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Description
I have a story to tell, and by the time I'm through with it I hope the moral will be one readers take with them through the rest of their own lives.
Even if it's in a very small way, I know my experiences aren't just for myself, but for the sake of others, by being shared.

Before I get into this, it will be important later for you to know that i am adopted by my biological grandma and non-biological grandpa.
They took me from my real mother when i was born, because she was incompetent.
I wasn't told the truth until i was 14, but all my life i knew there were things about my parents and i that didn't make sense, and i had memories that fueled those feelings.
Trust me when i say i'm very grateful for them adopting me.
My life would have been very turbulent and miserable otherwise.
So when i talk about my mom and dad (which is what they are to me), they are technically my grandparents.
And again, my dad is not blood related to me.

My mom told me a story about when i was a very early toddler and we were living in a trailer, my grandpa Joe on my dad's side passed away during the night.
No one knew yet, but according to mom, i appeared to feel that something was wrong.
She woke in the night to find me in my crib, sitting upright, and wimpering.
Not crying, not distressed, just whining.
I wasn't wet, i wasn't hungry, and it didn't appear that i'd had nightmares (according to mom, i had chronic nightmares as a baby because of how my biological mom mistreated me when i was born).
I just seemed uneasy, and i had never done this before.
It made my mom uneasy, too.
I don't remember the rest of the details, but basically by morning, my dad got the call that Joe had passed away...precisely at the time that i was awake and wimpering.
This was the first, most chilling sign that i possessed spiritual gifts and sensitivities that have run in our bloodline for hundreds of years, dating all the way back to my Celtic roots.
As i don't plan to have children and i am uncertain of what the future holds for my half sister, Fatima, it is very possible that this bloodline and our gifts will die with me.
I'm making peace with that.

A relative (that i sometimes talk about) has told me before that when i was three and four years old, i would talk about heaven when no one had talked to me about it.
I would play with little toys, pretend they died and would say "see you in heaven," very sweetly.
Once more, something awfully frightening to hear a tot say -- particularly when they know nothing about the subject.

My dad's father, my grandpa, Jim, died when i was about seven.
We were moved into the house by this point for a couple of years.
I was in very early grade school, i want to say 1st grade.
Obviously i had heard about death, i knew that people died, but because it had never been close to me before, i never fully grasped the concept.
I didn't know Jim very well (given i was frickin' 7), but when he passed away, it was the first time i really understood what death meant.
It meant that the deceased went away, that they weren't coming back, and we would not be seeing them again.
It meant we went to his house, collected some of his things.
I inherited a small collection of beautiful metal slinkies, and a big, soft teddy bear, among other little things.
I no longer possess any of those objects.

I remember being in the house and being drawn to those slinkies and teddy bear, and how surreal it felt.
Dad was sad, my older sister, Lindsay, was sad, everyone was down.
Jim was gone, and he was not coming back.
Everyone was sad, the house was being turned in or something to that effect, everything was being inherited or removed.
Every trace of him seemed to be slowly vanishing, and by that time i finally realized that death wasn't particular.
It was for everyone.
Thing of it is, i wasn't afraid about myself dying.
I could've cared less, but when it came to my mom, for some reason, that was where i began to spiral.

