I'm wondering who decided that living was brave and dying was not. Who said that? Why is staying alive and breathing air brave?
It seems to me that for as long as I can remember, breathing has been hard. I have made the decision time and time again to keep on doing it and I'm wondering why. What the fuck am I doing this for?
When my son died everyone told me he's in a better place...really? What place is that? It's not here with me. How and why is that better? I don't believe in Heaven and the only Hell I believe in I'm living. I have been living, it's been endless and I'm tired.
I have seen, felt, imagined the end so many times. It seems like it would be releasing and pleasant but I can't do it because it is considered being a coward. It would hurt the children I have left. The children. They are grown men. And now instead of 3 I have 2. I have this gigantic hole where he used to be. He needed me the most and I let him down.
I guess now I see why living is brave. Because when you suck at it and everything you do is just one more mistake it IS brave to face another day. Eventually it's going to catch up to you and everyone will know you for the fraud you are...and that day, you will either fight for your life or you won't.