Maybe a little bit longer.

I was going to die. I was certain of this now.

I was going to die. I was certain of this now. As if the certainty of death isn’t for us all—but I felt as if it were going to come for me sooner than one would hope. Ravaged by dark thoughts meant to sink me and bury me alive. Or rather, was it my heart, too weak to breathe on its own as a baby and seemingly still one that beats too irregular to ignore? Or my mind. I was not sure anymore. I was hoping it wasn’t the latter for a disturbed mind is a terrible thing to have.

My therapist had thrown around words like bipolar, or psychosis. I had refused to get a formal diagnosis from my therapist, who said I should get on medication and even once hospitalized when I told her a recent thought. I I think about both now. I should have not told her the truth. I should have lied and or just said I was fine. I had almost committed myself once. I was so low. Too low. I thought I would sink into the ground, then the earth would swallow me and I would open my eyes to find I went straight to hell. That was how low I was. I probably will not live long, I kept thinking, as if the thought was new. I have had this thought many times, and every year I continue, so why should it change?

I wasn’t sure if my mental health was just playing tricks on me or if I should be worried. I was relieved, for some reason. Life had been weird. That is the word I will use. It wasn’t hard, or much harder than anyone else’s. In fact, I would say I got the better roll of the dice—besides the mom dying thing, no dad, being Black in America with mental health stuff. I still had a good life. I just couldn’t wade through the ocean anymore. It was starting to drown me the older I got and the more I tried to ignore it.

I’m crying now because it seems unfair to me that the mind would be so unforgiving—so harmful and destructive to its host. I would have to get on meds, but I knew I wouldn’t. I read they have ill affects on the body, and I didn’t want any more problems. I could just die, I thought. It would upset a few people, but they would get over it. Most people get over the death of a loved one eventually. I had no children or husband, and despite my tax guy’s comment that your life would be better if you had these things, I was beginning to be grateful for not having them. I couldn’t struggle with this and have a family. Or maybe the family distraction would help—I wasn’t sure, and wasn’t in a hurry to find out. I thought about calling to get back into therapy and decided to go to the gym instead. I had made it this far. I wondered how far I could go without meds or help. I’m sure others felt that way when they took their own lives. That made me sad. I wished I hadn’t thought about this. I wished—I don’t know—that they told themselves, maybe a little bit longer. I can last a little bit longer. But maybe what they did was brave, and my lack of “guts,” the coward I am for the most part, has kept me alive.

No one believes me when I say I am a coward. Cowards don’t climb mountains, do stand-up, or even go for their dreams. I think there are two types of cowards: the one who plays it safe and goes with the flow, and the cowardly lion—that’s me—who does the things as their lip quivers. And whose fear of God’s wrath keeps them on this side of this spiritual realm. I was alive because of my fear. My fear of hell, which I didn’t believe in—but lately I was smart enough not to bet on the odds. And the fear of the unknown. I didn’t know for certain what was after all of this. Would there be oblivion, or another round of human torture? Doing this again, only in a worse situation since I ended my sentence early.I think now maybe my fear will dissolve one day, and hell will not matter. I will risk it. I will say I’m done, and this hell I can do no more. We shall see. Or maybe I will get on the meds.

I decided to meditate and put it off for another day.