I had heard that smoking can kill people.
My mom has been smoking since she was 14, so i knew she did it.
I remember there being nights where she would be doing her hair for a late shift at work, and following Jim's death i was so jarred i became very afraid of somehow losing her.
I would hug her legs and beg her to quit smoking, because i "didn't want her to die."
She lightly consoled me by saying she wouldn't die, and i went back to bed, sad and scared.
And as if that wasn't bad enough, for about a week or two when she dropped me off to school in the morning, she would walk in up to the classroom door with me.
And there in front of everybody, i would start crying and telling her i didn't want her to go, and would hug her, and again say i didn't want her to die.
I was plagued by grief and fear over something so unpredictable and intangible, and looking back this had to have been frightening to her.
Like how do you respond when your weirdly-spiritual child is terrified of something bad happening to you?
Personally i would have taken it as an omen and would have been very nervous, but i don't know what she thought or felt.
And every time this happened, she would tell me she'd be fine, that she had to go to work, that i needed to go to class.
It took a few minutes each time, and each time i walked into class crying.
A friend of mine so sweetly asked what was wrong, and bawling, i said "I'm afraid my mom is gonna die."
She misheard me and said "Your mom died?"
She was very concerned, it was so adorable.
I said "No, but I'm afraid she will."
I only remember doing this one time and it feels like an outer-body experience, i always feel like I'm seeing this memory in third person when i think about hugging my mom.
But i know this lasted a short while, and how or why or when it stopped, i don't know.
And if i'm to be honest, i almost cried typing this paragraph, just because it's a vein that runs so deep i often forget how latched to my soul it really is.
And for one particular reason -- which i will get to in a little while, i am also very hurt by it.

After Jim's death and i calmed down, i began asking questions about heaven.
I knew that people who died went there, but how did they get there?
No one explained the ascension of the soul, or that we are actually spiritual beings inside and we just simply arrive there when we go (that's the simple answer you would give a child, i think).
So i would ask if Jesus or God used a big stick with a grabber on the end of it to pick us up and hoist us to heaven.
Mom just said "no."
I would ask if there were othe rridiculous ways, which were always met with a "no."
Eventually i gave up and simply assumed it was a mystery.

The concept of death lingered on me for some time.
I guess when i was about 8 or 9 i must have been talking about it a lot recently, because i have a specific memory of passing my dad in the hallway.
I don't remember what he said or what i said to prompt this, but i eventually responded very contently with "but it doesn't matter because I'll be dead someday anyway."
It came out of me in a rather unnervingly simple, accepting way.
But it must have spooked the shit out of my dad, because he reacted with anger and, looking back, what i sense to be fear.
He loudly, angrily said "Are you just death-obsessed lately?!"
I nervously said "No..."
He stormed away from me and on into the den, leaving it there.
Up until middle school, this is the last major memory i have revolving around my learning about death, and how i tried to deal with it.
But the fact that that's all i remember is the problem.
Once more, i will get to that in a bit.

In middle school, after meeting my spiritual mentor, i told her in first grade that i believed i was part fox.
This led to me conjuring a past-life memory of how i died.
For more details on that, here's an older tale of the experience in detail:

\\~A Tale of Me~//

It too, is lengthy and i apologize, but i really don't want to repeat myself here.

That memory ultimately gave me the first real sense of closure with death.
It took until i was a teenager, which is honestly earlier than most can say.
It helped ease me into the notion that death itself is painless, freeing, and when it happens, we are overcome with peace -- most of us.
Some of us who die traumatically may have problems in the afterlife, but that's what the light is for!
Eventually, no matter what, we all return to the same place.
I still struggled with God and fears of hell and "not being good enough" for him or heaven, but to be fair, it wasn't until the last year or so that i realized everyone already is loved and will go to be with him in the very end.
And once more, i'm very fortunate to have this understanding so young -- most people go their entire lives chasing something imaginary, killing themselves trying to be worthy enough for a merciful creator whom they can't understand already accepts them.
I have Kitten to thank for this understanding.
Without them, i wouldn't have made it this far.
I would still be a little uncertain.

Since middle school i have learned that psychopomps (death angels that lead the dead to their destinations, or help those who are dying slowly to be plucked from their bodies) are comfortable enough with me to talk to me in passing, to allow me to watch them work.
They know the respect i have for them, that i can sense them, that i am safe to interact with, and that i will not try to chase them away.
For the most part, psychopomps prefer to be left alone because they're so very busy, but there is always the rare person that they will allow to observe and talk to them (no, they are not dangerous and will not attack you).
I am one such fortunate person, and in order to be so close to them, you have to understand, forgive, and accept death in all of its forms.
It's all right to be a little afraid, but once you realize dying is not something to be scared of in and of itself, and you have some confidence, you can get close to it without being considered "disturbed."
I now have a very healthy relationship with death, and psychopomps have enabled me to track the progress of family members when they were expiring, and even to track the progress of Kitten's grandfather when he was dying.
We were still in high school.
Given my introduction to death and the time i spent mulilng it over, and the fears i had about my destination in the afterlife while growing up, i am very, very, very blessed to have such a healthy relationship with death.
I'm not afraid of dying.
My only concern is going too soon; i want to live my life first, and then, i have no issues.

