Let’s Talk about Death

Last night, I was in a really strange mood. After listening to hours of Kimya Dawson songs, I started feeling abnormally peaceful. I’m not a person who feels peaceful unless something is horribly, horribly wrong. So that was weird.

When the peace began to subside, I started desperately trying to figure out how to bring it back. I didn’t need it back right away, I just needed to know how to access it again. I wrote the following note in my phone:


Kimya Dawson
Everything has made me who I am?
One with the universe?
Song writing?

It looks like a mason jar and a Lululemon bag (the ones with the “inspirational” quotes) made a love child, and it was this note. Essentially, these were my ideas of what had caused that peaceful feeling.

I just listened to a couple Kimya Dawson songs again. And I might have figured out what it was about her songs that made me feel so calm.

She talks about death.

She sings about the death of her friends, the death of her loved ones, and alludes to her own eventual end.

I think about death all the time. ALL. THE. TIME. And not in a suicidal way. Okay, sometimes in a suicidal way. But mostly in a “We’re all going to die one day, so what’s the point?” way. It makes me feel depressed. Which sometimes makes me feel suicidal. And terrified to die. Simultaneously.  It’s all an exciting whirlwind of death and sadness. That would be a great title for my future memoir. Anyways…

I think I’ve been depressed since I was 13, but my depression became severe just after I left Christianity. I knew what happened when we died; I knew what my purpose was; I knew why the world existed. And then I didn’t. I watched a bunch of documentaries on the origin of the universe, looking to Stephen Hawking to tell me why I existed. But it turns out, that’s not really that guy’s job.

The point is, I’ve spent a lot of time since then contemplating death. And life. And the meaning behind all of it. And the lack of meaning. But I think about it in my head, because otherwise I bum people out.

As a society, we’ve decided that even though death is the one thing we all have in common, we are not going to talk about it. I will die. You will die. Everyone we love will die, and we’re supposed to go on working out and studying and paying bills like that isn’t true. And when somebody we know does die, it’s impossible to comprehend. It fucks us right up, because people don’t die. People are here and we know them, and they can’t just not be here anymore. What the hell?

So I guess there was something relieving in hearing someone sing about death. It made me feel like it’s okay that everybody is going to die. That sounds morbid, but I mean it feels okay that everything is temporary. We can spend the time we have connecting with others and feeling inspired and talking about how fucking weird it is that one day, we won’t exist. And when that day comes, the world will go on. Unless you die in some sort of Armageddon-style end-of-the-world situation, in which case it won’t. But the matter and the anti-matter will do whatever it did when… okay I didn’t pay enough attention when I watched those documentaries. I digress.

The point of this post is that, as it turns out, talking about death brings me incredible peace. And I think that as a species, we should do it more. I’m so fucking weird.


The Ativan High Continues


In sake of full disclosure, I am extremely under the influence of excess Ativan/ Lorazepam.I took some more, and now I have bad a lot, but not  a dangerous amount.

I would like something very deep to come out of this post, but I doubt it.I am very, very, very, very happy that **This is when Sarah forgot what she was talking about and became unable to keep the conversation going or whether there is a mood that needs to be kept or anything,

My point is, I am in Hell, Lorazepam helps. Will probably want more later. I’m turning into the worst fucking influence. Didn’t step out into traffic today. Win!



Note: I cannot comprehend anything about this posting at this point so I apologize ahead of time for the poor decisions in posting.

Fear of Death and Considering my Legacy

Hey everybody,

My anxiety has been especially bad lately. I have been meaning to ask my doctor to prescribe me Ativan, which I have received from a different doctor in the past, but I keep chickening out.

In a hilarious twist of irony, after spending over a year killing myself slowly and experiencing periodic urges to instead do it quickly, I have been feeling pathologically afraid of death nearly all the time. I have been spending a majority of my time fearing freak accidents, violent attacks, and my heart finally deciding it’s done with my crap. Essentially, I am apparently under the impression that I am living in a Final Destination movie.

This fear of death has led to an obsession with the meaning my life would have if it suddenly ended today. In other words, I cannot stop thinking about my legacy. I feel this urgency to voice every thought, to take every action, to live every dream I have ever had. Today. It is stressful and burdensome and exhausting.

As I write this, I am quickly realizing that this is all I have to say on the matter. There is no real solution, and no larger message. But I feel significantly better just expressing these thoughts. So on the off-chance that I die in five seconds, the world will be aware that I felt this way.