Word

When I was little, there was only one thing more important to me than winning an argument, and that was having the last word.

I don't mean figuratively. I mean absolutely literally. It didn't matter who it was with - with my mum, or my teacher, or my little sister, or the lady in the shops who looked at my sister in a strange way - as long as I was the last one talking, as far as I was concerned I had won. I don't know where this logic came from, but it was unquestioned and unquestionable. I remember, in fact, at least one argument that consisted of:

Me: I hate youuuuuuuuuu. (Slams bedroom door.)
Mum: Right. You're going to stay in there until you calm down, young lady. (Starts walking back down the stairs.)
Me: (Opens bedroom door.) I will not. (Slams bedroom door shut again.)
Mum: You most certainly will. I'm not having that kind of behaviour in my house. (Continues walking down the stairs.)
Me: (Opens bedroom door again.) I'll come out whenever I like. (Slams door again.)
Mum: We'll see about that. (Goes into living room and shuts living room door.)
Me: (Opens bedroom door, goes down stairs, opens living room door.) See? (Goes back upstairs and shuts bedroom door.)
Mum: (Puts head in hands.)

I even invented a game with my sister, for when we shared a bedroom, that allowed me to practice my art in the comfort of my own bed. It involved each person saying one word until one of us fell asleep, and the last person to speak won. (Although obviously there was nobody to gloat to at that point, so it was a very quiet kind of success.)

It therefore comes as no surprise to me that I did one of the most peculiar things I've done in a long time today, without realising that I was still playing.

Today, I wrote my will. I'm 28 years old, I own absolutely nothing, and I wrote my will.

I also wrote goodbye letters to my immediate family on nice paper that I went out and bought especially. It has little cartoon fairytales on it, because a) I live in Japan, and cute paper is the only kind of paper they sell and b) what do you write your final words on anyway? I spent a good ten minutes in the shops trying to decide between different levels of cuteness, and giggling in the process. Would it be horribly inappropriate to tell my loved ones I would always love them on Alvin and The Chipmunks paper? How about Harry Potter? Would Hello Kitty and Sesame Street (yes, they've teamed up) alleviate the pain? How about Donald Duck? A last little attempt at giving them a chuckle? Or would the joke get lost somewhere in all of the pain of me being, you know, dead?

And then, when I had chosen the most appropriate paper, I spent three hours writing sincere, heartfelt letters to my beloved family - separately, one to each - and sobbing into my jumper. Wailing incoherently until snot was pouring out of my nose and I had to sit with a kitchen towel next to me. Sobbing and occasionally giggling because I was well aware of the pathos involved in crying hysterically about my own death, and of writing about myself in the past tense, and fully, fully conscious of just how much of a plonker I was being.

The thing is: I'm almost definitely not going to die right now. I have no intention of it at all. But a beautiful white pigeon flew into the window at school today and snapped its neck in front of me. North Korea and South Korea are - as of yesterday - ready to launch various atomic weapons at each other, and I live 150 miles away. I drive a scooter 60kms every single day when I am a terrible, terrible driver. I eat Jaffa Cakes lying down in bed, which is a choking hazard. Men who like wearing my underwear know where my house is. I appear to have the immune system of a gnat. So it doesn't seem as morbid after a little thought as it does straight away to prepare, just in case. To be ready, just in case. Life is stupidly fragile, and do I want the people I love to never know what they mean to me? After all, death is never unexpected. It's just the timing that's up for debate. 

There are people in my life who are extraordinary: who have such kindness and grace that it takes my breath away. Who have such integrity, heart and passion, humour, intelligence and creativity, that my entire life - and everything I am - was built and now hangs on the people they are. Who have been there for me, who have supported me, who have cherished me and protected me: who have given everything for me. Who have loved me more than I deserve to be loved. And I will not leave them without telling them that every part of me that's good has come from them, and that everything in me that is not I've tried to push away for them. I will not treat death as if it doesn't exist, just because I would rather it didn't: for my sake, and for theirs. And if it means sobbing into my own jumper at the ripe old age of 28 and leaving stains on cute Japanese cartoon paper, then so be it. I have chosen the right to say goodbye. And I have chosen to live my life as if it could end at any moment. Because one day it will.

Of all the arguments I have ever had, and of all the arguments I have ever won, this is the most important. Because I am not arguing with life: I am arguing with death. And when that last door slams, I will not stay behind it: I will come back out with more to say. I will let words continue to be more powerful than life, or death, and I will be speaking of love when I am no longer here to say anything else. And with my final goodbye I will win my final argument.

If there is only one thing of me I want to be left behind, it's love. Every single kind of it.

And that - when everything is over - will be my last, last word.