I’ve never been afraid of dying alone. 

Even when I was a kid, I figured that’s how it would go.

Something had happened. A thing I never talk about anymore. But I knew that after that point, I wasn’t going to be normal in any way. 

I wasn’t going to have that pleasant, little life I should have. 

Just gone. Not even my choice. 

But that’s the thing with opportunity: Sometimes your one chance is really just your one chance. 

And that experience blew mine, forever.

It’s not like I couldn’t tell, either.  

I mean, I used to go with my mom every time she used to shop for groceries and learned how she carefully selected fruits and other items. So, I knew damaged goods when I saw them. 

And they’re really easy to spot in a mirror. 

I accepted that so young that I’m just now realizing in my 30s how extremely sad it is that a kid thought that way. 

However, again, the thought didn’t bother me at the time.

Likewise, I don’t even really feel any trepidation of the “how” of my eventual death. 

Without much exception, most people in my family die of either heart disease, cancer or complications from diabetes. 

Personally, I think heart disease is the most fitting for how I’ve lived. 

But if I’m honest, I haven’t done enough to actively avoid any of them, at this point. 

Why? 

Well, why would I?

Real talk, my friend: I’m not having fun here. 

But, we’ll see which one does it. 

Well, you will. 

I’ll be — say it with me — dead. 

I won’t be seeing a thing. 

I do KIND OF care about the “when” of it. 

However, that’s fading fast. 

Really, death will probably find me exactly when it’s supposed to and exactly when I deserve it. Just like everything else. 

My biggest worry is that I’ll never let myself truly live again while I’m still here. 

I worry that I’ll keep approaching everything with all my defenses up and so reactionary until I’m pushing daisies that it’ll make complete sense why few people came to the funeral.

 All the time, I’m afraid that I’ll keep getting myself kicked out of so many doors that, eventually, I’ll run out of ones that still open.

Then, all I’ll have left are mine and everyone else’s walls built around me, pinning me in. 

No, I don’t worry about and I’m not afraid to die at all. 

It’s just that letting myself live without my masks and barriers scares the shit out of me.