Hi. Hannah here, giving an into to this guest post by Alison Cebulla. This article discusses suicidal fantasies and past usage of hard drugs. This isn't about condoning drug use or suicidal thoughts, but rather about sharing an honest human experience in the hope that others can relate to an aspect of existence that we might normally be afraid to discuss openly.

If you, or someone you know, are in immediate danger call 911. If you are having suicidal intentions please call the national suicide hotline at 1-800-273-8255— it's available 24 hours every day.

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Halloween is coming up. Let's talk about death.

When I think about things that I've done for 10,000 hours, qualifying me as an expert, the top thing on the list is definitely thinking about death.

Contemplating death has been a lifelong hobby.

In high school, I used to scope out building heights wondering, "if I jumped off of that, is it high enough that I would die? Or would I just become paralyzed with a mushy brain?" I decided there weren't any buildings tall enough in my small town to make it worth the risk, hypothetically.

If I was walking over a freeway overpass I'd think, "if I jumped off into moving traffic, would I get hit by a car moving at 85mph and die instantly? Or would I ricochet off a couple and land on the side of the road becoming paralyzed with a mushy brain?" Not worth the risk.

And then,

"If I had a mushy brain, would I remember my old self and all that I had lost, or would I be really content to sit and drink pudding through a straw?" Not worth the risk.

Another thought was,

"How painful is drowning? If I attached weights to my body and sat in a river, would I realize my mistake and throw them off of me? How long would I freak out before dying?" Not worth the risk.

And I remember knowing exactly which friends dad's owned a gun. That always seemed the least risky.

I was thinking about death the morning I found out that my cousin, who was my close friend, hung himself. It was my 30th birthday and I was driving to Rite Aid to buy tampons. I thought, as I waiting to turn left onto El Camino Real from the bottom of 12th St in my hometown of Grover Beach, California, "If I pulled out in front of oncoming traffic and a car traveling at approximately 45mph hit my driver's side, would I die instantly? Or would my airbag pop open and snap my neck, paralyzing me, leaving me with a mushy brain?" I got home from my errand with enough cotton wads tied with string to sop up blood for 4 to 5 days and Brant said, "Hey, dad just called. You should probably sit down."

In my late teens when I was using hard drugs I used to fantasize about dying of a drug overdose. It seemed the most glamorously rock star way to go. For Halloween that year when I was 18 my costume was Mia Wallace post-overdose with fake blood coming out of my nose. We went to the Castro district in San Francisco that night where thousands of people walk around in the dark trying to check each other out despite the lack of natural lighting that happens when the sun goes down. Several people recognized my costume which was cool. I felt really cool. I felt really cool that I used drugs and was that much closer to death. "You guys don't even know how dangerous I am," I thought somewhere in the back of my mind as we walked up and down the streets (kind of) looking at strangers that night (again, it was dark*), "I am so dangerous. I could die of a drug overdose at any moment. I'm so cool, dangerous, and edgy."

Sometimes in the morning when I wake up I think, "Would death be better than my office job?" Impossible to know. Maybe.

IT HAS RECENTLY COME TO MY ATTENTION THAT YOU ALL ARE DOING THIS TOO to some degree in your own way. BUT SOME OF YOU, THE EXACT SAME WAY. So I thought I'd share. Any/all patronizing** comments will be ignored. Thanks in advance for being cool instead. As always, if you don't know what to say, you can always say "I relate."

Did you also do this? Do you still? Would love to hear either in comments or via email, alison@alisoncebulla.com. Do you do anything differently? I never much fantasized about cutting my wrists, for example, but would be very curious to hear if you did. Not my style I guess.

NOTES:

*what I'm trying to say is, why do people like to congregate publicly in the urban outdoors at night? It makes no sense. Halloween in the Castro was hella boring at 18.
**patronize=treat with an apparent kindness that betrays a feeling of superiority.

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Alison Cebulla is a Certified Health Coach from the Institute for Integrative Nutrition. She holds a Bachelor of Science from UC Berkeley and did research with the Berkeley Center for Weight & Health. Her writings on kindness and compassion have been featured in The Huffington Post. She leads workshops at conferences including OuiShare Paris, Share Conference SF, and Bulletproof Biohacking Conference in LA on trust, intimacy, boundaries, kindness, and gratitude. She taught a monthly meditation and listening class at The Three Jewels Tibetan Buddhist Center in Manhattan, NYC in 2015. She led monthly mindfulness meetups for women at Reflections Center for Conscious Living in Manhattan, NYC from 2013 to 2014. She currently resides in Austin, Tx and works full-time women’s rights and part-time as a life coach. To see more from Alison please visit her website, alisoncebulla.com, and Instagram, @alisoncebulla.

By Zachary Userbaugh
October 24, 2015

I slept in this Saturday. There was no real need to be at work, and even if there was, I had earned a weekend off. Laura and I had the first morning sex since I can’t remember when. It was playful, fast, but slow enough to ignore seven phone calls. I knew there couldn’t be anything really going on, and that most had to be from DSA. 

