15 years ago, I died. It was not the result of a chronic illness, or at least I did not know it was at the time. The death was swift, so swift I hadn’t known it happened until I started my 2nd year of my bachelor’s degree and knew I had gone missing. I continued on breathing, eating, sleeping, hanging with friends, going to class – all the hallmarks of a living person. But the rotten decay of my death existed in my bad decisions and my heavy sadness when I was alone.
I’ve fought through this decade and a half to resurrect myself. At first I tried to construct a new me but failed miserably each time for many reasons including general mental fatigue. Then I began to work on my dead self, like a necromancer summoning forth my essence. And I would succeed at times and watch my ghost emerge and possess me. For that time I’m alive and happy but the ghost recedes and so does my happiness.
Laying in the dark looking at the poorly built life. Pieces of a image I thought was expected, lying in the midst of it, carried along by the steady current of life that moves regardless of your involvement; there is no doubt that I am dead.
I am not sure what to do with the realisationn of my death and the possibility that I am never coming back. I’ve long held to the idea that if I just got this right or that right, I would be happy and fine and find peace inside my skin. But I know now that is not true. And the thises and thats belong to someone else’s life. I don’t have faith that I can reincarnate as I need to. So much is missing: the courage, the energy, the motivation and maybe the opportunity because I don’t know how to create it.
I am dead. Walking the earth like a zombie, my soul trapped in purgatory, Praying that God saves me.