For the majority of my life, I have had a fascination with death and suicide. There is absolutely no reason why I should be preoccupied with such thoughts. I suffered from no abuse, no trumor. But yet, my death has always fascinated me.
When I was little, my ritual for sleeping was to pretend I was laying in a coffin, holding still for as long as I could. Later in life, I couldn't actually get to sleep without imagining the planning and execution of my own suicide. This actually lasted every night for over 10 years. It became a ritual. A form of meditation.
It's interesting because as soon as I had mentally finished taking my own life, a calmness would envelope me. All thoughts would vanish and my breath became the only thing securing my attention. There became no need for thoughts driven by language or sequence. Just the clear motion of my breath. My chest expanding and contracting, flourishing and decreasing.