I don’t want to die

with a lifetime of regret

of words left unsaid

of dreams not yet met

of failing life’s tests.....

I don’t want to die

with no impression of me left

behind.

I don't want to be the last to die,

and if at all possible,

I would like to go right before winter,

so the last thing I remember

is you, and warmth,

which is the same thing.

If you ask me, one of the benefits of aging is the mitigation of thanatophobia. Yes. It’s a word. And no; I did not pull the word out of my dusty old brain. You know how I found it and it means the fear of death. Phobia words are fun. Especially the word panophobia, which literally means the fear of everything phobia. But @Adin, you didn’t ask us prosers our opinion on phobias, so I won’t digress further. I will return to the business of answering your question. “Don’t want to die,” (brilliant question by the way) which brings me back to thanatophobia.

Do any of you remember the first time you became aware of your own mortality? Were you paralyzed with fear, with thanatophobia the way I was?

I struggled as a teenager but every living human has their struggles. Some more than others, but a very wise man, my father, once said to me, “Even a newborn baby has their own personal angst. How can they know there is a breast to suckle, an arm to comfort?” Through his humility I was able to see each and every one of us as equal; from that newborn baby to the teenage girl ready to die over a pimple, or the kid that didn’t make the team, or get asked to the party, contrasted by but not unequal to the child of abuse, or the homeless, or the soldier wounded on the battlefield. We are all human; living in our circumstance. We all have needs that go unmet, and struggles. We all matter. We all want to be heard.

It was the middle of the night for me when I became aware of my own mortality. At 14, I woke up abruptly and suddenly realized I could die. I began to panic. Literally. Manifesting a full blown panic attack, but what did I know? There was an adult in the house, my mother, but I could not go to her. Those of you that have read my posts will understand why, but my father was always one phone call away, so at approximately 2 a.m. I called him and he answered on the first ring.

When he heard my voice he said, “What’s wrong?”

I said, “I’m dying.”

He said, “Hang on. I’ll be right there.”

And fifteen minutes later, the distance between his apartment and my house, we were on the way to the emergency room. I think he knew I was having a panic attack, but if any of you have read my posts about my father, his taking me to the emergency room was totally within his character. (He’s a guy who took my broken favorite doll to a non existent doll hospital.)

Not that I was emotionally fully present during my examination, since I was still consumed with thanatophobia, but if I think back, I recollect a wink wink smile between the doctor and my father, while the doctor explained to me the definition of a panic attack.

And I looked at him hard, as a young lady that always respected authority and said, “You mean I imagined I was dying?”

He said, “Pretty much. Your symptoms were real, but they are also a manifestation of the mind.”

And I believed him and then we left the hospital. My father walked me out to his car with his arm tightly around me, and I felt as close to him as an infant to the breast, yet exhausted, but also relaxing into reality, in the present moment. We drove back to my house where he reluctantly dropped me off. He was bound by a divorce decree that would not fly in 2020. My mother never even knew I had left the house.

Through the years, from time to time my thanatophobia has reared its ugly head. Less and less with age and never like the way I have just explained. That was my one and only panic attack. I have no idea who that doctor was, but he set me straight.

So how is it that I don’t want to die? I don’t want to die in fear. I want to stare thanatophobia in the face and kick it in the nuts with a smile on my face. No matter whatsoever may be the cause of my impending demise, I want to die in peace. Not in angst. With angst; that’s how I don’t want to die.

those days

when my skin was gray

and fragile

and my hair fell out

with each brush

and my eyes sunk

deeper and

deeper

when I was nothing but bones 

so defined

I could count each rib

and I did

again and

again

and I was cold

I was so

cold

but I felt beautiful

because they said

that’s what beauty was

beauty meant

counting heartbeats

as they became slower

and slower

and fighting sleep

because you were never

sure

you’d wake

up

I didn’t fear death

anymore

because

if I died

at least

they would have

a beautiful corpse

to bury

           - please don't let it end like this

@Adin

I don't want to die lonely and freindless.

I don't want to die sad or useless.

I don't want to die hopeless.

I don't want to die with guilt or anger,

I don't want to die as a stranger.

I don't want to die hopless.

I don't want to die voiceless or unchanged.

I don't want to die crying or unginged.

I don't want to die hopeless.

I want to die laughing.

I want my death to bring hope.

So stand of tall and do not mope!

None of us are going to die hopeless.

As if Death could whisper in my ear, “Tell me dear, how shall we meet?”

And I’d say, “If I must meet you, then wait, will you? Wait till the moment my shoulders relax. Wait till the burden has lifted and the fire has dwindled. Come only when I can look at you and smile, embrace you and die.”

A life lived for me

Is a life not lived at all.

A life lived for a cause,

Is a death worthy of that cause.

As I race against time, I will meet you sweet Death, but until then hold off, I have much left to do.

Don't ask me to explain myself. The frustration of not being listened to and being disregarded but still being controlled and cornered is rage that brings me to tears. I don't want to be asked to justify myself. I'll say what I need to, and I know how much I can leave out. Don't question me like I haven't thought about it.

I don't want to be away from my family, but I need my friends closer. I don't want my family talking to me and starting conversation about mistakes. If there's nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all. I need my friends close. I am not myself when I'm with family. I am not who I am with my family.

I'm a big pretender. I'm only half the truth all the time. Half myself with these people, half myself with those people. It changes based on who I'm around. I'm never really living my truth unless I'm alone. And that's something I have to get out before I go. I'd hate to be a liar. I'd hate to be a poser. I'd hate to be fake when I die, and I would hate to leave without my family understanding my friends felt more like family than they did. I'd hate to leave any family without them knowing who I am. Not to be dramatic, but I'd hate to let anyone continue thinking they knew me better than they really did. If anyone has me all figured out, how can I rest assured they're think of me again after? Some mysteries are best kept as mysteries

The warm, damp rain fell on my face. Although I wasn’t supposed to be outside, I was desperate for a breath of fresh air. I had been cooped up in that freezing hospital bed for too long. I had little left until the cancer consumed me. Although I should wish for more life, I didn’t want it. I didn’t want any more crummy chemo. I didn’t want any more horrid treatments. I danced nostalgically for when I was safe. I begged to go back to the time before I was sick. I so desperately wanted to stop aching and wincing in pain. I loathed cancer. Although I didn’t want to smudge my sweatshirt, I laid down in the soft, comforting grass. Everything around me started fading. Something ebony and gentle picked me up. Then I saw the colors, every last one. The pumpkin, the chocolate, the caramel, and the ink blended together. Then everything went white. My breath was gone.