Hrm. Now that I think about it, that's a really hard question for me to answer.
As a child, I thought about death constantly because it was the great unknown, the great ending, the thing that was omnipresent, ever-looming over me that took my safety away. I could try hiding from death behind my naivete and the belief that my mother was a superhero who would protect me from anything, but nonetheless, I deep down knew that death could penetrate my security blanket and take that which is most important to me away. I found death incredibly depressing and hard to deal with. It didn't make any sense. Why did things have to die? Why is it that life must end? I'll uselessly clutch onto life until my last breath because it's the only thing I know. Any promise of an afterlife was irrelevant. What use is an afterlife if I'm already alive? Why have a life at all though if there's an afterlife? Why not just start from the perspective of the afterlife and live in perpetual joy? These kinds of thoughts would always plague me. If I died, would I be separated from my mom? If she died, what would become of me? I remember that on my first day of school, on the way to kindergarten, I was crying, not because I was sad or afraid of going to school, but because I was afraid of dying.
I do not associate death with the fear I used to. I've come to accept my ignorance of death and the afterlife, so I no longer pay as much attention to death as I used to since I've gotten over my crippling obsession with it. I may think about death less often. I may think about it just the same but may not be as strongly effected as I used to be. In either case, death leaves much less of an impression on me as it used to, causing me to believe that I must think about it less... It's puzzling because I can't actually think of how often I think about death to quantify it, and thus feel I should not answer the poll.