I remember every major conversation had with me as a child, and believe me, there aren't many.
The first i remember is when i started calling my parents "mom and dad" for the first time.
Up until that point, i called them "mamaw and papaw."
They nicely told me that that wasn't appropriate, and to call them the afforementioned.
I asked why, and they simply said "because we're your parents."
It was a bit of an adjustment, but i managed quickly.

The next big talk i remember having was when my last name was changed.
See, my mom and birth mom's last names were one way, but when my adopted mom married my dad, her last name changed while mine stayed the same, legally.
I went until close to the time Jim died before getting my last name legally changed to what it is today to help me fit in better and for everything to make more sense.
When my parents told me i was getting my name changed, i actually cried because i "liked my last name."
That literally was it, i just didn't like change.
But damn, can you blame me?
I had been going through a lot recently.
But i then got over it, and when my name did get changed in court, i was actually very proud of it and happy to have the same last name as my parents.
I thought it was weird that it wasn't already the same, but i tried not to question it too much.
Everyone in my family, even my aunt and uncle, could tell that i always knew i was different, that there were puzzle pieces missing.
But as stated, it all came together once i was in middle school.

The other major memory i have of a big talk is in fourth grade, after my mom read my diary and shared it with dad.
It was shared because my mom was horrified to find i had drawn genitals in my diary, and uh...a few things that pointed a little towards my fetish.
Thankfully, that part was not noticed, nor asked about.
But when they sat me down to ask me about it (without anger, honestly they were just terrified), of course i was furious and humiliated and my privacy had been so, SO violated.
My mom's excuse for reading it was that she "hadn't seen me writing in it lately."
I angrily told her it was just because i didn't feel like it, but i guess she perceived that as something being wrong.
Regardless, they said my drawings were kind of...accurate.
Now that i'm grown, i know this caused them to fear i had somehow seen genitals, or maybe something bad had secretly happened to me.
I confessed to them that i learned about genitals from the kids at my table group at school.
They were always telling jokes and making up all these names for private parts, so i joined in and started to learn very quickly.
I can't help but wonder where they heard and learned this stuff, but i digress.
Fourth grade was the start to my innocence dying, and by fifth grade i had developed a strong potty mouth around my friends and acquiaintences.
YARR HARR, A PIRATE WAS ME!
Hah hah got caught a couple of times, but it didn't stop me.
I've been a sailor ever since.
I ended up destroying the diary, but i kept the lock and key that went with it.
I still have them, and occasionally wear them as a necklace together as a symbol of my childhood, of freedom, and of never forgetting what is most important to me.

The thing of it is, i have these memories of these important events, but not a single one about death or dying.
I remember how deeply losing Jim scarred me, all the questions i asked, all the times i hugged my mom and bawled for fear of losing her.
And through it all...
No one did anything about it.
No one talked to me.
No one tried to help me understand.
They just let it go, waited for me to work it out, dismissed me or tried to make me not think about it.
I'm not angry about this, and i realize many parents do this, simply for not knowing how to handle it themselves.
I didn't have the sex talk, either.
I was told i could come to my parents if i ever had questions, but after the diary incident, pfft.
Yeah keep dreaming, parents, the diary reading was the end of my ability to trust you.
So i glided through middle school on my own, sexually, and learned from our Health and Gym teacher, as well as jokes and weird mostly-innacurate facts from other students and friends.
A very unhealthy way to learn, and it's a good thing i was a good kid because many who don't get talked to end up sleeping around or experimenting to figure it out.

