On the day I found out my dad had a year to live, I was standing at work, typing away stupidly about something I can’t remember now. And in an instant, I was catapulted into a terrible grief I knew nothing about. Like a dark room I’d never entered, feeling my way around. Gemma called my boss, my colleagues, and my best friends. Ordering one to give me time off, to get coffee, and to buy moving boxes. In the apartment, I couldn’t even remember my own name. Gemma found my passport, called my sister and arranged a pick up, and booked my flight for the next morning. Early but not too early, because she said I needed sleep. How do I even begin to pack right now? Gemma told everyone what to do. She put on my favourite songs, Taylor Swift, whom she didn’t particularly care for, and made the executive decision to toss my near-empty shampoo bottles. We walked through a handful of outfits I’d need - certainly comfy ones - as Gemma proposed. And when I’d come back to collect my t...
I never would have done it myself. But in my head, I thought about if a city bus happened to slip into the intersection while I was crossing. Or what if my shellfish allergy found me behind a big plate of seafood? I didn’t google the side effects of mixing my meds with alcohol. Didn’t turn my music down in my headphones walking at night. I didn’t pull the blanket down from over my head when it felt like I couldn’t breathe under it. I used to tell myself that worst case scenario, I run out of money and lose all my friends, finally push my family away, and in that case, it’d be okay to die because there’s nothing left I’d want to live for. There was even a point where I couldn’t think about the next two hours without completely falling apart. I had to take things by minutes. Just get through the next minute. And the next. A few more minutes and I’ll be asleep, that’ll cover at least a few hours. I was so desperate just to fall asleep, because that would take the weight off of my focus on...