Personal Narrative: My Suffering

Finally, I regain consciousness and light floods into my eyes. I lift my head, which feels as heavy as my old school bag on the first day of year 7, but somehow concurrently soothing and look around at my surroundings. I am alone. There are no clocks in the white-walled, claustrophobic room, but somehow I know and have known the time for a while. Albeit recently waking up from what I can only describe as a self-induced coma, my gut as well as my current physical and mental state tells me that it is time to die.

Many people’s contention on death is that it’s the end, so much so that whenever anyone in any country, in any language, utters the dreaded word, it becomes synonymous with fear, anxiety and even suffering. Being in my current state, I could not help but refute this claim. Death happens, it’s the inevitable event that reminds us that despite

My initial ideas sprung up around the age of four to five, and like most young children, they consisted of:

Fireman: “Too much of a dangerous job,” says my parents.

Footy Player: “Need to be actually good at the game,” says my footy coach.

Prince: “Not an an actually profession, zero chance of happening,” I remind myself

With this first age of ideas for my future profession being completely and utterly scrapped from my mind, throughout my Primary and High School years, I was unable to tap into the unfathomable uncertainty that was my future. Despite this, I knew what I didn’t want to do- anything that has intense physical labour and/or being outside for a long time as a prerequisite. So without the monologued sophistication, I didn’t want to be a tradie or a professional sportsman (Ironic as I spent). As I progressed through High School, the storm inside my head began to form a new wave of ideas about what I could do, this time based on my subject interests instead of childhood exuberance (salary also played a role), these consisted