We All Know We Are Going To Die.

an essay

One of the most peculiar sayings I’ve encountered is “what’s it like knowing you are going to die.” It strikes me as odd because, in truth, we all possess the awareness that our mortality is inevitable—it’s life’s sole guarantee.

As we journey through life, we are acutely aware of our eventual demise. Yet, we prefer not to dwell on it, and rightly so. While I have developed a deep understanding of death, the concept of “death being an old friend” has become somewhat clichéd. Death for me, has become a co-worker, one whom I am in no hurry to catch up with.

During a particular phase in my life, which I openly refer to as my darkest period, I found myself courting death. I yearned for it, embraced it, flirted with it, and ultimately had a fleeting physical connection with it. Like many overdramatic males who weren’t taught to embrace their feelings, I found myself in this state, after a rough divorce.

Additionally, my fondness for alcohol had transformed from a casual indulgence—a beer after work—into a destructive relationship. Whiskey had insidiously replaced my morning coffee, and soon it became a constant presence throughout the day. At the time I had left my wife for a younger woman, I was fortunate that she remained oblivious to the hidden bottles in our modest one-bedroom dwelling. Well, at least I believe she was unaware, although deep down, she probably knew. Despite that, she endured my struggles for a good year. Women truly possess incredible strength, more than men could ever wield.

When she finally did herself a great favor and ended our relationship, I plunged headfirst into the abyss of alcohol. One night, overwhelmed by the weight of it all, I reached a breaking point and attempted to hang myself. This is the part of my story where I implore you not to extend a strangely sympathetic gaze. I don’t perceive suicide as a shameful betrayal, or a tragic event, except for those left behind who bear the sorrow, they have my sympathies. For those genuinely consumed by thoughts of suicide, it becomes a painkiller—a respite from a dissatisfying existence they have endured until that moment.

Suicide seems to run in my family, or at least in the branches I am aware of. I have lost two cousins to suicide, individuals I deeply wish I could have engaged in a heartfelt conversation before they chose their own path. However, I also take solace in knowing that both of them discovered some form of peace through their own decisions and no longer have to endure suffering.

Before you label me as ghoulish or accuse me of glorifying suicide, I have one message for those who might consider it as an option: suicide is merely that—an option. I am living proof that it is not the sole path available to you. Sometimes, you must undergo a profound transformation and confront your demons head-on. As George Harrison once sang, and some pompous windbag probably said before him, “all things must pass.” Your pain will eventually fade, making way for happiness. However, achieving that happiness requires more effort than you may initially desire, medications, therapy sessions, support systems, and talking-plenty of talking. Life resembles a museum that forces you to wade through the muck to witness its most beautiful exhibits. Stay the course though, you wouldn’t want to miss out on the breathtaking parts.

As for myself, driven by an insane level of intoxication, I attempted to tie a rope to a ceiling fan-attach my neck to that, and step off my wicker coffee table, seeking an end. Please don’t judge me too harshly; remember, I was Jim Morrison drunk. Having consumed an entire bottle of Jack Daniels, I felt compelled to tell the world and life itself to go fuck…..itself. People often wonder, “What goes through your mind when you contemplate suicide?” While a preacher might suggest feelings of regret and visions of hellfire and brimstone awaiting those who take their own lives, my thoughts were fixated on one thing: “I hope I don’t piss my pants.”

Perhaps you were expecting a profound Kerouac-esque line there?

Fortunately, much like many aspects of my life leading up to that point, I had made a mistake. As it turns out, a ceiling fan is not equipped to support the weight of a sobbing, six-foot, two hundred and twenty-pound drunkard. The damn thing tore away from the ceiling, leaving me suspended just long enough to lose consciousness. When I eventually came to, instead of encountering brimstone, I found myself lying on the cheap carpet of my overpriced one-bedroom “luxury” apartment. 

Immediately after the failed attempt, I vomited, the convulsions exacerbated by the strain my neck had endured—a sensation akin to having a tight zip tie wrapped around it. The silver lining? I didn’t piss my pants.

Following that incident, my life spiraled further into a whirlwind of drinking, fleeting encounters with women, more drinking, involvement with older women, yet more drinking, engaging in bar fights, more drinking, brawls in dimly lit alleys, and, of course, more drinking. It would take several more years before I could confront my inner demons and truly conquer my struggle with alcohol, I have my wife to thank for that portion of my story. However, that is a tale for another time.

 What I can share with you now is that my perspective on life underwent a fundamental shift. I began to treat life with greater reverence and, in turn, developed a deeper respect for death. It was no longer something to casually welcome; instead, it commanded respect and demanded a healthy acceptance. Now, at the age of thirty-six, I find myself, perhaps for the first time in my life, no longer yearning for death.

Certainly, fleeting intrusive thoughts occasionally make their presence known, but they are now easily managed and often even laughable. I perceive each passing year as a precious gift. Every time I wake up, I am grateful for the simple act of breathing and, of course, for not having to deal with any untimely accidents in my pants. 

Life, in its essence, lacks a predetermined purpose, but within it, one must seek out fragments of beauty. We must discover those pockets of solace that bring us joy and fortitude. The nature of these discoveries may vary for each individual, whether through practices like meditation and therapy or through religious epiphanies—although the latter may depend on one’s denomination. The best advice I can leave you with is-Waste no time on hatred, waste no time on ideologies that diminish the value of this life by treating it merely as a transient stepping stone towards a supposedly better afterlife. Waste absolutely no time. Love others, learn to appreciate everyone who has had a positive impact in your life, strive to harbor less hatred. Don’t squander time; it is a limited resource.

We all possess the knowledge of our impending mortality, yet the precise timeframe remains uncertain. By the time you read these words, I could already be deceased. In that case, greetings from beyond the grave! Again, there is no point to life other than to live it and embrace both the wonderful and challenging times that allow us to experience the full range of human emotions. We are incredibly fortunate that the grand artist of nature and evolution brought us into existence from the stars. We may be insignificant, but we are art.

As I reflect on my late cousins, particularly Stephanie, I am reminded to appreciate the simple pleasures of life, such as basking in the warmth of the sun or observing the blooming flowers in the yard. I vividly recall her description of how the sky transforms into watercolors during a sunset, a memory from a family lake trip many years ago. Thinking of them inspires me to seek out beauty and truly live the moments they cannot.

Always remember, everything is transient, including our own lives. Therefore, it is crucial to find inner peace, love, and joy however, wherever, and whenever possible.

We all know we are going to die, so let’s make sure not to forget, to live.