Becoming, Lucy

I think about cancer all the time. That I have it. That I deserve it. That I’m going to die slowly and painfully. That I’ll discover I have it and it’ll be too late to do anything to save me.

I think about death all the time. What it would be like to be dead. What is after death. People close to me dying. What would happen, how I would react. 

I like to think I’m prepared for any possibility. Even if it is morbid to everyone else. 

I think because I’ve thought about ending it all multiple times when I was younger, it’s just something I’m comfortable with.

We all know death is inevitable. 

I don’t try to prevent it. If I have a thought like: “that wagon is going to lose control, drive off the road and straight into me on the path,” I don’t try fix it. I don’t make sure there are ways for me to get out the way. I accept it. 

However, if I’m with my kids, friends, family, someone I care about, it’s different. Sometimes even a random stranger who I think could be in danger. I immediately jump to how I can protect them. How I would save them. How would I make sure they stay safe and it’s me that takes the harm.

I think there’s a word for it. I’m sure there are probably lots of terms for the intrusive thoughts and thinking about death so much.

And to clarify, I don’t think about killing myself. I haven’t had that thought for a really long time, thankfully. I just accept that I’m going to die and it’s peaceful. A surrendering. Although, I say I don’t think about ending it all but sometimes when I’m faced with a problem, my first thought is: “if I was dead, I wouldn’t have this problem.” That’s always an odd moment when my brain jumps to that extreme because the chicken is sticking to the pan. Jesus Christ, Lucy. It’s chicken.

I’m not quite sure what I’m trying to say. I’m not quite sure why I’m writing about it. I’ve just been noticing it. Not noticing it, I knew I thought this way but I’ve been questioning it. Questioning why I think this way and what it could possibly mean.

I’d love to say there is a straightforward answer; that I don’t think death is scary, which is completely normal for many people. I’d love to say that I know they’re only intrusive thoughts and they don’t linger, because they don’t once the moment has passed. But it feels so much more complex than that.

Why does surrendering feel peaceful? Have I really spent so much of my life anticipating bad things, that accepting death in whatever form it comes, even if sudden, is peace to me? Even though I have kids and I’d do absolutely anything in my power to protect them and make sure they get through life okay?

Why am I so determined to ensure everyone else’s survival but weirdly neutral about my own?

When you grow up depressed, alone and genuinely believing you’d be better off dead, it becomes a daily thought. Sometimes more than daily… I think I made my brain believe that death is a completely acceptable outcome for myself and I shouldn’t do anything to fight it. Because at least someone would be helping me do the job I’ve always been too much of a coward to do… Or at least that’s what younger me might have said.

Okay… That was some truth dumping. My brain has entered the chat. It’s picked up the suicidal ideation box from the corners of my mind and dumped the contents all over the floor.

However, I don’t think it’s that someone would be helping me do the ‘job’ – not anymore. I don’t want to die. And I don’t believe I am a coward for not being able to complete the job. I am extremely fucking strong for surviving it.

I don’t know how to word this next part. I’ve just taken a moment to sit and stare into space, dissociate for a moment and I saw the answers. Or rather one word, over and over.

Unworthy.

I do not think I am worthy and therefore I do not protect myself.

Somewhere, somehow, I’ve decided I’m not worthy of living. Of surviving. Even though I already have. I’ve already survived so much. Why is my life worth so much less than those around me? Logically, I know it isn’t or… yeah, whatever. I don’t know what I’m trying to say and it makes me want to scream.

Maybe unworthy isn’t the right word. I haven’t consciously decided my life is worth any less.

It’s just… I consistently put my needs last. I consistently ensure everyone else is okay. I consistently forget about myself.

I’ve spent so long and so much of my life ensuring that everyone around me is okay, that everyone around me is comfortable, that it has just become normal to put myself at the bottom of my list.

I’ve spent so long being the protector that I’m always on high alert, watching for danger, ensuring no one gets hurt.

Maybe I just spent so much of my life watching over those around me that I forgot I was also supposed to be watching over myself too.

I don’t know how to switch off being ‘on watch’ all the time.

And I don’t know what I would do if there was no one to watch over… Would I stay on high alert and continue to forget about myself?

The intrusive thoughts don’t scare me. The fact I don’t think about saving myself does.