I have a recurrent, nagging feeling that I died by hanging but I can’t for the life of me remember when.
I had initially thought my mid-19th century life had ended in a noose but I haven’t found a capital punishment case from 1870-1877 that sounds even remotely familiar to me when I read the case studies.
It could have been one of the lives before that one, but it also could have been one of the lives I lived in the 20th century. Maybe it happened more than once; it’s a common way to go.
Mostly, what I feel is how it felt to be left waiting to die. I knew that feeling in 1915 as well, like the heart has physically fallen into the stomach as if it had fallen through a trap door. It’s different from depression; depression is when you feel like you’re falling emotionally. This was feeling like I’ve already fallen and could go no lower, a sort of cold comfort and sense of finality that crushes unrealized dreams under its weight. To wait for your day to die over a period of time begins to warp the mind. I remember going numb, somehow willing myself to embrace this bleak feeling, even managing to smile, but in a coarse and soulless sort of way that was more for the benefit of those around me.
But that’s all I remember: nothing but feelings. It’s lurking there, somewhere deep. I just can’t shake the feeling that I’ve been executed by hanging and I think I’ve got something really dark buried in my past.