I think about death a lot…
When I was about 8 or 9 I used to lay awake at night wondering what it would be like to die and if I could be with my grandmother. I would close my eyes and try to lay as still as possible. Like yeah, that would do it lol.
There were a few times, not knowing the seriousness of it, I used to steal medicine and take enough to find what the fuss was about death. My mom used to say that I was a little junkie addicted to baby Tylenol or cough syrup. She used to say things like, “You will die if…” such and such. I didn’t see a big deal.
My dead grandmother was sleeping right? Why couldn’t I?
According to my grandpa I was a happy baby, always laughing at God knows what. I grew to be curious about everything. My development was kind of slow so I didn’t talk right and still spoke baby until after my second try at kindergarten. I think. Anyway when I did finally talk, I remember asking so many questions to my grandpa and he would get impatient. I wanted to know how shit worked and stuck my nose in to everything. Also took things apart so my grandpa, the magic man can show me stuff.
Despite how dumb I looked and my age, people always thought I was an old soul. Then threw in “wise” when my hair started to go grey. Turns out…
My name, Monique (French form of Monica) supposedly means “wise one” or “advisor”. Figures.
No one really explained it until my mom went through a religious phase. Being a JW, I learned a lot. That basically death and dying it was scary. When in middle school I started an interest in supernatural and paranormal stuff. It was around that time I began using playing cards as tarot.
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