I wish I were dying because perhaps then I’d live.
My entire life I’ve had this prevailing feeling that I’ve never truly lived. It’s like days, months, and even years just seem to disappear before my eyes. My very soul yearns to live fully and truly. And yet, I wake up each and every morning and think, “Tomorrow. Tomorrow is the day.”
I’m filled with this dread that I will come to the end of my life and realize that I wasted it. That I wasted so much time, potential, love, and opportunity. Tell me I’m not alone in this. Tell me I’m not the only one who feels this way. I just keep waiting for this “aha” moment, when everything clicks into place and everything runs smoothly. Most of the time, I feel guilty for even trying to live. All of the time I hear, “I just have to get through this exam” or “Once you’re done with the school year, you’ll be okay” or “I can’t wait until the weekend.” It makes me wonder if anyone knows what it means to live. Because how often can you keep doing those things before you’ve waited your entire life away?
Sometimes I feel this dread in the depths of my very essence that I’m running out of time, that I’m too late. I have so much potential, so many things I want to do, so many things I could be. But I’m terrified that if I let myself live, that if I let myself breathe even for just a moment my entire life, everything that I define myself by will come crashing down. I am a depressed, anxious, perfectionistic overachiever. Most of the time, I feel like I’m never really anywhere at all. I’ve never been “here,” I’ve never been present. When I try to be present, I’m worrying about not being present, and that’s all I focus on. I run a hamster wheel in my mind of all of the things I should be doing, all the things I should be, and all of the ways people might perceive me. I’m always tired, but tired from what? A life I’ve never actually lived?
Tell me there’s a different way to live. Tell me that I’m not insane. Because I realized I am dying, even right now. My cells are destroying themselves even as I write this. My life is finite and every single person I’ve ever loved is as well. Tell me it’ll be okay, that my life means more than the things I’ve accomplished or the person that I am. I do not want to resign myself to the life everyone seems so content to live.