They once told me that when every human is born, they are afraid of death. That our natural instincts tell us to live. For some reason, I was born different. From as far back as I could remember, I was never afraid of dying. When I was young, if a car was racing towards me, I would calmly step out of the way without ever feeling anything. If I was in the ocean and I couldn’t stay afloat, I would simply think about how my life didn’t matter anyway. But as I grew, that indifference to life and death morphed into something different. It changed into fear. Fear of life.
From being completely indifferent to all things in life. I became overwhelmingly afraid of life. But the problem is that I was a coward, and couldn’t stand to so something about this. So therefore, I planned to die but still worried about a future I didn’t have. I am ready to commit suicide, but I worry about what will happen if I don’t succeed. I worry that if schools see my suicide attempt on my medical record, they won’t accept. But what am I worrying about? I’m going to die anyway.
And this fear, this crushing fear keeps me from both living and dying. And now I’m finally sick of it. What’s the point of living when being dead would be less painful?