I was so sick of everything the other day, that I just told myself that I would end my life upon reaching 40 years old, if I did not use the roughly four and a half years between now and then to get my life in order. That was it – things were either going to change, or I’d just be dead.
It was kind of funny, but kind of not really funny at all. Actually, after the thought went through my head, I felt my stomach turn and my breathing grow shallow. In my mind, I was making this extreme statement as a way to motivate me to lead a healthier, more productive, and more meaningful life. But my body knew better than my mind what was really going on; what should have been an inspiring moment was really just the most awful feeling. I tried to laugh it off as something too stupid for me to actually follow through on, but in reality, I was afraid that I meant it. And that I wouldn’t meet the terms of my bargain with myself, and that unfortunately I would end up pulling the trigger on the whole deal—literally.