I wish I still believed in ghosts

As a child, I was somewhat obsessed with the macabre. Ghost stories fascinated me. I drank up horror movies like they were Marvel blockbusters. I was so in love with the suspense surrounding ghosts and spirits that I would beg my parents to take me to cemeteries so I could read the tombstones. For me, it felt like reading life stories; it was never anything to be sad about or fearful of. 

I remember one night when I was eight years old, after finishing a young adult book series on the Titanic, I tried to see if I could communicate with those who had perished. I was so enamored with this tragedy that I asked them to speak with me about their experiences. Of course, I first checked to make sure that they were “good spirits.” Unsurprisingly, none stepped forward, but it would be years until I started to question their existence. 

To me, the fear of the supernatural has never been something to avoid, rather, it’s been something to relish in and enjoy with others. Dragging friends to a haunted house on Halloween or to an Insidious movie series-binge at my place were some of the highlights of my childhood. Truly believing in ghosts, in some form of an afterlife, was calming to me. 

I will admit that, as a child, alone at night in my bedroom, I’d pray that ghosts wouldn’t attack me. I even developed a very fool-proof method to prevent their access to me: covering my entire body apart from my mouth and nose with a comforter. The fear in the moment was paralyzing, but it was also rather thrilling, and it made me appreciate the beauty in life and my ability to experience such emotions. 

But, over the years, I noticed my belief in ghosts quivering and then dissipating altogether. That child-like fear of dark closets or deafeningly silent bedrooms has died. Horror movies don’t scare me as much anymore. And it makes me sad.

Honestly, the first time that I turned the lights off without hesitation or suspicion was the first time I fully understood that my childlike wonder and naïve view of reality were gone. I was old enough to stand alone in a dark room without wondering if there was another presence there with me. My imagination had fled, and I miss it still.

Although I’m forever grateful for science and my education for granting me proof of the folly of the supernatural, I almost envy those that still believe. That slight twinge of fear that I once possessed meant that I could still assume the existence of things that I couldn’t see with my own eyes — an ideology that I no longer subscribe to. 

Believing in ghosts meant believing in so many other conceptualizations that society introduces to us: mermaids and unicorns and leprechauns — the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus, too. In my mind, if the supernatural could exist just below the human gaze, so could they. But, one by one, they were picked apart — mutilated — by my mind and my inconsolable need for evidence and a peer-reviewed explanation. 

Maybe I’m upset because I was forced to realize that this life is my reality, that it is my all. Maybe that’s too much pressure for me, having to live this life to the fullest, taking all those risks to make sure that I live with no regrets. My view of existence narrowed so much in so few years that it threw me into shock. If there are no ghosts, then there is no afterlife. No time to “make it right” or fix relationships. It all just became very final for me. 

So, I wish I still believed in ghosts. I wish I still had the capacity to imagine their existence and to quiver at the idea that they may be lurking. I wish I still thought that there was more to life than simply what I can see. But the reality is that I don’t, and it’s something I’ve still yet to come to terms with. Instead, I’m now more scared of real-life horrors like robberies or murders or politicians taking away my rights. Since I’ve been further introduced to reality, I fear reality more.

I still love horror movies, though.