I’d planned to die before turning 25

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Note: This post has graphic language about death and suicide and will be uncomfortable for certain readers.

life

I think the simplest way to phrase it would be that I’d grown accustomed to treating my life as a carton of milk; doing what I wanted with it while it while I had it, knowing I would get rid of it at some point, because it wasn’t meant to last. I wasn’t wholly aware of the expiration date, but knew it would be sooner rather than later. I’d planned for it to be sooner rather than later.

I didn’t have a specific date picked out per se, but I didn’t plan to last much longer than 25 years. I’d toyed with the “magical” idea of joining the 27 club, but realized that was a crock, as I was a civilian who didn’t get out much, and the only person to acknowledge my induction into that sort of morbid club would be me. And that’s just awkward.

Sure, plenty of people hit a certain age that induces panic and a realization that some day they’ll die. But I’m talking about getting to a certain age after beginning medication and realizing I’m not going to (allow myself to) die anytime soon.

Now I’m dealing with a can of beans. My life is a can of beans, and I’m learning to think of it as such. That stuff doesn’t have any real expiration date. That’s the stuff you donate at food drives, because it’s been in your cupboard since ‘Nam.

what

Somehow or another, my coworkers and I recently talked about our views and approach to dealing with death. Well, they did most of the talking. I just listened, because, as they were talking about any sort of fear of their own deaths or the death of loved ones, I could only relate to fearing someone else dying. I could only think of being an 11-year-old in the passenger seat of my mom’s car, and hoping we’d get in an accident that would kill me, not her.

On my medicine, this is a total bummer to talk about, and I realize now how much that line of thinking isn’t healthy or fair. And I’m so incredibly lucky to have a privileged life stacked with people who love and care for me, and who’ve stayed with me all this time.

So now, I’m trying to figure out how I feel about death, and trying to appreciate that, on the threshold of turning 25, the fact that I haven’t offed myself is something to celebrate, and not be surprised about.

I just don’t know how to thank the people who saw past my crazy and realized that, while that mentality is a huge part of my life, it’s not me. Those people helped me help myself, and told me it would be OK. And that means more than they’ll ever know.

If someone you know mentions wanting to harm themselves, don’t ignore it. Don’t judge them or shrug it off. Talk to them about it, and help them. They’re not just telling you for attention, they’re asking for help.

 

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Let’s talk about being in a rut at 23

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tina

For the first time in my life, I’m not sprinting to accomplish the next step. I’ve graduated college, moved out of my parents’ house, moved across a continent, moved back, gotten a great job, am in a stable relationship and have begun the life-long task of repaying my debt to society in the form of the most obnoxious school loans any sadist would admire, all in the same two pair of leggings.

I’m done. I did it. Uno. Yahtzee. Olly, olly oxen free (I just realized my kids won’t know what that means).

So now, I’ve started having these constant dreams about being pregnant, and giving birth and being in love with my spawn. But then I wake up, and if I so much as see a Pamper’s commercial I cringe and gag simultaneously.

“You have the weirdest case of baby fever,” my boyfriend said.

And now, I get to tell you why I hate the Huffington Post.

In a fit of boredom, because, you know, I’m done with everything, I decided to Google “pregnancy dreams meaning.” No, I’m not proud to admit that I did this. The shame is just, like, ridiculous.

One of the first things that came up in the search results was a story from the Huffington Post, featuring an interview. With a psychic. About what dreams about pregnancy mean.

This is the same site from which so many of my Facebook friends are sharing “breaking news.”

People, if you’re getting your news from a site whose biggest accomplishment is its opinion tab, written by stay-at-home dads, you need to rethink your life choices.

CNN.com. That’s all the more I’ll say.

Anyway, after completely bypassing this story, the way I do all of the Huffington Post’s stories, I found in other results (because, really, is it possible to find a reputable source on decoding dreams?) which explained that dreaming about being pregnant and giving birth may be a sign that you’re missing something in life, or that you don’t have time for something you used to do. In general, it supposedly means that I need to find another way to spend my time that isn’t stuffing my face while watching “Gilmore Girls” on Netflix.

But thank God it’s not baby fever, ammiright?

So, if this is at all accurate, and I’m not just another sucker for a horoscope reading that says, “You’ll have to do something today,” then my subconscious is telling me I need more. I’ve just spent the last year of my life running all around the United States and validating myself as a human, and I need to do more with my life.

… I get it.

I told my boyfriend today that I couldn’t wait for this next year just to settle down and stabilize ourselves financially. I actually used that exact phrase– “stabilize ourselves financially.” I’m 23 years old. Just a year ago, I was drunk-yacking into a toilet, bawling my eyes out and telling my equally obliterated friend that I loved her. I was normal.

what

So, yeah, maybe I need something more to keep myself from mentally aging at warp-speed. But what? I’m not a novelist, or a sports fan, and I don’t have enough of an addictive personality to give heroin a real shot.

I see other people my age having real babies, not just dream-babies, and getting married, but I’m not ready for that. First of all, you need money to do either of those, and also, just a year ago I was drunk-yacking and thinking about skipping class (but not actually doing it, Mom). How can I have a baby when I am a baby, without any money? I am a giant lady-child who needs a hobby that isn’t making other people.

So, what?