How Could I Not Exist?
Ego, the will to live, and the fear of death
Fifty years have gone by since that cold December morning when I plotted my own murder. One could say that I was contemplating suicide at the time, but it was much more than that. I had a plan — a foolproof plan — to kill myself. Unfortunately (or fortunately, depending upon how one looks at it), I still had the inkling of a will to live. I had not counted on that.
In my late teens, I was in the throes of mental anguish. All suicidal urges, I believe, are driven by intolerable physical or mental pain. Mine was the latter. That I would overcome this pain later in life was beside the point. At the time, it seemed to me that there was only one way to escape it.
Upon realizing that I could not finish the job, I broke down in tears. Mine was such a beautiful way out. But the will to live had confounded me.
Fifty years later, I am astonished by the utter desperation of my teenage angst. I want to go back in time and tell my younger self that there are many meaningful and joyful years ahead. But that’s not how life works. Life is linear, chained to an hourglass. There is no going back.
Now in my sixties, I see that most of the sand has already passed through that hourglass. At this point in my life, I am closer to my death than my…
