Let me start out by saying that this is not a suicide not. It is a Eulogy. This is the jumbled up expression of the emotions and thoughts and ideas about death stored inside the extraordinary mind of a very screwed up fourteen year old. There is a section in my mind reserved for concepts of death, and infinity, and “magic vs. science” and all of those other things with vague explanations (explanations that are in no way satisfying for a girl who questions everything). I visit this section of my mind quite often, and by often I mean hourly. It’s my safe place, where I can debate with a reasonable being (myself) instead of some ridiculous and blatantly annoying human being. I really, really dislike human beings, most of them.



After writing this first paragraph, I had to walk away from the keyboard to have a small Anxiety attack.

After returning and rereading this first paragraph, I realize that I sound like a high-functioning schizophrenic suicidal sociopath (pardon the alliteration, it was completely incidental), and I may very well be one. Schizophrenia and depression run in my family. Logically speaking, if I poured out my guts to a therapist, I am fairly certain that I would be put in a mental institution for observation and treatment. However, the fact that my mind is jacked up in no way means that my wishes for my funeral, or for my future are invalid and should be ignored. The best thing you can do for a mentally ill person is to listen to them, especially when they aren’t talking.

I have this horrifying image of my funeral being somewhat like Albus Dumbledore’s in Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, with a line up of honorable people saying honorable things about me, things that in no way reflect who I was. I can’t stand the idea of what people remember about me is all of the wonderful things everyone else thought. The truth is, no one knows who I am. I do not know who they are, and it will remain this way till time itself comes to an end. How can everyone else know who you are if even you haven’t figured that out?

I want to speak at my own funeral; in fact, I want to have a pre-funeral, like Augustus Waters in The Fault in Our Stars. I want to get up at a podium and look down on all of my loved ones, and tell them about all of the dreadful internal struggles I have gone through behind a closed door while they sat outside worrying about me. I want to pick out the people who made my life a living hell (my therapist) and praise those who kept me temporarily sane (the girls in The Unavoidable Loop club, not cult). I want to explain that no, I do not believe in god, and when I call myself a “pagan” it is both me showing off how proud I am that I believe in nature’s power, as well as and me trying to make a statement. I want to explain that I never tried to stand out as the overly narcissistic teenager, but that it happens to the best of us.

Then, after an awkward silence where I applaud myself, I will step down, walk out of the room, and promptly die.

But I would not die. I would run away. I would leave with The Doctor, traveling through time and space in his ship, the Tardis, and not care about the fact that nothing in the whole universe makes sense (other than the unavoidable truth that magic is a valid explanation) because I am, loosely speaking, dead.

But right now, it’s a day after Christmas 2012, and I am not planning to run away with a fictional character. I have no plans for a pre-funeral, and have no reason to worry about my own meaningless, cliché funeral, because it will be in the future, and who knows how that is going to pan out. My life cannot be a movie, or a TV show, or even an exciting and magical book. I can hope, I can dream, and I can spend an eternity waiting, but I am human, and part of being human is being realistic. I don’t get to believe in magic, not openly, not even personally. I’m not supposed to admit it to myself.

Oops, looks like I broke that rule!

I have realized that this is not a eulogy. It is a wish. I wish that this dissatisfaction with life that I have been nursing in my soul would either be satisfied, or dissolved. I am tired, too tired for a fourteen year old. I am scared and I am desperate, and not a night goes by that I do not wish on a star. I whisper the age-old rhyme under my breath.
Star light,
Star bright,
First star I see tonight,
I wish I may,
I wish I might,
Have the wish I wish tonight.

Then, most days, the days when I’m not worried about my friend’s or family’s well being, I follow it with a simple “I wish that they come get me tonight” because I am so very ready to leave this world behind. Weather it’s The Doctor, or a magical giant worm, or a fairy in a flower petal dress, I want them to take me away; I would even give up the pre-funeral if they came right now.

I will never stop waiting, never. The waiting is what keeps me going, it’s what keeps me happy. If I don’t give up hope, if I don’t stop believing, then all of the magic and mystery can exist. Call me schizophrenic, call me crazy, call me weird; I will not stop waiting. I will not regret anything else, and I will not give a single human being a chance to tell me I’m just like them, because I am not. I don not belong here. I will be realistic, I will imagine a realistic future and be happy and attempt to explain my faith to a select few friends, but I will not move on, I will move with.

Throw fire or mud; throw photos and memories of my little brother or my mother or my childhood dog: I will not stop believing. I may be fourteen, but time and age is irrelevant. I am five years old as well, and not many things can get in the way of a little girl who is willing to wait a lifetime, especially if that lifetime is especially dull in her opinion.