The time I was least afraid of dying: I was 28-29. I was very recently divorced. I grew up in a religion that instilled a deep belief that family was everything, and failure in that domain was failure as a human, more or less. I'd resigned myself to the divorce after 6 years of marriage. I saw things in my future that were predictable and insubstantial. I realized during that time--a year or two--that I didn't really mind the thought that I might die.
I was not suicidal. I didn't want to die; in fact, I very much wanted to stay alive. At the same time, the thought that I might die wasn't weird or scary or unnerving. To be fair, I also still firmly believed in a relatively pleasant afterlife at that time.
I didn't take big risks. Didn't drive unsafely (any more than usual), didn't do daredevil stuff. I just didn't mind the thought of dying. I think about that, sometimes. If I ever get back to that zen-about-dying state again, it won't be for the same reasons, which had a big dose of religion in them.
People pleasing isn't kindness - it's the high price of renting your spot in society.
I've been called shy and boring, but those aren't traits, they are security protocols.
I am different for everyone because it’s safer.
Maintaining these APIs is manual social engineering that drains my battery to zero. Being accepted isn't free, the rent is incredibly high. It’s not about being nice - it's about survival.
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