Suicidal ? Not quite.

TW : pills, self harm.

I do not long for death—no, quite the opposite.

I fear death, I fear the afterlife, I fear God's judgment, I fear hell's burning fire and eternal suffering.

But oh, how sweetly the Reaper whispers to me, his scythe caressing my cheek like a feather, his inky robe calling my name: Oh child, come to your mother’s embrace. Child, wouldn’t you feel so safe under my wing?

Throughout my teenage years, I would look at the blade. I would sink it into my flesh—but not too deep, just enough to feel a little pain, just enough to draw that beautiful scarlet color.

And then, by some magical—or perhaps sinister—spell, my wrist would gain speech, my veins would chant my name: Just one wound, one swipe, just a little pressure. It will feel good, I promise.

But I never do, and I never will, for I am scared of death—petrified of His wrath.

At seventeen, I started taking fluoxetine, and in my darkest moments, on my sickest days, I would look with longing at those little bundles of joy. Suddenly, they were no longer pills—they were little flickering stars now, they were arms offering me a hug, they were… what are they exactly?

But I never take too much. I never go beyond what the human body can handle. I never answer the calls.

I am but a wuss—what a coward, really. For someone whom death speaks to so often, why do I fear it? Why do I idolize it?

I have spent weeks—months—convinced I was dead, convinced I was nothing but a walking corpse. It was terrifying. It was stressful. Is that the origin of my thanatophobia?

I remember so vividly this one night. I was fifteen, at my grandmother's house. That’s when it hit me—like a switch suddenly flipped. My brain was repeating this psalm: You are going to kill yourself. Yes, you are. You are going to kill yourself. Yes, you— How daunting.

If I am so off-put by death, why does the idea come to me so often?

Don’t get me wrong—I am happy and grateful that I will never do such a thing. However, it still intrigues me. Perhaps both ideas are true. Perhaps it is not paradoxical at all. I simply long for nonexistence, for a moment of quiet. I do not want to leave this world behind, nor sadden my loved ones—I simply want a taste of self-destruction, a reversible sort of damage.

Mother, father, do not worry about me. If one thing, you have raised a craven.

Lover, do not worry about me either. I will stay strong for myself and for you. Well, the proper way to phrase it would be: I will stay as scaredy as I can.