Fear of Living

Maya Angelou once said that the fear of living was,"...being pre-eminently afraid of dying. It is not doing what you came here to do, out of timidity and spinelessness." She was probably right. She said it to inspire, but without experience, how could she really know?

I have a fear of living. I constantly trap myself into scenarios where I could easily kill myself. Pills, knives, alcohol...the majority of my life was hinged on wanting to escape the harsh reality of life. I hated myself. My mistakes ruined me, and even though it would have been easier to blame anyone but myself, I always destroyed myself with my hopeless wishing. Wishing that I hadn't found my father cheating on my mother with the neighbor. Wishing that I had watched my five-year-old sister, instead of neglecting to mind her as she wandered around, until she reached the end of the pier, inevitably drowning. Wishing I hadn't started the drugs. Wishing that everything would just fade away. Wishing that I was numb to the heartache and pain of this horrible world.

This wishing was like an anchor, pulling me deeper and deeper into that wasteland of depression. Drowning...that's what I was doing. Like my sister had drowned physically, I was drowning mentally and emotionally. My mother didn't have the energy to deal with my depression or suicidal tendencies. She was the DA of the city, and my actions hurt her reputation. So, at 13, when my mother had found me holding a gun to my head, she sent me to the local rehab clinic. I'd been here for five years now, and last week, the doctor had "diagnosed" that I was ready. Ready to step into the real world, under supervision, of course, and live a life worthy of an "intelligent, scarred but beautiful" eighteen-year-old woman.

For this past week, I have cried until my eyes could no longer produce the tears I needed until my voice was so sore with sobbing. I couldn't do it; I didn't want to do it. Yes, I was so afraid. So afraid that I might mess up once again, and I would sink deeper and deeper until my body withered away in the inky water of my misery. And so, I searched for so many ways to end it. End it all...that's what I kept whispering to myself. There were other families who were just about as troubled as mine...or what was left of it anyway. What I'd learned from the other cases like myself: you never really surface from your sorrow. In the end, regression is natural.

Therapy must have worked well enough, though. Every attempt I made on my pitiful life that week went unnoticed. Every attempt I made on my life was empty. Every attempt was met with failure and cowardice. I could not live, but I could not die, either. I had the nerve to try and commit suicide when people were aware of my thoughts. However, when my thoughts and I were alone, I could not bring myself to do it. Maybe because I had convinced myself that someone, anyone would miss me. The doctors, maybe. My few friends in the clinic. The lady at the front desk that liked to braid my hair.

And so, on my last day in my safe haven, I could not put the rope around my neck. I could not put the knife to my stomach. I could not drink the pills I had intended to end my life with. Yet, I was still afraid.

My doctor was always thought-provoking. He always said things that would make me rethink my life choices and my fear. On my last day, he only said this:

"Remember what I have told you before: pain and grief are universal demons. They ride on everyone's back at one time or another, hunching us over until we feel as if we cannot go on anymore. You hurt today, and you may hurt tomorrow, and you may very well hurt for the rest of your life. But pain is a part of loving. You have loved, and you have lived, and if you decide in the next month that you cannot handle it anymore, I would understand. But if you cannot carry on tomorrow without having tried, I will be so very disappointed in the young lady I'd hoped you'd be. Live a better life. You of all people understand what it is like to live through the cruelties of life. There is no other option but to breathe because if you really think about it, that's one of the best things you can do. You've done it all your life, and if you can't bear to sit through the pain and your sorrowful thoughts, you forget. And you breathe."

These words run through my mind as I slowly walk towards the front lobby. The lady at the front desk greets me goodbye, and I want to say that I'm coming back, but it is stuck in my throat, as I float to the front door.

And with shaking hands, I push the door open.

And I blink in the blinding sunlight.

And I want to run back into the clinic.

But I close my eyes.

And I breathe.