Just to make sure i had my facts straight, i even asked my mom last night if she ever talked to me about death after Jim passed.
She simply shook her head, messing around on her phone.
She was neither remorseful nor considerate in her answer, like it didn't matter.
When i expressed a mild disdain, it rolled off her.
But still, i'm not angry or even surprised.
Just a little disappointed.

Losing Jim traumatized me and the effects lasted for years, and once more, no one did anything about it.
Even when i was so brave as to ask questions on my own, i got hollow answers, was dismissed, and in the one instance i expressed acceptance, a parent lashed out at me in anger and shock.
That matters to me not because i think it hurt me as an individual, but because it says something about how unintentionally negligent or misguiding parents can be, and why having children is such a delicate thing.
These are things everyone has got to be prepared for.

I'm not mad at them.
I forgive them, i understand them, and they were -- and still are, despite everything, great and caring parents.
It's because of the life they gave me that i had such a hard time moving last year.
The memories and the beautiful childhood i had may have been flawed, but compared to most, it was heavenly and blissful.
Even my being grounded time in sixth grade was fun to me, i mean damn.
And today there are also good to me, even though they get on my nerves.
My dad is very reclusive, and mom can be mentally and emotionally manipulative and abusive, and i have always known this.
Even now when she abuses me i am fully aware of it, but as of right now i have nowhere to go or any way to escape it.
But my awareness gives me power over it, as i am never shy to fight back and point out when i know she's harming me by making a statement or the words she uses.
Sometimes she denies it, sometimes she says nothing.
I'm over it. *shrug*

My point in this story is that death is important and a part of life, and something everyone needs to be able to cope with at some time or another.
Not everyone is spiritual; spirituality got me through it.
But to those who have children, when death, sex and other important topics find their way to your kids, you have got to talk to them about it.
Nicely, gently, openly.
Carefully.
Dismissing them or shunning them, or lashing out at them will give them a complex, make them feel unsafe, and challenge their self esteem and mental health as they grow.
There is nothing wrong with light exposure to these things, but it has to be dealt with somehow.
I was a lucky one.
If you know a kid who's experienced death or other hard concepts and no one is talking to them about it, be that person.
Take charge, offer yourself to be helpful.
And if you don't know how, find someone who can, point them in the right direction.

Now i have a spiritual son and daughter, Life and Death, Spiritus and Interitus, and they are my children.
But yet, they are also married spiritually, created to be lovers and mates, to coexist in perfect harmony and balance as death and life do.
Creating them has helped me so much.
Just last night i was haunted by the most major death in my life; the loss of my dog Spike in 2012.
I had him for about twelve years.
I have much guilt and regret over him, and last night it all rose back to the surface.
Spiritus and Interitus came to guide and comfort me, and i was starting to listen to them.
Turns out a bad entity that fed off of guilt and regret was feeding off of me, and only when i realized this did i finally vanquish it and manage to move on.
I feel much better today, and am so grateful my son and daughter came to my aid.
This is not the first time a guilt spirit has latched itself to me through guilt over Spike, so i now have light barriers around my memories of him, and even my guilt so i can work on it privately.

I'm sorry this is so ungodly long, but it's important and something everyone needs to think about.
How will you be laid to rest?
Who will you give your things to?
What do you want to be remembered most for?
The point of coping with death isn't just to overcome fear of the afterlife; it's about easing your mind so you can more easily live your current one.
It's impossible for one to truly live and be happy if you're terrified of what will happen when this physical body perishes.
Seek peace of mind, counseling, anything that could possibly help.
It is because of the peace i've made with death, the closeness with it and God that i have and my understanding of the spirit world (however limited it may be) that causes me to feel like this is my last physical life.
I want it to be my last reincarnation, my final flesh on earth.
And if not, that's okay, too, but i really feel deep down like this is it, and i am here now to share everything i've learned, any way i can.

If you found this helpful, relatable, or simply wish to tell your own story, please comment!
And if you have questions, fears and just need someone to talk to or are seeking advice, I'm just a note and/or a Discord message away.
Bless, and thank you for reading.

