Why I Wrote My Will at 25

At 11 years old, I sat in the pew of a chapel listening to "Every Breath You Take" by The Police. I didn't know that it would haunt me for years to come.

After my brother's death I would hear the song constantly at the store and on the radio, reminding me of him—and the worst part was that the words were ill fitting. My brother had killed himself because of mental illness, and my mother had chosen a song about a possessive lost lover. What she perceived to mean a person peering down on their loved ones from heaven was in reality an irrelevant, if not offensive, song choice for my brother's funeral. Even though she meant well by using his music collection, it makes me cringe when I think back to my parents organizing his funeral arrangements and getting them wrong.

Now that I'm 25, I'm about to pass the age my brother was when he died—and it's causing me to think a lot about my future. Sharing his struggles with mental illness and an abusive family, I'd curled up inside myself and lost my voice years ago from hot-headed insults and cold neglect. As I work on recovering that voice, I think about how my doctor told me that I was at high risk for suicide because mental illness runs in my family, and how, if I were to die before my parents, they would be the ones planning my funeral.

I distinctly remember the day I told my father I was depressed. Although historically he hadn't shown himself to be a very warm person, I thought that having a child who'd already committed suicide would prompt him to take my cries for help seriously. It took every bit of myself to get out of bed, climb the stairs, and tell the truth about how I was feeling. His response? "Oh well, everyone's depressed."

While I certainly don't blame my parents for my brother's fate, my poisonous relationship with them has forced me to cut them out completely. Considering my mother and father weren't supportive in many aspects of my life such as recognizing my own mental illness or generally being emotionally available, the last thing I want is for them to have the power to make decisions regarding my death.

So I decided to write my will at 25. Even though I have zero financial assets and no children, I felt this was the perfect time for me to make such a critical decision. I don't plan on dying anytime soon—I've just come to the realization that death is a possibility at any point, and that I want to be properly represented when that circumstance arises.

Thanks to the internet, I found a few options for how to go about putting a will together. The first involved getting all the legal paperwork completed. This would involve consulting a lawyer, which would cost anywhere from $200 to $2,000. The second was a do-it-yourself will kit. At only $15 to $40, it was a cheaper and more convenient option—but it was still unnecessary, given that I have no financial assets. So I went with the third option: A piece of paper and a pen. This is called a holographic will, and it's both completely free and legal. All I had to do was hand-write my end-of-life wishes and sign my name to make it a legal document.

When it came time for me to put my last words to ink, I sat there for a few minutes thinking about what I wanted to say. Suddenly I realized how overwhelming it was to contemplate your own mortality in such specifics. Questions that came to mind varied from deadly serious to surprisingly fun. It was like event planning for the most personalized party you'd never get to attend.

Putting the most difficult decisions first, I confidently wrote that I wouldn't want to remain on life support or in a vegetative state. This was tough to think about but an easy decision since I've always felt it wouldn't be a life worth living and would only prolong the pain of my loved ones. I also confirmed that my family would have zero say in regards to my end-of-life choices, including medical options or funeral arrangements. Finally, I stayed true to my tree-hugging ways by opting for a Bio Urn so I could return back to the earth and become a living grave.

Then there came the big event: A mindful get-together by the ocean where loved ones could scatter my ashes in the waves. I've always felt most alive near salt water, making this an essential last wish for me. I wrote that, just like me, my funeral would be minimalistic and peaceful. And of course, I specified what song would be played: "Compass" by Zella Day, a gorgeous love song about the musician's hometown that fit as the perfect message towards those attending from my own.

The most important part of my will, however, was stating what would happen to my career online. Since I don't plan on getting married or having children, I've always felt that my work was my kin. And because my parents outwardly disapproved of my honesty, whether it was about sex or disability or mental illness, I wanted to ensure that all my published writing would remain online. I also left a message to be sent to my social media profiles before they closed, emphasizing my wish for FLURT—my dream for a socially conscious women's magazine on mainstream stands—to be continued by those involved.

Although writing my will was an eerie and emotional experience, it felt incredibly powerful to have a say in the end of my life and what happens after it. Making these kinds of decisions became an important addition to my adulthood because my legacy is all I plan on leaving behind. I don't currently speak to my parents and haven't informed them that I cut their ties to my will, but should my relationship with them improve I feel confident knowing that even in death I'll hold onto my voice.

While I'm taking measures to manage my mental illness, having made these end-of-life decisions at a time my brother couldn't make his own is comforting. Although he decided to end his journey, I know my brother would be proud that I'm working to improve my own.

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