I always thought death would come with a bit more… ceremony.
A flash of light. A final epic monologue. Maybe a slow, poetic fade-out with soft violin music in the background.
Not a pounding headache, blurry vision, and the suffocating sense that my heart was staging a coup against my body.
I sat on the edge of my bed, clutching my chest, willing the world to stop spinning. My blood pressure monitor beeped its smug little warning beside me — a number I didn't even want to process glaring back at me.
For a moment, I wondered if this was it.
If this was how my story ended — another stressed-out woman who pushed too hard for too long and cracked at the seams.
I was tired. Tired of pretending I was fine. Tired of holding everything together with duct tape and sarcasm. Tired of chasing goals in a world that didn't care if I burned out or broke down.
And yet…
I wasn't ready to die.
Not yet.
With a groan that felt like dragging myself out of a grave, I grabbed my phone, ignoring the tremble in my fingers, and booked the first clinic appointment I could find.
I didn't care who I saw.
I didn't care how much it cost.
I just needed… help.
And maybe — if the universe was feeling generous — a reason to keep holding on.