thanks for honest feedback. Does the first person voice do more bad than good ?

[Angelique]

Wow what a start, I like the way you describe his feelings and the taste in his mouth. The knock on the door could of been explained a bit more. Overall it was a real good read

[Philip Muls]

Thank you Angelique for the kind feedback.

[TheLoversCheat]

I feel the beginning had a little too much "I am" or just even "I" in it and I understand that your character is speaking for themselves but it seems to just feel like it repeats itself. Also there is either too many comas or periods for a sentence or in the sentence. It is well written and I did enjoy reading it, usually I read things like this out loud to see the flow of the story. I enjoyed the detail and advance words you used in the story to give a better description of what is going on or how they really felt. The flash backs would bring the slight happiness then the sting of the pain of knowing the mother died was great :).

[Philip Muls]

Thank you for the relevant feedback. I am aware that I am using to much 'I am'.

[Sylvia Chika]

Well-written. Detailed. I love it. The death of a loved one can cause a tsunami of emotions and it can also be an eye-opener. I can relate. Thank you for making me read this...and sorry once again for your loss.

[Philip Muls]

Thanks Sylvia for your kind feedback.

[Celie Rose]

Everyone grieves a loss differently. Well expressed. Yes, I feel that it would be a good idea to bundle your stories in a 'book of life'. Good job. Keep writing.

[Philip Muls]

Thanks for the kind feedback. I will think about my book of life.

[dan]

Philip, Your writing style and technique are impeccable, you write with a very professional tone in keeping with the guidelines of the story. And the fact that this piece is THAT good makes me wonder how this got past you: You start the story in a hotel room where you are sleeping hung over. Suddenly your phone rings AND a persistent banging on the door where a person speaking Mandarin. You answer the phone and it is your sister informing you that your mother had passed. But the Mandarin banging on the door is not mentioned again. Now this isn't a major flaw, easily remedied. And please don't take this wrong, Philip, if I do that I want someone to tell me also. But the rest of the write? Like I said at the start of this verbose review, it is impeccable. You write seemingly professionally. Good job. take care...dan

[Philip Muls]

Thanks Dan ! You are very correct about the banging on the door...