I may, and I say that in italics, may, be onto another past life.
I’ve seen very little of this person in terms of biography and photos, but when I saw this little bit, I felt that sort of bell ring inside me, not as strong as when I first heard the name Marie Antoinette, but it was there. There was something. It may be nothing, actually, I could be completely wrong, and I don’t want to reveal who it is until I do more research, partly because this one is famous (a bit) for actually having accomplished something. I want to tread carefully here. But what was the tidbit of information I found most interesting? This person died at age 37.
In the life I call before, the one I allude to most here, I was 37 when I was executed. I felt young in spirit and mind during the happier years spent in palaces, strolling through gardens, acting on a modest stage, and older than the hills in the last few years, those of isolation and prison. By the time I died, my soul was straining and fighting against the confines of my body. My raised-up head may have moved a moment or two after it was severed, I’ve heard that happens, but I raced out of that worn-out, always-bleeding shell as fast as I could. I don’t remember anything after the sound of the blade except darkness, then light, but I have and had faith. I went where I expected to go, dropped Antoine like a fallen petal and found myself Athlynne again. I know it’s always a relief beyond what words can say.
Why am I talking about this number, you might ask. So what, a coincidence, though I don’t believe in those. The reason is that I am 36 years old in this body. I will turn 37 in October.
I think I spoke in an earlier entry about my long-held belief that I was going to die young, specifically on a birthday. Now I find myself wondering, how strong is this pattern? Will I get to exit this life before next year’s October?
Sylvia Browne (I know she’s controversial, but I believe her about a lot of things) said that we come into each life with six Exit Points written into our chart. These are incidents in which we can die, and there’s some element of unconscious choice as to which ones you pass up and which you finally take. Basically, you can choose to die at certain times, and it doesn’t count against you as suicide does.
I’ve tried and failed to reckon up my own Exit Points. Suicide attempts, nearly drowning as a toddler, times I’ve seriously choked. How many do I have left, and will I wait until the last? I’ll try to say this in as un-emo a manner I can – I want this. The idea of dying at 37 in this life is very appealing to me. I don’t especially like my life except at rare moments of really-okay-ness, and the rheumatoid arthritis I’ve probably mentioned is getting worse, while at the same time I’m almost out of treatment options. My rheumatologist has me on the four most-used drugs for RA, and even they can’t control it. My pain management doctor would let me try ketamine infusions, but my insurance won’t cover it and it’s very expensive. I’m very tired of living with depression, autism, and constant pain. It makes absolute sense to me that I would chart this lifetime to be relatively short. Even my optimistic soul-self must have some idea about my human limits.
However, I don’t want to give the impression that this is easy for me. I love my family deeply and I know that losing me would be devastating to them. I tell myself that by the time they begin to grieve, I’ll be on the Other Side, joyful in the knowledge that their mourning will last only the blink of an eye, we’ll all see each other again multiple times throughout eternity. It would not seem long to me before I’m welcoming each of them Home. But…Jakey.
My little tether to this mad, mad world, the thing that makes me happiest and holds me to an otherwise sad life. My nephew would miss me, I know. But he does have a loving family who would fill in for me as best they can…and maybe in time he would forget me. I find that sad, but if it would be easier for him, I’m all for it. And from the Other Side, maybe I could watch over him, even intervene in times of danger. My family is very supernaturally-oriented. They would know I’m not really gone and sense me when I’m around.
I guess all I can do is wait and see, and prepare as best I can. I’ll keep you informed, Gentle Reader. Please don’t be sad for me. Death is not the opposite of life, it’s the opposite of birth. Life has no opposite. Its end and beginning and middle is all itself. It goes on. It can’t do otherwise.