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I have, since a very early age, taking everything in my life literally. I am devastatingly addicted to freaking out, and while I know this is not healthy, I cannot stop.

I had many deaths in my childhood. They altered my view of life, and also likely cemented my place in religion. These events were tremendously important at the time, and caused me no small amount of pain, as anyone who has experienced loss can attest. The loss of a sibling, parent, lover, pet, or adored stranger can cause immense pain that takes immense determination to overcome.

I was seven when it happened the first time. My great grandmother turned ninety two. I went out to an Izzy's with my parents. Nine cousins, three aunts, three uncles, and a set of grandparents. The restaurant was loud and boisterous, as buffet places are. Many different types of food were crowded on my plate, crowing for my attention. The dulcet deserts competed with the deep fried chicken for my attention. I winced at my screeching cousins' enthusiasm and instinctively leaned against my great grandmother.

This wonderful lady with scraggly gray hair and frightening dentures smiled at me, her lips mercifully closed. She pulled me close to her, and tucked my head into her shoulder. Stroking my hair, I read her thoughts in her eyes seconds earlier. It's all right, girl, I thought I heard her eyes say, I'd rather not be here, either.

Two weeks later, her sparkling eyes were gone. I stood in a small church, looking at this foreign doll before me. Waxen skin and obscene red lips lay there, eyes closed too calmly to be real. She wore a fine blue blazer and business jacket that seemed tacky at the time. I remember we didn't stay long, and my parents were offended their siblings had dragged me up to the casket.

I still remember her words whenever my setting gets too loud. She remembers, and she understands. Some people are destined for quiet lives of reflection.

That was the spring. In the summer of my seventh year, I was excited about my own book. A school project that year had been to write, illustrate, and bind our own books. I was instantly addicted to the process. The illustrating wasn't my strong suit, but writing was exciting, and new. My teacher was sick, but that was okay. She would get better over the summer, and I would show her my new stories in September, when I was a big, new third grader.

It is very difficult to explain Cancer to a child, let alone explain to her how to pronounce Chemotherapy. When a child thinks of very sick, they think of the sickest they have been, or have seen a family member. Very sick could mean vomiting into the toilet every hour, laying on the cold bathroom floor, both shivering and sweating. It could mean lying in bed, coughing and unable to swallow, though mother tempts them with ice cream and milk shakes. It could also mean daddy has to go away for a while, because he likes to throw furniture, or drink grown up drinks.

My classmates and I went to visit her in the hospital. We held her hands, and showed her our pictures. We gave her signed get well cards, and told her about all the things we were going to do together next year, how we would help her new students. Her gray eyes teared up, and we didn't understand what was wrong. Her pain was our pain, now that we could understand it. Tears mean something hurts inside your chest, so a little of her suffering transferred to us for a moment before she wiped the teardrops away.

Her funeral was held in a very big Cathedral with overly friendly church ladies. The music was so beautiful that my mother asked the singer and promptly bought every album. I knew better than to follow the line up to the front this time, and cried softly in my seat, keeping my sobs as choked as I could.

In the fall, I had a new teacher I was terrified I would see the next year in the same church. My mother played the death music a lot, and I despised her for it, seeking refuge in my friends, who listened to fun music, music you could dance to.

Within a year, I developed migraines, asking my mother why there was a tree coming out of my forehead. My mother, not believing in the overuse of drugs, told me to take ibuprofen, and it would all get better. It didn't, but at least the tree stopped growing after a while.

I lost a friend several times throughout my childhood. I lost her in fifth grade to a move out of state. I visited her every weekend I could, but it wasn't the same as having her next door. Eventually, my parents bought a rental house, and we offered it to them. They accepted, and I was delighted to have her back in the same neighborhood again.

But not all friendships made in childhood last. In your early years, you are still developing your personality, your likes, dislikes. You don't know who you want to be, what you will become. People who smile at you and laugh at your jokes are friends, because we have to figure out how relationships work. It doesn't matter if they're male or female, black or white, rock fans or country worshippers.

But people change. Someone who despises movies as being inherently evil will need to work really hard to stay friends with someone who likes to see a movie every friday night. This is the same as someone who moves far away who doesn't like to write. It's hard to keep writing the letters if you never get an answer.

We were more subtle than that. Different groups of friends who either didn't know or like each other pulled us apart. Different classes in grade school is a large deterrent. Different activities at recess. I can't blame the school entirely, part of it was pieces of us that were changing. I think I was too moral for us, and she didn't want to corrupt me. She thought she'd done that enough. And I wasn't strong enough at the time to challenge her.

The corruption theory has gone on for years, everyone believing I have never heard the word ******** before. That I don't understand how sex works. They finally stopped when I started talking. When I stopped blushing. Now they think I'm stuck up, intelligent and shy. I can't speak for the other two as I am too close to myself, but I definitely see the last one.

Death left me alone for several years. Unknown relatives across the country died, and we signed our names to grievance cards, to be given to their families,

I have learned over time not to bring these past events up

(To Finish Later)