Why I Write About Death and Horror
As someone who embraces life with a carefree and passionate spirit, I’ve always been captivated by the concept of life and death.
At four years old, my mother met a gruesome fate. She was kidnapped by unknown assailants, tortured mercilessly inside her red Nissan pickup truck, and left to die alone. Her lifeless body was eventually discovered, bearing the horrific marks of her ordeal. Despite the efforts of the authorities, the perpetrators were never identified, leaving a haunting mystery that has shadowed my life ever since.
Since then, obsession with themes about horror, death, and scary articles has been a persistent undercurrent in my writing, a fascination that I can also trace back to my teenage years.
Writing Horror Stories to Cope With The Pain of Death in the Family
Back in high school, I used to pen gruesome horror stories in a small notebook, sharing them with my classmates, who served as my first beta readers. I felt so significant back then, during an era when romance pocketbooks and horror anthologies were in vogue. Mobile phones and social media hadn’t yet dominated our lives in the early 2010s, so people my age dedicated time to reading actual books.
Every day, I would write a new story, and my friends eagerly borrowed my notes to devour the daily special. I wrote about classic Filipino folklore: white ladies, ghosts, kapre, and even gruesome murder sprees. Being enrolled in a conservative non-sectarian Catholic school, I was always cautious of getting caught, fearing the repercussions if my teachers discovered my macabre tales. I dreaded the thought of one of my stories reaching the principal or our department head. Miraculously, I was never caught and felt like a covert operator running a shadowy enterprise — only mine dealt in horror stories and light fiction novels. Eventually, I had to cease this clandestine hobby to focus more on academics, as I was determined to graduate high school with honors, which I successfully did. Most of my early writings were lost to the relentless necessity of moving from one dilapidated town to another following the tragic death of my parents. Yet, the subject of death has remained indelibly etched in my heart.
I grew up under the care of my father, whose emotionally distant parenting left me to navigate my feelings in solitude from a young age. His stoic demeanor erected an impenetrable barrier between us, often making me feel like a stranger in my own home. When I was in high school, my father succumbed to medical complications, and with his passing, any chance for a conversation about my mother’s tragic death vanished. This pervasive silence fostered an overwhelming sense of loss and bewilderment. I was plagued by unanswered questions: Who was responsible for my mother’s death? Why didn’t he, a lawyer, pursue her case more vigorously? What were his true feelings about her passing? In the absence of these answers, I came to understand that closure is often an internal journey. I realized that emotional resilience and self-reliance are indispensable virtues and that seeking support and understanding from others is essential for healing.
In my younger years, writing about horror and death was a means to process my grief, a way to make sense of the overwhelming loss I experienced. It was easier to transform my pain into words, giving it a shape and form that I could control. However, as I matured, my fascination with death evolved into something more complex. It was no longer solely about loss; it became an exploration of the fragility of life, the delicate equilibrium between existence and oblivion.
Newfound Love for Literature
My teenage years were both enjoyable and peculiar. I distinctly remember being captivated by the writing style of Victor Hugo, a radical author who vehemently opposed the death penalty and expressed his views in pieces like “The Death Penalty,” which I encountered in a declamation anthology. This marked the beginning of my admiration for Hugo’s work. Another influential figure for me was Edgar Allan Poe. Ever since I first read his eerie masterpiece, “The Tell-Tale Heart,” during a literature lesson, Poe became a recurring topic in our studies. Works like “Annabel Lee” further solidified him as one of my literary heroes. It was unconventional for a teenage boy like me to find solace in literature with such dark themes, especially when my classmates pursued different interests that didn’t involve reading about death and murder.
Reflecting on this, I often wondered why these morbid topics resonated with me. I’m not a psychopath, but I found a profound connection to these narratives. Why did I develop an affinity for them when I could have chosen more conventional interests? This introspection led me to realize that literature served as a gateway to explore complex emotions and confront the darker aspects of human existence. It allowed me to delve into the intricacies of fear, mortality, and the human psyche in ways that felt both unsettling and deeply insightful. In embracing these themes, I discovered a unique perspective on life and literature that continues to shape my understanding of the world around me.
Overcoming Suicide
One of the most profound survival stories from my college days revolves around a peculiar habit I developed as a veterinary student. In my room, I always kept a bottle of formaldehyde and a set of syringes close at hand. It wasn’t just a practical tool for my studies; it became a symbolic lifeline — a contingency plan for moments of overwhelming emotional and mental distress. What I had in mind was at least, if all else fails, I had an escape route.
When I unexpectedly faced dismissal from the veterinary program I was enrolled in, my world seemed to crumble. The sense of failure was crushing, and I found myself in a deep and persistent state of depression. Despite this setback, I refused to let despair define me. Instead, I turned inward, drawing strength from within to navigate this challenging period. As I ventured into a new career phase, the weight of disappointment and uncertainty loomed large. Yet, I persisted. Every day became a battle against self-doubt and the fear of the unknown. I sought solace in my work, pouring myself into building a new path forward.
Looking back, that bottle of formaldehyde symbolized more than just a chemical solution. It represented resilience, a reminder that even in the darkest moments, there is always a way forward. Through perseverance and a steadfast belief in myself, I emerged from that tumultuous chapter stronger and more determined than ever before. This experience taught me invaluable lessons about resilience, the importance of mental fortitude, and the transformative power of perseverance in the face of adversity.
There have been times when I’ve fought through tough moments, and others when I’ve found myself standing on a bridge by the river, contemplating the rush of the water below and thoughts of jumping in. It’s a dark place I’ve visited more than once, especially during the years from 2018 to 2020, when news of people jumping from the 5th floor of Gmall was making headlines. Those moments crossed my mind too.
What’s Next For Me?
Recently, life has taken a turn for the better. Things are looking up. Various events and milestones have kept me distracted from those suicidal inclinations. They demons that haunted my head had never really completely disappeared, but I’ve learned to manage them better. Over the past few years, I’ve been compiling a bucket list — and I’ve managed to tick off several items. I started my own company, adopted a dog, explored new places, reconnected with old friends from high school and college, mastered new recipes, and indulged my inner child with a collection of toys. I even founded a national creative group. These achievements have been instrumental in helping me combat those darker thoughts. Creating something new always brings me joy.
Looking ahead, I’m excited about what’s next. A top priority on my list this year is a meaningful trip — perhaps a closet haul or something entirely unexpected. I dream of being abroad in five years, maybe in Japan or Spain, if my budget allows. The point is, that many people aren’t afforded the privilege of growing old, so I am deeply grateful for every moment of life. It’s a bittersweet reality, but having so much to anticipate makes the journey easier.
I cherish the friends who have included me in their lives, even when they are far away. We make the effort to catch up over meals whenever possible. I’m especially grateful for those who took time off work to celebrate my birthday. I look forward to many more celebrations in the years to come, and I hope they never tire of my company, even when I’m struggling. Sometimes the darkness fades, and for that, I am immensely thankful.
Takeaway:
So why do I always talk about horror and death? My fascination with writing about these sensitive themes stems from a deeply personal journey shaped by profound loss and introspection. From the tragic fate of my mother to navigating emotional turmoil through literature, these themes have served as a cathartic outlet and a means of grappling with existential questions. Authors like Victor Hugo and Edgar Allan Poe provided me with frameworks to explore fear, mortality, and the human psyche, offering solace and understanding during tumultuous times.
Through my challenges, including academic setbacks and personal struggles, writing has been a transformative tool for resilience and self-discovery. It has allowed me to find meaning amidst adversity, appreciate life’s uncertainties, and cherish the supportive friendships that have illuminated my path forward.
