The First Time I Died
How Death Found a Way For Me to Live & Be Free
The first time I died was in high school when I decided to leave my dad after one too many of his relapses. He was my primary caretaker after my parents split up when I was eight years old. In this ordinary world, it seemed odd for a little girl to stay living with her dad back then in the ’80s. In the non-ordinary world, it was our karma, our souls’ contract with each other.
I was his guardian too in many ways. I somehow anchored him and gave him something to care for when he didn’t care enough about himself. I read years later after he died when I found his medical records that sat in his vault, which documented that one night he held a gun to his head and heard his baby girl crying in the next room. He put his gun away and came to see me.
That was our unspoken contract, to keep him alive for all those 14 years of my life until I decided to leave when I broke it. I had to break free from the rage, the abandonment, the instability, and the darkness that hung over our home.
It was a rainy night when I called my mom to pick up what was left of my life and take me away from home. Dad had not been there for several nights. As we packed up her car with all of my childhood memories, Dad came back just in time to witness us and stared into space as we walked by him each time with a box or…
