Truly, I’m not scared of death. I’ve suffered for most of my life in different ways, and there are times when I’d actually welcome it. I’ve tried to make it happen more times than I can count. Not since September 2016, but before that the attempts were countless. What I am scared of, is dying in a way that makes me suffer more, and in a way where I’m not in control. I feel like I’ve suffered most of my life, why should I have to suffer in death too? Oh, and I’m petrified of reincarnation. I’ve tried to be a good person in my life, but who knows if any of us are doing it right? I’ve made my massive fuck ups. I’ve hurt others. I’ve slept with people I shouldn’t. I’ve cut people off that I probably shouldn’t have in an effort to protect myself. I wasn’t exactly a nice person to be around when I’d been drinking, back before I learned to manage a lot of my Borderline Personality Disorder traits. I’m scared of reincarnation because I don’t want to come back and live another life where I suffer for the whole fucking time. Because I don’t think anyone deserves this once, let alone twice.
On Boxing Day 2019, I had a premonition that I wasn’t going to be alive by Christmas 2020. This was before we even knew Coronavirus was going to be a big issue outside of China, and I don’t think many of us knew a lot about it. I foolishly kind of treated it the same way that you treat Daily Express articles about snow in summer or the world ending. When I had that premonition, I had no idea just how fucked up 2020 was going to be. And it wasn’t the first one I’ve ever had, which is why I believed it. Ever since I was a small child, I’ve known when my animals were about to die. I’m not making it up, I promise- I really wish that I didn’t have to deal with this. It’s not a nice feeling to have, and it got even worse when I started getting it around humans’ deaths. It wasn’t the same at first for humans, it was more of me having a thought about a person that I hadn’t spoken to or thought about in a long time, and then a few days later, finding out that that person had died on that day. It’s happened once in the last six months and it was fucking horrible.
In a way, I think it was less horrible to have one about me, rather than someone I loved. I had to go and spend some time alone for a while because it messed with my head a bit. That’s such a ridiculous comment to make, of course it messed with my head. But you know what? I never doubted it for a second. I did a little when a friend did a tarot reading for me and it was positive. But again, that was before lockdown, before the UK turned into the absolute shitshow that it is today. The second I knew that this was going to be bad here, I knew that this would be what took me.
Do you know the most fucked up thing? My worse nightmare is suffocating, or dying in a way where I can’t breathe properly. Pretty fucking ironic really, isn’t it? Especially considering I’m a smoker, so I’m absolutely not doing myself any favours! In fact no, that’s not my worst nightmare. It’s leaving all of these lives behind and the people I love having to worry about whether they could’ve done more, or it being there fault. I’m scared of how my dog will cope without me, when I’ve barely left his side in the last two years. I’m scared of it breaking my mum. I’m scared of my nieces having memories of me, but me not being able to see them get the career they want, or getting married, or having kids. I’m scared of my nephews not remembering me. I’m scared of my sisters having to bury their youngest sister, and I’m scared of my friends feeling the way that I have done ever since I lost someone I loved almost two years ago. You don’t consider this shit when you still think you’re young and invincible, and that death won’t be an issue, except on your own terms, until you’re much older. But as a sick person, and not only just a sick person, but one who is undiagnosed, it’s a constant worry.
Every single night before I fall asleep, I wonder what would happen if I didn’t wake up again. And of course, I do, otherwise I wouldn’t be sitting here writing this. But all I know is that I’m in pain, and my organs don’t feel like they’re working as efficiently as they used to. I had an episode with my heart a couple of weeks ago, and I know it was my heart. I just know it. You know when something like that happens. I was struggling, trying to wash myself, and I nearly passed out. When I looked in the mirror, my face had turned entirely purple. My heart was ok around ten years ago, when I was struggling with chest pains and I had several scans done as a severe heart condition runs in my family. But it’s not now. And I mean, what can I expect? I’m in bed almost all day everyday, in constant pain, unable to exercise and taking around 20 or more pills a day. I’m severely depressed. A body isn’t going to take all that shit very well, especially a body that has already been through as much as mine has.
I know that I should be making plans for what needs to happen if I do die, but I feel like the second I start sorting that shit out, it’s real. I really don’t want it to be real. There are so many more things I want to do. A few months ago, I even wrote a fucking bucket list, but I couldn’t even bear to upload it on here as I was meaning to do. When you start making stuff like that real then it becomes real.
Like I don’t want to suffer like this for another 60 years, I really, really don’t. I do think it’s unfair that if an animal was this sick, the kindest thing to do would be to put them to sleep, but I don’t get that option as a human. I’m supposed to either keep on living like this, with absolutely no quality of life, or make everyone around me hurt by ending shit myself. I really don’t think that’s fair. But you know, even though I’m so realistic (yeah, probably pessimistic at times), there’s still this naive, stupid hope inside me that I’ll get better. It’s never going to happen. In fact, I’m probably going to get worse. I’ve deteriorated a hell of a lot since the start of the year, and even since lockdown started. The most I can hope for is being able to use my powerchair again, and being able to go outside without the fear of catching a disease that will either kill me off or make my ME symptoms worse, and even that’s looking unlikely. But I’m just not ready yet.
I don’t even know if any of this makes sense. Do you see what I mean though, by “my issue with death”? My “issue” is that I have a million different feelings and associations with the term, so when I try to say how I personally feel about it, all this shit comes tumbling out and half of it doesn’t make any sense. That’s probably what I should be using my blog for, but the words don’t come out as easily anymore when I try to type. I feel like whenever I talk about how I genuinely feel, it just upsets people, and I don’t want to upset anyone. It would be so much easier to just return to old, bad coping mechanisms. I have to some, and I’ve also turned to new bad ones. I can only do my best here.
Maybe if we knew what happened when we died, death wouldn’t be so difficult to deal with or discuss. But of course, in the foreseeable future, we’re not going to be able to do that. So we’re left with these complex feelings and the stress that it causes, trying to figure out how to handle it when it comes to ourselves and the ones we love. Honestly, fuck death. If it happens, it happens. It’s not like any of us have any fucking control over what happens on this shit planet.
I don’t really have a way to end this so yeah. Thanks if you read. Try not to die.