We both finished. I was right about most of the missed calls. Two were from Mom and Dad. I knew something was up from the fact that the voicemails only asked me to call them back as soon as possible. I knew it was about Grandpa. I knew that I couldn’t take the news in front of Laura. I went to the bathroom. Dad got to it quick. Grandpa didn’t make it. I was sitting on the toilet. I had looked at Laura’s feet, really looked at them, for the first time that morning.

 “Okay,” I said.

I let dad do most of the talking. He was talking slow. I asked something or other about when. He let me know they were going to be doing an autopsy. None of that is important. None of it was important and he knew that and I knew that. What really happened over the phone?

I was dry for what felt like minutes. Why were my legs starting to shake? I didn’t know if I expected to cry but I certainly wasn’t at first. You always feel like you have to. But I wasn’t. Then the shaking started. That was refreshing because it was unexpected, unplanned, though perhaps heard of. Or maybe only seen in movies? But it was involuntary and it meant I was having some reaction. Anything to be feeling different.

Dad said it might have been a stroke, nothing to do with surgery but probably everything to do with the surgery. Dad said Grandpa was tired of people saying how great he was doing. I laughed at that. It was just a tear and a couple gushes at first. Probably soon after the shaking. I don’t remember if he started describing details before or after he heard me crying. He told me it was okay, that I didn’t have to hang up.

“I know,” I said.

It was only a couple minutes of off and on snot sniffling, gushing and half weeping. There was at least one good weeping with full on tears. But there was also this confusion over how I was handling this. 

I talked to Mom before I got off the phone. She wanted to know if Laura was there to hug me. She said I could call to hear her breathe if I wanted. I told them that if I needed to, I would call. Mom was obviously not as hurt as Dad or I, and I am glad. Dad is going to need someone strong so he can be strong for Pam and Donna. Mom was more worried about us. What a miracle that they were able to get a hold of Nick.

What am I supposed to do? I don’t really want to call Linda or Donna or anyone. I am now laughing to the definition of hysterically, alone in the bathroom. So few thoughts go with it. Only those of presentness and a scene or two of times with Grandpa.

*Names changed to respect the privacy of individuals mentioned.

Colonial Nelson House

Fourth of July is a wildly celebrated holiday when we all get together to drink and be merry. Hot dogs, burgers and coolers of Budweiser have become iconic staples of Fourth of July festivities. But as time moves further and further away from the Revolutionary War, many have forgotten that there is a lengthy death toll associated with one of our most feted holidays. Despite 241 years having passed, the dead continue to influence our lives. They are part of the reason we are free.

In February of 1775, Parliament declared Massachusetts in a state of rebellion. Its thirteen colonies had been stirring for some time, buzzing with the desire to become independent from Great Britain. The beginning of this battle for freedom forced many of these men to come to terms with the idea that they were marching gallantly toward death’s door; the only thing returning home from battle would be their legacy.

The work of dead Revolutionary War soldiers does not only lie in gaining independence from Great Britain. Casualties from both sides of the war continue to remind us of their presence in mystical ways. People who live near the hallowed grounds where bloody battles played out often claim the dead still walk among them— that the violence surrounding their death will not allow them to rest. In Yorktown, Virginia one such location has been said to buzz with activity. The Colonial Nelson House once served as a hospital for wounded British soldiers. The poor conditions, lack of proper medical care and the fact that the Nelson House was a constant target for American and French cannon fire, were not conducive to high survival rates. The death toll was high, and many believe the dead still inhabit this house. Currently serving as a museum, claims have been made that a man in a bloody red coat appears in the mirrors of the building. The grounds are supposed to be just as haunted; ghosts of red-coated soldiers are often seen on the full moon, fleeing spectral cannon fire. Whether you believe in a ghostly afterlife or not, the casualties of the Revolutionary War do not want to be forgotten.

Our unconscious disassociation with death, especially on holidays such as this, is understandable. We are conditioned from youth to avoid discussions of death— taught that engaging another in deathly conversation is disagreeable because it risks bringing on a certain sadness or negative feelings. No one wants to hang their head when they could be celebrating instead, particularly on a festive holiday like the Fourth of July, but taking even the smallest moment to contemplate the casualties of the Revolutionary War can help us remember why we celebrate in the first place. Even if it may be a little uncomfortable, contemplating death can let us live more profoundly and find greater appreciation for the things that we have— things we wouldn’t have if another hadn’t given their life. So when the hot dogs are on the grill and buns are being toasted, take a second to remember the fallen soldiers of the Revolutionary War.

Besides, Budweiser is pretty cheap. Pouring a little out for the dead isn’t really a huge loss.

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Burial, books and bones are the most important things to Krista Amira Calvo, aside from black coffee and fluffy felines. Pursuing her degree in physical anthropology and bioarchaeology, Krista spends most of her time buried in books about the dead. When she isn’t turning pages she is wielding an X-Acto knife and glue gun, making teeny tiny skeletons and other things of that nature. Krista is currently focusing her work on exploring the origins of Tibetan Sky Burial. Follow Krista on Instagram: @trowel_and_bone.