Description
I have a story to tell, and by the time I'm through with it I hope the moral will be one readers take with them through the rest of their own lives.
Even if it's in a very small way, I know my experiences aren't just for myself, but for the sake of others, by being shared.

Before I get into this, it will be important later for you to know that i am adopted by my biological grandma and non-biological grandpa.
They took me from my real mother when i was born, because she was incompetent.
I wasn't told the truth until i was 14, but all my life i knew there were things about my parents and i that didn't make sense, and i had memories that fueled those feelings.
Trust me when i say i'm very grateful for them adopting me.
My life would have been very turbulent and miserable otherwise.
So when i talk about my mom and dad (which is what they are to me), they are technically my grandparents.
And again, my dad is not blood related to me.

My mom told me a story about when i was a very early toddler and we were living in a trailer, my grandpa Joe on my dad's side passed away during the night.
No one knew yet, but according to mom, i appeared to feel that something was wrong.
She woke in the night to find me in my crib, sitting upright, and wimpering.
Not crying, not distressed, just whining.
I wasn't wet, i wasn't hungry, and it didn't appear that i'd had nightmares (according to mom, i had chronic nightmares as a baby because of how my biological mom mistreated me when i was born).
I just seemed uneasy, and i had never done this before.
It made my mom uneasy, too.
I don't remember the rest of the details, but basically by morning, my dad got the call that Joe had passed away...precisely at the time that i was awake and wimpering.
This was the first, most chilling sign that i possessed spiritual gifts and sensitivities that have run in our bloodline for hundreds of years, dating all the way back to my Celtic roots.
As i don't plan to have children and i am uncertain of what the future holds for my half sister, Fatima, it is very possible that this bloodline and our gifts will die with me.
I'm making peace with that.

A relative (that i sometimes talk about) has told me before that when i was three and four years old, i would talk about heaven when no one had talked to me about it.
I would play with little toys, pretend they died and would say "see you in heaven," very sweetly.
Once more, something awfully frightening to hear a tot say -- particularly when they know nothing about the subject.

My dad's father, my grandpa, Jim, died when i was about seven.
We were moved into the house by this point for a couple of years.
I was in very early grade school, i want to say 1st grade.
Obviously i had heard about death, i knew that people died, but because it had never been close to me before, i never fully grasped the concept.
I didn't know Jim very well (given i was frickin' 7), but when he passed away, it was the first time i really understood what death meant.
It meant that the deceased went away, that they weren't coming back, and we would not be seeing them again.
It meant we went to his house, collected some of his things.
I inherited a small collection of beautiful metal slinkies, and a big, soft teddy bear, among other little things.
I no longer possess any of those objects.

I remember being in the house and being drawn to those slinkies and teddy bear, and how surreal it felt.
Dad was sad, my older sister, Lindsay, was sad, everyone was down.
Jim was gone, and he was not coming back.
Everyone was sad, the house was being turned in or something to that effect, everything was being inherited or removed.
Every trace of him seemed to be slowly vanishing, and by that time i finally realized that death wasn't particular.
It was for everyone.
Thing of it is, i wasn't afraid about myself dying.
I could've cared less, but when it came to my mom, for some reason, that was where i began to spiral.

