Content warning: suicidal ideation, depression, death and loss. Reader discretion is advised.
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I’ve wanted to die for almost 25 years. It comes and goes, ebbs and flows like the tide, sometimes feeling like my very own depressive Bay of Fundy.
I couldn’t tell you the twisted fascination I’ve had with death. I’ve experienced loss and grief and death of loved ones, and I know and see firsthand what these experiences to do a person, to families and friends, to communities.
Living with endometriosis and chronic pain and being dismissed by doctors, you start to convince yourself that not existing would be a better alternative to existing in a broken body, being a burden on everyone you love. At least by suicide I could do it on my own terms.
In the last few years, two of my oldest and dearest friends have been battling cancer. Young women in their thirties, both moms, both fierce leaders in their and our shared communities.
We watch(ed) as they share(d) their journeys in their own ways, social media giving us the ability to stay in contact in ways we couldn’t have imagined at the start of our friendships seventeen years ago. We share in their wins and sorrows, struggles and triumphs, from a distance or right beside them, loving them fiercely all along the way.
J’s battle ended in October, just days after her 39th birthday.
The collective grief penetrates lives across the country as we mourn our friend and celebrate her memory. One pal made a point to reach out and tell me I better not be going anywhere, that they couldn’t all go through this again, that I am loved.
Every day, M reminds us to just live; for those who can’t, for ourselves, for our kids, for our loved ones. Because you never know what could happen.
Enjoy the little moments.
Say yes when you want to say yes, and no when you want to say no.
Be vulnerable, be honest, be a little bit bad, do good.
Life is fucking short.
Death has taken or almost taken people from my life in so many ways: cancer, car accidents, lung disease, more cancer, heart problems, hearts stopping, suicide, medically assisted death, more cancer.
I used to be so afraid of it, especially after witnessing my mother go into cardiac arrest and nearly dying in front of me. I’d work myself into a panic or numb myself out completely in order to cope. Alcohol and drugs were always a safe bet: getting blackout drunk or couch-locked stoned; snorting cocaine to come up or taking benzos to come down; becoming addicted to nicotine in my thirties when I avoided it for so long.
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I’m sitting on Laura’s balcony smoking a cigarette. It’s Club WFH Thursday and we’ve set up an outdoor office for the day in the sunshine. It’s the last week of April, one of those early sunny days that’s still cool in the shade and you don’t know the full strength of the sun.
I’m wearing sunscreen on my arms to protect my tattoos and shoulders where I got burnt the week before on a similarly-weathered day.
(Every Thursday we work from home together and it’s an incredibly productive routine. We have coffee and lunch and smoke and sing songs and listen to music and it’s truly the perfect WFH experience).
I’m sitting in the sun, sharing a joint with Laura between puffs of nicotine, creating content in Canva for my freelance gig doing comms for a professional dominatrix and kink education platform (yes, I love my job).
She’s just pointed out that my chest is starting to get that glow that will turn pink and then slough off into a tan over the next week.
I forgot to put sunscreen on my chest because I was so focused on the previously burnt parts and the sun is high in the sky and, well, please see above comment re: the strength of the sun on an early spring day.
I press my fingers into the top of my genderfluid boobs and white fingerprints speckle across my cleavage, quickly dissipating with the heat emanating from my skin.
“You gotta get that first burn of the season out of the way, it happens every year,” I say to her disapproving stare.
I’m suddenly aware of my portrait of (un)healthy habits, sitting in direct sunlight on my fourth cup of coffee, alternating between a cigarette and a joint, not feeling concerned about any of it.
“If I’m going to die, I might as well live.”
We lock eyes and burst into fits of laughter, sending me into a coughing fit, Laura giggling uncontrollably.
We laugh because I’m excusing my unhealthy behaviours with jokes about death and because we both know how close I’ve come to dying—and if you can’t laugh about it, what’s the point of any of it?
In the fall she stayed with me through a scary suicidal episode where I was sure I wasn’t going to make it through the night, but I did. Because she was there.
I constantly crack jokes about my cat eating my face when I eventually die by suicide because morbid humour is the only way I know how to cope with the overwhelming feelings of wanting everything to end. As recently as a couple of months ago I made a suicide pact with a friend who’s also been going through it, discussing the practicalities of getting to exit life on your own terms, and naming each other “accountability buddies” for our end-of-life planning. We didn’t seal it with blood or anything so I don’t know if it counts, or if we were just doing a bit to get us through a fucked up time.
If I’m going to die, I might as well live.
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But I’m not trying to live a long, healthy, quiet life.
Fuck that.
Give me a life that’s loud and filled with pleasure and decadence and love and cracking wide open to discover what’s buried beneath.
Give me vices and drugs and instant gratification and wondering if something’s worth the wait.
Give me quality time with people I love and let me do work that represents my values.
Give me a life where people remember the time spent and the love shared and the way they felt, no matter how brief.
Give me unbearable grief and suffering so that I may know unbridled joy and love.
Give me fucking around and finding out and always being open to doing the thing over not doing the thing.
Give me time and space and choice and autonomy to build a life that is so brutally real it couldn’t possibly be imagined.
Give me the raw vulnerability and chaotic mess that brings you face-to-face with your own humanity, your own morality, your own mortality.
Give me a thousand little deaths so that I might be reborn into new versions of myself.
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I don’t fear death anymore the way I did after I saw my mother’s heart stop.
But I don’t long for it in the same way I have for decades. At least not right now. I know from experience that those tides come and go, but I’ve made a strange peace with the fact that it could happen in any way at any time.
If I’m going to die, I might as well live.
I relate so much to this. Thank you for sharing and always reminding me that I can just live. My life. My way. ❤️🔥