Darla Part 8 The Girl Who Lived

Sorry J.K Rowling, but the title was so good in the first chapter of your great story about a boy who lived, I had to borrow it for my last chapter. Well, hopefully not my LAST chapter, just the end of this part of my life's story. Harry was a boy who almost died, many times, but told death NO, and had the will to live bravely to face death. This is my story, at least up to the ripe old age of 18. This story is more a question of "Should I live?"

I've told you about my name, school and bullies, dad's death, dad wasn't my father, mom's cancer, and other important moments, events, and thoughts in my life. A story of life, and death. Yes, Death. Someone I thought about a lot, gave a personification to, maybe enough to include him in my short list of friends. When I first starting writing the bits of story that have since become part of this brief autobiography about me, it was intended as a good bye, a reason to invite Death's visit. It started with my poem titled The Throne, which you should have already read if you've gotten this far in my story. Another of the early poems I wrote is titled Depression. I believe I just turned 13 when I wrote this, shortly after I found out dad wasn't my father.

Here is another short poem I wrote around the same time.

I shiver, feeling like ice crawling up my spine as I read those poems. As poorly written as they are, it frightens me that I was so sad that I could write those words. Even scarier, as I read those words, I remember the feelings, emotions, sadness behind each word. I wrote many other similar poems and stories, but in a fit of depression and anger, I tore them to shreds and threw them away. For some reason I kept these two, and The Throne.

I read a story narrated by Death, it's titled The Book Thief. I learned a bit about death from that story. For example, I've heard people say war is Deaths best friend. How wrong they are. Do you know how much extra work war makes for an already too busy Death?

In everyone's life there are good days and bad days. Nothing in life is perfect. But is life so imperfect as to be not worth living? That is an important question for some, and the answer is sometimes tragic. To choose death is a permanent solution to what is usually a temporary problem. It may be a difficult problem, one very hard to bare, very hard to live through, but is it worth death? That was the question I faced for several years.

In my early years, I didn't think about death much, but I wasn't all that happy about life either. No one likes to be bullied. Or being sick a lot. Or treated like a nothing at home, or at best, as an annoying inconvenience. It left me damaged, more than the physical deficiencies of health that already were weighing on me. Was the next time I got a simple cold when my end would come?

Grammy, Mom's mom, died, and I met Death for the first time. I didn't include much of mom's mom in this story, I barely knew her. The only grammy I really know is dad's mom, and she has no plans to meet Death anytime soon. Mom's mom was already old and senile in my earliest memories of her. But I remember the funeral. She looked so peaceful. Did grammy like meeting Death?

Death had a busy day on 9/11/01. I still have many thoughts about that day, that wonderful summer, with it's tragic end. Why do people make so much work for Death?

Dad's last year was a terrible year. He call me his "little crack whore" even though I didn't really know much about what crack or being a whore was. I knew enough to know it was bad, and that it wasn't me. I became friends with Death that year. Talked to him many nights waiting for dad to call for his next libation. I hated dad, and I was almost glad when dad and Death had their meeting.

Grammy, dad's mom, had her accident, but she lived. She could have given up, many who break a hip at her age do give up. Many then die within a year or so. Grammy said no to Death. She still limps a bit and complains a bit about her hip, but she still loves life. And I've had some great times with her, before and since her accident.

I found out that Dad wasn't really dad. I was, as my thoughts raced through my pained mind, the offspring of an evil something no one. Was I also evil. Was that why I hated life, everything, so much. Was I, being no one, worth the effort to not just die.

My bundle of furry love entered my life and kept my thoughts busy much of the time.

Grandpa had his accident, but he lived. Death visited him and he said No. Having him live with us while he recovered was actually a good time. Dad was gone, and school was not too bad. Mom even seemed a bit happier. She didn't drink much while grandpa lived with us. I didn't think much about my friend Death for a few months.

Then, mom got sick. I thought a lot about Death again. I expected mom to die. I knew breast cancer does that. No one saw me at night as I cried. I think that's why poor Jones failed at being a Seeing Eye dog, water on the brain from hugging him, sitting on my bedroom floor in the dark, as I cried on his furry black head. Jones was the only witness to my tears, and my silent talks with Death in the darkness of my bedroom floor. Then Jones left to be trained to help the blind. I didn't know at the time that 5 months later he would be back.

I made my decision. The evil offspring of no one didn't deserve to live. I knew how to do it, it would be painless, or nearly so. And fast. I would ask Death to visit me on the same day he visited mom. So I waited for her end, and mine. And thought.

That spring, two months after mom's bad news, when Jones left, I started running a lot. I knew my days were now numbered very short, running helped keep me from thinking too much about it. It! My last day! I started with just a couple miles in the morning, twice around the block. It was a big block. After a couple weeks it was three miles first thing every morning. Sometimes four, or even five miles, when I was feeling particularly sad. When I was younger, I was always pretty active, and I always ran a lot, frequently to get away from bullies, or from home when I could not bare being in the house any more. When Jones left, I was alone. I no longer had his patient, loving, furry head to shed my tears upon. It was hard being home with mom sick, dying as I thought. After a while I was able to just empty my mind when I ran. When I was running, my mind was free, no thoughts, no worries, only the wind in my face, one step in front of the next. How fast could I go? How hard could I get my heart to pound, my lungs to heave for that next breath, with sweat streaming down my face, soaking me from head to toe?

That summer I learned about abortion. You should have already read my story about how I helped kill a poor innocent unborn child. The young mother-to-not-be made her choice, and so did I, with little thought about Death's visit. It wasn't until afterward that I thought, "How could I?" "What gave me the right to help take the unborn child's life?" Not only did I want Death to come, I now believed I deserved his visit. I really was something evil, the offspring of an evil no one.

And more thoughts. Some of the bullies I hit when I was young could have been seriously hurt, but that was self defense, and still as I look back, did I have to hurt some of them so bad?

At night, between tears, I thought some more.

Death, be not proud! Death's duty can not be stopped, but do any of us have the right to make Death's job harder.

Then, mom lived, and Jones came back. My plans foiled. Mom and I even started to become friends. My thoughts and foiled plans were spinning in my head. And I thought some more. If I had asked Death to visit, what then? Some days had been very hard to live through, but was it worth death? A permanent solution to what became a temporary problem.

A few years later Uncle Bill died, or should I say Uncle Bill threw away his life, just like dad, giving Death an untimely invitation. Why would anyone live such a destructive life? Why give Death such a profound invitation?

The thoughts filled my head to bursting. Was Death my close friend, or one to shun as long as possible?

I had many bad days, but they passed, and I moved on. Over the years I saw much suffering around the world. My meager problems, as bad as they seemed to me, were but specks of inconvenience compared to the suffering of many others, including some very close to me. They still strongly said No to Death while I was so close to inviting Death to visit. There are still some bad days, but also many good days now. I didn't talk much about the good things in life in this story, but there were some, and as I live through more days, more of them are good. I have plans, things I now want to do with my life. More stories to write.

Now, as I'm finishing this last chapter, I've decided it should be a story of life. So Death, my old friend, someday we will meet, but hopefully not soon. Death be not proud, I am a girl who has chosen to live.