Mortal Man

The following extract is taken from the collective writings of Henry Carver (1968-1998): “A Testament of a Mortal Man”.1

At first it wasn’t so bad. Of course, the thoughts consumed me day and night, encasing me in constant debilitating fears, but I managed to scrape through each day as it came. Everything began with an irrational fear of disease; I couldn’t stand to have someone coughing or sneezing next to me. I thought I would catch something that would evolve into a terminal illness like the ones you see on TV. I avoided the sub-ways and underground trains and I often pressed my shirt to my mouth and nose when passing through dirty areas. I kept my house so clean that it would not have looked out of place in a show-room and I only bought food that had been processed and chemically sterilised. Everyone just thought I had obsessive compulsive disorder, or something of that vein.2

It got progressively worse. I began to become anxious around other people; I was scared that any person I passed in the streets could be carrying a knife or a gun. Every single person had the potential to kill me. I avoided crowds to the best of my ability, and I made sure I never broke my strict routine. I went to work, I processed numbers, and I went home. Anything that shattered this simple regime was dangerous. It was around this time that I started disposing of both sharp and electrical objects; I was scared that I might cut or burn myself and become fatally infected. People began to notice that I was becoming a sheltered recluse. My family were desperately worried.3

In the months that followed, I began to completely deteriorate. I rarely stepped outside of my front door, and when I did I always wore a mask and full skin coverage. I quit my job and I stopped talking to people. I had even started chaining myself to my bed each night for the fear of sleep-walking to my doom. My eating habits were rapidly getting worse; I relied on my family coming to my home every week to bring me my food which consisted mainly of supplements rather than anything substantial. I was wasting away, a skeleton of my former self. My mother had tried to get me help several times, and I refused it. Anybody new to me could be dangerous. She even tried to force her way into my home with a doctor, but I always kept every window and door double-locked and the curtains drawn to block out any harmful UV rays. 4

I no longer cooked, the only domestic work I did involved several hours of careful cleaning, making sure that not one single spot was untouched by antibacterial solution. I was even becoming too weak for that. The only activity I really did was reading, asides from paper cuts (which I protected myself from by wearing gloves at all times) it was the only thing I could do that I did not believe could kill me. I knew what was happening to me and I knew that it was stupid. Everyone else lived out their lives blissfully ignoring the fact that they could die at any time. I also knew the terrible irony of living such a constricted life. However, I could not break away from it. The fear had taken over every fibre of my being, and it would never go away. 5

So, here I am. Today, I do not leave this room. My bed sits in the corner and my desk (with rounded edges) sits against the bare wall. That is all I own. Every surface is laminated with sterilised plastic which I replace every day after rigorous cleaning. I permanently wear full protective clothing, including gloves and goggles. I have stopped reading because I am now afraid that I may read something that could make my fear worse. I am so very weak; all I can do is write and sleep. I hope somebody, someday, may read this testament and see what my fear of dying did to me. It has crippled me beyond all imagination, leaving just a bare shell of a man behind. I am horribly lonely in my sad and empty existence. I may be alive in body, but in spirit I died long ago.6

Please, I beg of whoever is reading my words, never be so afraid of dying that you can not live. Never replace daring with caution. Never let your doubts consume you. Just live.7

Yours truly,8

Henry Carver. 9