last month, i shared that i want to practice writing as existing vs. writing to teach. i wrote this piece for myself. i wrote this piece avoiding thinking about an audience. but i share this in case there are a couple of other Mad folks who may resonate. i share it to be witnessed in my existing.

content notes: a lot on suicide and death, mentions of funerals and Medical Assistance in Dying (MAiD)

i think about death all the time.

my introduction to death was my childhood friend’s death by suicide when we were 15 years old. my first funeral was his, open casket. relatedly, i was so all-consumingly suicidal throughout undergrad. at first when i felt the urges, i had the typical shaming narrative about suicide as selfish. i thought, i can’t do that to the people i love when i know what it’s like to be left behind. but then the first attempt removed that barrier.

i know what it’s like to be left behind by suicide and i know what it’s like to be in so much pain in life that death feels like the only doable escape. now as the suicidal person, my relationship with death changed. i learned that suicide can’t be selfish when death feels like the only possible escape. i understood that suicide is not an individual problem but a systemic one where this fucked up world drives people to death.

i got through those years of heightened Madness thanks to my parents’ material support, their imperfect (and sometimes exacerbating) attempts at emotional support, a solid care web of people and… one could call it discipline but i’m actually going to call it spite. spite made me want to die but spite also made me want to refuse death. it was spite mixed with a sense of self-hatred actually that made me committed to building skills to live. i was so committed to proving myself wrong (a tweet i once read said - the most korean thing about me is that i do everything out of spite lol) that i committed to doing what i could in my agency to practice skills. a lot of these skills, i now understand as Mad skills. some of these skills are set up as systems, guidelines and rules to help me not fall into heightened Madness again.

in the recent couple of years as i became more acquainted with Mad Liberation discourse, i realized that even though i don’t currently struggle with my Madness in my day to day, i am still Mad. i have Mad thoughts, Mad skills, Mad knowing, Mad feelings. i just don’t act on my Mad impulses in the ways that i used to. i’m incredibly disciplined in these systems and guidelines and rules to prevent me from losing myself in heightened Madness. because otherwise, the cost is my life. obviously, these safeguards also include access to resources and proximity to privileges that protect me from a degree of crisis. but even if/when i do experience crisis and catastrophe, i feel pretty self-assured in my practices that i won’t experience the type of heightened Madness the way i did earlier in my life. (disclaimer: this does not mean i am fixed or cured or treated. we refuse sanist and ableist narratives and agendas. this is simply my own personal experience.)

and how very cool that i somehow unintentionally became a therapist (lol @ the mental health industrial complex but we’re here for the insurance coverage) using these mad skills & knowledges to do therapy in non-normative ways. more accurately, i became a psychiatric survivor turned Mad careworker in refusal of complicity in Therapy™, in honour of the lineages of healing work since the beginning of time, while making use of the resources meant for agents of the state (more on this another time).

back to death.

i think about death all the time.

it’s no longer, wow i want to die, let me research all of the ways that i could end my life while in immense distress. rather, my present day death thoughts include

• 582 ways that i could suddenly die

• what kind of end of life celebration would i want? what would my people say/feel about my death? about my life?

• if i died suddenly, how would my people know? what should i set up for my clients, just in case? what about my passwords and data?

• if i died suddenly, what would be my last words/interaction with my loved ones? would i have any huge regrets?

• 264 ways my loved ones could suddenly die

• if they died suddenly, what would our last interaction be? would i have shown them i love them? if they died suddenly, would i have any huge regrets?

• if my parents are to die of natural aging & disability, how many more shared dinners do we have? if they were to die of early disability or long covid, how many more shared dinners might we have?

• if my friend’s disabilities and society’s ableism make life no longer bearable, what can i do to minimize that happening or postpone it? would i have done my part to show up in community care?

• if a loved one ever chooses MAID or suicide despite being committed to resisting eugenics, what could i do to minimize that happening or postpone it? would i have done my part to show up in community care?

