I’ve known since I was 10 years old that I would die when I was 92. I don’t know why, I’ve just always had that sense. And the Death Clock confirms this: December 15, 2077.
Death and I are not quite friends yet. When I was eight my mom’s boyfriend’s son shot himself in the head while drunk. He was in a coma for many days. We all held out hope that he would make it through, but his body couldn’t recover. He left behind a 4-year-old son.
I didn’t understand at the time, but this is when I started having anxiety attacks and really being scared of death. I saw what death left behind and I couldn’t cope.
I still can’t cope.
Dawg let me preview his post for today and I melted down. Every day is a gift, which is why it hurts my heart to be in this holding pattern, this limbo, of living it.
Any accomplishments I have made since one year ago mean nothing if I’m not living each day to its potential. Each hurdle I’ve jumped over or success I’ve had keeps getting thrown into a pile and sideways glanced, but I’m not really bothering to pay attention to it. I’m always hurrying to the The Next Big Thing.
Time to take a breath and enjoy the life I have, appreciate the people in my life, and stop trying to put life on hold until The Next Big Thing is accomplished.