I had heard that smoking can kill people.
My mom has been smoking since she was 14, so i knew she did it.
I remember there being nights where she would be doing her hair for a late shift at work, and following Jim's death i was so jarred i became very afraid of somehow losing her.
I would hug her legs and beg her to quit smoking, because i "didn't want her to die."
She lightly consoled me by saying she wouldn't die, and i went back to bed, sad and scared.
And as if that wasn't bad enough, for about a week or two when she dropped me off to school in the morning, she would walk in up to the classroom door with me.
And there in front of everybody, i would start crying and telling her i didn't want her to go, and would hug her, and again say i didn't want her to die.
I was plagued by grief and fear over something so unpredictable and intangible, and looking back this had to have been frightening to her.
Like how do you respond when your weirdly-spiritual child is terrified of something bad happening to you?
Personally i would have taken it as an omen and would have been very nervous, but i don't know what she thought or felt.
And every time this happened, she would tell me she'd be fine, that she had to go to work, that i needed to go to class.
It took a few minutes each time, and each time i walked into class crying.
A friend of mine so sweetly asked what was wrong, and bawling, i said "I'm afraid my mom is gonna die."
She misheard me and said "Your mom died?"
She was very concerned, it was so adorable.
I said "No, but I'm afraid she will."
I only remember doing this one time and it feels like an outer-body experience, i always feel like I'm seeing this memory in third person when i think about hugging my mom.
But i know this lasted a short while, and how or why or when it stopped, i don't know.
And if i'm to be honest, i almost cried typing this paragraph, just because it's a vein that runs so deep i often forget how latched to my soul it really is.
And for one particular reason -- which i will get to in a little while, i am also very hurt by it.

After Jim's death and i calmed down, i began asking questions about heaven.
I knew that people who died went there, but how did they get there?
No one explained the ascension of the soul, or that we are actually spiritual beings inside and we just simply arrive there when we go (that's the simple answer you would give a child, i think).
So i would ask if Jesus or God used a big stick with a grabber on the end of it to pick us up and hoist us to heaven.
Mom just said "no."
I would ask if there were othe rridiculous ways, which were always met with a "no."
Eventually i gave up and simply assumed it was a mystery.

The concept of death lingered on me for some time.
I guess when i was about 8 or 9 i must have been talking about it a lot recently, because i have a specific memory of passing my dad in the hallway.
I don't remember what he said or what i said to prompt this, but i eventually responded very contently with "but it doesn't matter because I'll be dead someday anyway."
It came out of me in a rather unnervingly simple, accepting way.
But it must have spooked the shit out of my dad, because he reacted with anger and, looking back, what i sense to be fear.
He loudly, angrily said "Are you just death-obsessed lately?!"
I nervously said "No..."
He stormed away from me and on into the den, leaving it there.
Up until middle school, this is the last major memory i have revolving around my learning about death, and how i tried to deal with it.
But the fact that that's all i remember is the problem.
Once more, i will get to that in a bit.

In middle school, after meeting my spiritual mentor, i told her in first grade that i believed i was part fox.
This led to me conjuring a past-life memory of how i died.
For more details on that, here's an older tale of the experience in detail:

\\~A Tale of Me~//

It too, is lengthy and i apologize, but i really don't want to repeat myself here.

That memory ultimately gave me the first real sense of closure with death.
It took until i was a teenager, which is honestly earlier than most can say.
It helped ease me into the notion that death itself is painless, freeing, and when it happens, we are overcome with peace -- most of us.
Some of us who die traumatically may have problems in the afterlife, but that's what the light is for!
Eventually, no matter what, we all return to the same place.
I still struggled with God and fears of hell and "not being good enough" for him or heaven, but to be fair, it wasn't until the last year or so that i realized everyone already is loved and will go to be with him in the very end.
And once more, i'm very fortunate to have this understanding so young -- most people go their entire lives chasing something imaginary, killing themselves trying to be worthy enough for a merciful creator whom they can't understand already accepts them.
I have Kitten to thank for this understanding.
Without them, i wouldn't have made it this far.
I would still be a little uncertain.

Since middle school i have learned that psychopomps (death angels that lead the dead to their destinations, or help those who are dying slowly to be plucked from their bodies) are comfortable enough with me to talk to me in passing, to allow me to watch them work.
They know the respect i have for them, that i can sense them, that i am safe to interact with, and that i will not try to chase them away.
For the most part, psychopomps prefer to be left alone because they're so very busy, but there is always the rare person that they will allow to observe and talk to them (no, they are not dangerous and will not attack you).
I am one such fortunate person, and in order to be so close to them, you have to understand, forgive, and accept death in all of its forms.
It's all right to be a little afraid, but once you realize dying is not something to be scared of in and of itself, and you have some confidence, you can get close to it without being considered "disturbed."
I now have a very healthy relationship with death, and psychopomps have enabled me to track the progress of family members when they were expiring, and even to track the progress of Kitten's grandfather when he was dying.
We were still in high school.
Given my introduction to death and the time i spent mulilng it over, and the fears i had about my destination in the afterlife while growing up, i am very, very, very blessed to have such a healthy relationship with death.
I'm not afraid of dying.
My only concern is going too soon; i want to live my life first, and then, i have no issues.

