Because I like to have deep, meaningful, intellectual conversations with my housemates, we discussed recently what our tactics would be in the case of a Zombie epidemic. “Raid the dairy!” (that’s the local store for all of you non-Kiwi’s) “Go to the hospital!” “Shoot the fuckers!” All of which were very valid ideas that we spoke about at length. I imagined my partner, Vicky, shaving her head, throwing on everything khaki that she owns, grabbing the nearest assault rifle (because there’s always an assault rifle handy in these kind of situations), rubbing her face with dirt then running off down the street; her feet pounding the pavement in heavy black boots, a belt of ammunition around her neck clinking with every step and a fierce look in her eye. Eyes. (She has two of them.) GI Jane eat your heart out.
I however know that my response to a Zombie epidemic would be much more passive. The greatest extent I would go to would be attempting to board up the windows. Then I would retreat to my bed with a tub of ice cream and hopefully enough sleeping tablets to prevent me waking up during the moment a Zombie begins chew on my spinal cord. I would dramatically accept my inevitable death and sob heavily into my pillow, snot streaming down my red and blotchy face as I drifted off into my last ever nap. Why? Because I have absolutely no survival instinct.
I thought it was something we were all born with. I thought we were all driven by the instinct to survive. But me? No. This passive attitude to survival appears to be ingrained in my very being. Most bodies create anti-bodies to things that shouldn’t be in them such as the flu virus or a transplanted organ. My body however, thanks to Lupus, creates anti-bodies to its own DNA. It rejects itself. It fights itself and doesn’t spend enough time fighting the things it actually should, the things that can harm it. Well done body!
Then take the Bipolar Disorder. My brain deems it appropriate to catapult me off into a whizz of drug taking and promiscuous sex (sorry Mum, I know you’ll be reading this) along with various other damaging behaviours (spending all of my money, hurting the people who care about me to name a few.) It follows this by dragging me into the depths of depression where I have, upon occasion, felt that suicide could be the only possible way out of what I was experiencing. I’ve battled with not wanting to commit to killing myself, but not wanting to continue living either. Good work brain!
Thinking about it, that’s more than a passive approach to survival, I’d consider most of the above to be self-destructive. Counter-survival. And this is the stuff I have no say in – I cannot change the above of my own accord. It is how my body is programmed to work. It is ingrained in my very being. I am programmed not to survive. So although right now I may appear to be just tapping away at the laptop, sipping a cup of herbal tea, I am infact battling. I am fighting my bodies’ continuing attempts to do itself in. No wonder I’m so tired all of the time. No wonder I don’t have the energy to fight off Zombies.
So, are you a “curl up and die” person? Or a “get out there and kill the fuckers” person?