I don't remember exactly when I started asking to die, but I'm guessing it was at least 2016. I never expected to live past 30. That I continue to live past 30 is annoying in the extreme.
These have never been actively suicidal thoughts. In the beginning, they were "I wish I was dead." Ultimately, it became "Anytime, Lord. Kill me anytime. Anywhere. Anyway. I'm ready to go." Then, "Did I seriously survive another day? You're really falling down on the prayer answering thing, God. I can't be clearer."
I was looking for terminal cancer, embolism, aneurism, stray bus - anything that would take me out without another human having to feel too bad about it. God has stubbornly kept me here despite my nagging.
After 12.16,2019, my recovery start day, I continued to ask for death daily, often hourly as I tried to give up the horrors my life had become and let God do His thing. I even kept a 3x5 card on my desk that said Cheer up! You could die today! It occurred to me finally that I could kill myself by not giving in to the incredibly selfish, mean, bitter, angry, vicious, snarling beast-thing I had become and instead work to live the life of a Christ-follower presented in the New Testament by Paul, Peter, James, et al. Be kind, humble, patient, gracious to all, generous, not speaking evil, encouraging, doing good, being hospitable. Run from evil, cling to what is good. Focus on pure, noble, good, trustworthy, true things. Of course, this was far harder than being dead, but what is life if not ever-growing hardship? Why do you think I'm so keen to get out?
Every morning I listened to or read and wrote from the New Testament what a real person should be like. Every day I focused on being that person. It was hard, but what did that matter? It was hard the other way, too, and I was full-up sick of that bitch. This way, Jesus' way, I was tired but I'd tried. And I started to succeed. I started to feel better inside. I started to feel compassion for the people around me, for the people on the phone I had so recently despised. It was better. It was good.
Then I fell off the wagon. This February-March, I suffered a setback that has apparently reset me back to 12.16.2019. All the old, worldly feelings of anger and contempt are back with a vengeance, and my frustration is greater because I think I should be better than this. I mean, I've practiced for a year, right? I should have this by now. But as any drunk knows, day one starts when you put the most recent drink down and leave it there.
Ah, well. What is life if not falling down and getting up and falling down and getting up and falling down and getting up all the way to Heaven?
Which is why I'm still OK with God killing me anytime. But I'm not asking as much.
Keep the faith.