I remember every major conversation had with me as a child, and believe me, there aren't many.
The first i remember is when i started calling my parents "mom and dad" for the first time.
Up until that point, i called them "mamaw and papaw."
They nicely told me that that wasn't appropriate, and to call them the afforementioned.
I asked why, and they simply said "because we're your parents."
It was a bit of an adjustment, but i managed quickly.

The next big talk i remember having was when my last name was changed.
See, my mom and birth mom's last names were one way, but when my adopted mom married my dad, her last name changed while mine stayed the same, legally.
I went until close to the time Jim died before getting my last name legally changed to what it is today to help me fit in better and for everything to make more sense.
When my parents told me i was getting my name changed, i actually cried because i "liked my last name."
That literally was it, i just didn't like change.
But damn, can you blame me?
I had been going through a lot recently.
But i then got over it, and when my name did get changed in court, i was actually very proud of it and happy to have the same last name as my parents.
I thought it was weird that it wasn't already the same, but i tried not to question it too much.
Everyone in my family, even my aunt and uncle, could tell that i always knew i was different, that there were puzzle pieces missing.
But as stated, it all came together once i was in middle school.

The other major memory i have of a big talk is in fourth grade, after my mom read my diary and shared it with dad.
It was shared because my mom was horrified to find i had drawn genitals in my diary, and uh...a few things that pointed a little towards my fetish.
Thankfully, that part was not noticed, nor asked about.
But when they sat me down to ask me about it (without anger, honestly they were just terrified), of course i was furious and humiliated and my privacy had been so, SO violated.
My mom's excuse for reading it was that she "hadn't seen me writing in it lately."
I angrily told her it was just because i didn't feel like it, but i guess she perceived that as something being wrong.
Regardless, they said my drawings were kind of...accurate.
Now that i'm grown, i know this caused them to fear i had somehow seen genitals, or maybe something bad had secretly happened to me.
I confessed to them that i learned about genitals from the kids at my table group at school.
They were always telling jokes and making up all these names for private parts, so i joined in and started to learn very quickly.
I can't help but wonder where they heard and learned this stuff, but i digress.
Fourth grade was the start to my innocence dying, and by fifth grade i had developed a strong potty mouth around my friends and acquiaintences.
YARR HARR, A PIRATE WAS ME!
Hah hah got caught a couple of times, but it didn't stop me.
I've been a sailor ever since.
I ended up destroying the diary, but i kept the lock and key that went with it.
I still have them, and occasionally wear them as a necklace together as a symbol of my childhood, of freedom, and of never forgetting what is most important to me.

The thing of it is, i have these memories of these important events, but not a single one about death or dying.
I remember how deeply losing Jim scarred me, all the questions i asked, all the times i hugged my mom and bawled for fear of losing her.
And through it all...
No one did anything about it.
No one talked to me.
No one tried to help me understand.
They just let it go, waited for me to work it out, dismissed me or tried to make me not think about it.
I'm not angry about this, and i realize many parents do this, simply for not knowing how to handle it themselves.
I didn't have the sex talk, either.
I was told i could come to my parents if i ever had questions, but after the diary incident, pfft.
Yeah keep dreaming, parents, the diary reading was the end of my ability to trust you.
So i glided through middle school on my own, sexually, and learned from our Health and Gym teacher, as well as jokes and weird mostly-innacurate facts from other students and friends.
A very unhealthy way to learn, and it's a good thing i was a good kid because many who don't get talked to end up sleeping around or experimenting to figure it out.

