I always imagined that my cause of death would be suicide. I couldn’t have been 100% sure when, or how, or what the final trigger might be but I (thought I) knew, with absolute certainty, that that is what would happen. It wasn’t something I hoped for, it wasn’t something I feared, it was something I accepted. I felt this way from 14 to 27.
I don’t feel that way any more. I couldn’t tell you how I’m going to die any more than anyone else can. Sadly, I can’t even tell you with certainty that I wasn’t right for so many years. What I can say is that I hope I was wrong. That when I am forced (by my over-ticking brain) to think about death at all, that is no longer my go-to place. I think beyond fifty. My deep-seated belief has been shaken to its core.