I was six years old. Smart. Too smart in many ways, yet ridiculously ignorant in others. When it came to common sense on social cues, I was useless. As for life's greater questions, such as why we are here and the balance of nature... Well, I was already in the process of figuring those out. Let it be known, I was never a genius, nor will I ever be one; but I had strange fascinations no little girl ought to ever worry themselves over.

That was when my great-grandmother died of a heart attack. I remember sitting in the waiting room and my mother telling me I couldn't go in to see her. I was worried but I still didn't fully comprehend what had happened. As any child at that age, I didn't think of it again until her funeral. The memory still holds in my mind - my grandfather holding me up to see into her coffin. Still, I didn't understand what was going on and wondered that if she was 'no longer with us' and that wasn't my "grape grandma", then did that body still have eyes? An odd question, I know.

I still don't recall the exact moment I finally came to an understanding of what 'death' meant. All I do know is that it scarred me. It lead to my developing anxiety and perhaps some depression -though we didn't know exactly what to call my strange behavior until I was past the age of thirteen. I grew into the habit of wearing her shirts everywhere almost obsessively for some time until they became only my nightshirts and then momentos in the back of my closet. Though it is unclear whether this event was the reason behind my current ailment or not, my impressionable younger self was so affected that it took many, many years before I truly recovered.