This post is going to read like I have psychological problems, so I’m going to come right out and say that I am totally content with my life as it is and there is no cause for alarm.
Good. I’m glad we got that out of the way.
Because: I think about death a lot. Like, probably far more than your average bear. I’m not sure if that’s a symptom of being a little bit older or wiser, or because I worked with dead people for a long time as a forensic anthropologist, or because I spend my work days looking up mortality rates and life expectancy calculations, or because I am just by nature a morose and sad-sacky creep who often matter-of-factly mourns that eventually my beautiful hands will be skeletons.
I don’t know why, but I think about death at least once a day.
When I tell people that, their first reaction is usually some comment about how grim and unsettling that is. This is acceptable, because these people are right: thinking about how eventually you and everyone you know is going to cease to exist in any form you’ve come to associate with existence is pretty grim and unsettling.
However, underneath all that troubling unknown, there is something beautiful about there being an end (although hopefully far, far in the future). Because my gross, morbid brain reminds me on the regular that I will be dead one day, I am constantly reminded to live in the present. This doesn’t always work – I am by nature a hypochondriac worrier who gives herself stress hives – but most of the time, it motivates me to do everything I can while I can and to tell all the people I love that I love them so often that it makes them nuts. It can’t be all bad.
Am I alone in this? Do any of you other freak shows think about this all the time?