Quite Contradicting

I'd like death to take me swiftly and painlessly in the still of the night. While my resting head is unaware that something somber has taken it's place beside my bed. I'd like it to be an ignorant passing to save myself the decency of trying to fight it, because I will if I knew of it. I would resist it with whatever I had left in me, I am not an agreeable woman. I tend to be fashionably late to most occasions and my own demise would be no exception. 

I made up my mind very early in childhood about my opinion on death. What is mine, I rationalized, is mine to direct. Mine to conduct. If it is truly mine, it is mine to control. It was decided that death would not happen to me. Rather, it would be the opposite, I would happen to death, I would permit death. I believe this for a very long time. 

The human brain, the frontal lobe to be exact, is said to be completely mature at the age of 25. These conceptions of how things should be seem more practical to myself as a child than they are now as an adult. Although not a completely mature adult, an adult none the less. Undeniable that this immaturely contrived notion followed me well into development and still leaves it's traces. Like toilet paper stuck on my heel. 

During extreme times of stress there is nothing I wish for more than an absolute solution. It's the wimp in me. I want to run into somebody's arms with tears zigzagging down my cheeks. I want to collapse into an embrace and know for that moment that I'm not falling apart as long as somebody is holding me together. In such times, I can't breath. They come in haggard bouts, enough only to keep me at the precipice of consciousness. It's no way to live, I'll tell you that.