• what death papers & documents do i need? how will my family know who to invite to my funeral? what do i need my (chosen) family members to have prepared? what conversations do we need to have in advance?

while i probably have these thoughts on a nearly daily basis, they don’t create much stress for me. for the most part, it’s more of a neutral preparation of death, whether it’s my own or my loved ones. i think this is what happened having lost a childhood friend suddenly to suicide after years of no contact due to rupture, having fixated on last words/interactions before each of my own attempts, and in more recent years, being confronted with the temporality of able-bodiedness in an ongoing pandemic.

when my friend died, i came across a book called deadline.

i still have the copy at the bottom of my bookshelf 15 years later, despite my routine decluttering. it’s about a boy entering his senior year of high school who finds out he has a rare terminal disease and he only has about a year to live. he decides to not tell anyone and instead, carpe diem. except he uses that time to get to know his neighbours and get a street in his small town named after Malcolm X after much campaigning (the book was my introduction to Malcolm X!). this is as much of the plot that i can remember from reading it twice back then. but one of the main points that stood out to me most was that when this boy learned of his limited time to live, he wasn’t devastated. rather, he came to terms with it quite smoothly because he had never imagined himself growing old. i remember being 15 years old reading this, and thinking the same.

especially given what followed in the tumultuous years of undergrad, i genuinely didn’t think i’d make it past 21. so every year on my birthday, i am in awe that i am still here. and this year, i’m turning 30. i have lived twice the duration of my childhood friend’s short life. 2025 marks 10 years since my first suicide attempt and the beginning of the 3 years of heightened Madness. 2025 also marks 5 years since i graduated into the pandemic as a therapist.

last fall, i received one of the hardest pieces of feedback from a dear one. i asked if she experienced me as burned out, and she said, spiritually exhausted. there’s a lot to unpack in what this means, how this happened, and what i’m doing about it. but i received this medicine with a commitment to assessing and shifting my orientations to Madness, my politic, my work, and my relationships.

in the process of untangling, i recently realized that i am more prepared to die than i am to live.

while experiencing every year past 21 with immense gratitude and awe, the flip side is that i have not yet accepted that i might actually grow old (of course there’s the context of the pandemic, long covid and disabled futures, but still). one of my life rules is to make decisions based on the possibility that i might either get hit by a bus tomorrow and die, or i might make it to 90. and while i’m committed to logistically and practically preparing myself to make it to 90, i don’t think i’ve really felt-sense embraced that possibility.

and this lack of felt-sense embodiment in the possibility of life is intertwined with my sense of indebtedness.

i believe as hard truth, as in i know that i wouldn’t here in the flesh today if it weren’t for my college friends, my sister, and my parents who constantly extended and overextended themselves to keep me alive. and by overextend, a couple of these people stayed committed to my care despite the harms and hurts i caused them. i made it past 21 and am heading towards 30 because of these people and their sacrifices. for the past 10 years, i have been making repairs where possible and otherwise, i carry on the legacy of their love and care work through the work i do — practicing differently in liberatory therapeutic practice or inviting friends into anti-ableist praxis or participating in mutual aid efforts. as someone whose continued living has been made possible thanks to this type of love & care work, i am committed to passing it on and it feels like a sense of responsibility that feels right and appropriate.

but an added sense of indebtedness says i shouldn’t be here. so as long as i am, i need to dedicate my time to serving others and passing on my care web’s legacy. it requires me to always be on that edge of overextension of self. i am not allowed to be at ease. i’m not allowed to stop contributing. i’m not allowed to just be. because this is a life that doesn’t quite feel like mine.

so of course, i’m exhausted. this weird saviour complex-survivor’s guilt-martyrdom thing has driven me to spiritual exhaustion. and initially, i dismissed this. oh, you’re spiritually exhausted?? boohoo. you’ve got all the material needs you need and you’re worried about your spirit?? but my organizer friend reminds me,

what is the point of political organizing without spirit, ji?

the pursuit of collective liberation without life force?

don’t get me wrong, i’m not this dread-filled, dead spirit, disembodied hustler. i am one who knows joy and pleasure and sensuality. i know the importance of embodying the erotic. my whole thing is embodying and practicing the liberatory worlds we’re trying to co-create.

but there’s a limit to what i can embody. until i process the grief i feel about being alive at almost 30 while my friend was dead at 15. until i accept the reality that i am alive and that i will likely (and hopefully) continue to live. until i recognize that the best way of honoring my college care web’s efforts is not to constantly overextend myself for my people in crisis, but to do my part while fueling and maintaining the spirit of being alive.

so these days, i’m thinking more about life.

i’m feeling more about life. i’m staring up at the sky more, i’m touching moss more, i’m breaking into dance more. i want to be as prepared to live and grow old as i am to die. i’m exploring how my work needs to shift for it to nourish me as well as my people. i’m working on allowing myself to cultivate and enjoy life force. i’m building rituals to strengthen and fuel my spirit. that is the healing justice work, the grief work, the being work that i’m navigating this year.

being Mad at almost 30 looks like grieving being alive.

it looks like needing wanting to accept life.