Just to make sure i had my facts straight, i even asked my mom last night if she ever talked to me about death after Jim passed.
She simply shook her head, messing around on her phone.
She was neither remorseful nor considerate in her answer, like it didn't matter.
When i expressed a mild disdain, it rolled off her.
But still, i'm not angry or even surprised.
Just a little disappointed.

Losing Jim traumatized me and the effects lasted for years, and once more, no one did anything about it.
Even when i was so brave as to ask questions on my own, i got hollow answers, was dismissed, and in the one instance i expressed acceptance, a parent lashed out at me in anger and shock.
That matters to me not because i think it hurt me as an individual, but because it says something about how unintentionally negligent or misguiding parents can be, and why having children is such a delicate thing.
These are things everyone has got to be prepared for.

I'm not mad at them.
I forgive them, i understand them, and they were -- and still are, despite everything, great and caring parents.
It's because of the life they gave me that i had such a hard time moving last year.
The memories and the beautiful childhood i had may have been flawed, but compared to most, it was heavenly and blissful.
Even my being grounded time in sixth grade was fun to me, i mean damn.
And today there are also good to me, even though they get on my nerves.
My dad is very reclusive, and mom can be mentally and emotionally manipulative and abusive, and i have always known this.
Even now when she abuses me i am fully aware of it, but as of right now i have nowhere to go or any way to escape it.
But my awareness gives me power over it, as i am never shy to fight back and point out when i know she's harming me by making a statement or the words she uses.
Sometimes she denies it, sometimes she says nothing.
I'm over it. *shrug*

My point in this story is that death is important and a part of life, and something everyone needs to be able to cope with at some time or another.
Not everyone is spiritual; spirituality got me through it.
But to those who have children, when death, sex and other important topics find their way to your kids, you have got to talk to them about it.
Nicely, gently, openly.
Carefully.
Dismissing them or shunning them, or lashing out at them will give them a complex, make them feel unsafe, and challenge their self esteem and mental health as they grow.
There is nothing wrong with light exposure to these things, but it has to be dealt with somehow.
I was a lucky one.
If you know a kid who's experienced death or other hard concepts and no one is talking to them about it, be that person.
Take charge, offer yourself to be helpful.
And if you don't know how, find someone who can, point them in the right direction.

Now i have a spiritual son and daughter, Life and Death, Spiritus and Interitus, and they are my children.
But yet, they are also married spiritually, created to be lovers and mates, to coexist in perfect harmony and balance as death and life do.
Creating them has helped me so much.
Just last night i was haunted by the most major death in my life; the loss of my dog Spike in 2012.
I had him for about twelve years.
I have much guilt and regret over him, and last night it all rose back to the surface.
Spiritus and Interitus came to guide and comfort me, and i was starting to listen to them.
Turns out a bad entity that fed off of guilt and regret was feeding off of me, and only when i realized this did i finally vanquish it and manage to move on.
I feel much better today, and am so grateful my son and daughter came to my aid.
This is not the first time a guilt spirit has latched itself to me through guilt over Spike, so i now have light barriers around my memories of him, and even my guilt so i can work on it privately.

I'm sorry this is so ungodly long, but it's important and something everyone needs to think about.
How will you be laid to rest?
Who will you give your things to?
What do you want to be remembered most for?
The point of coping with death isn't just to overcome fear of the afterlife; it's about easing your mind so you can more easily live your current one.
It's impossible for one to truly live and be happy if you're terrified of what will happen when this physical body perishes.
Seek peace of mind, counseling, anything that could possibly help.
It is because of the peace i've made with death, the closeness with it and God that i have and my understanding of the spirit world (however limited it may be) that causes me to feel like this is my last physical life.
I want it to be my last reincarnation, my final flesh on earth.
And if not, that's okay, too, but i really feel deep down like this is it, and i am here now to share everything i've learned, any way i can.

If you found this helpful, relatable, or simply wish to tell your own story, please comment!
And if you have questions, fears and just need someone to talk to or are seeking advice, I'm just a note and/or a Discord message away.
Bless, and thank you for reading.