Someone asked me days ago if I am afraid of dying and where my will to live comes from. Here’s my answer:
When I was 11, I told a close friend what I want for my funeral: no black and white clothes, some flowers, cremation, and to be buried under a tree. To my young self, my demise is a celebration.
I still hold the same wishes and belief today.
There is a different kind of peace and acceptance when I finally acknowledged that I am more vulnerable to death than others. After being on the brink for the nth time last January, I have conditioned myself to end everyday in a good way. I never know when my illnesses will strike me hardest.
I guess this is where part of my ‘strength’ comes from , the knowing that everything is finite and every morning I wake up is some kind of miracle itself. I’d like to think it made me see life in a new light that not even my bipolar disorder can affect. Since death is inevitable (for everyone, actually. It is the great equalizer of men.), I decided to live as purposefully as possible without taking it too seriously.
Until the last day of the some kind of miracle happens, I’ll keep on loving and moving. I only have the present. When God decides it is time, I will accept wholeheartedly. It has been a wonderful life.