I've been thinking about death a lot. I've sat down on my comforter, with Clover by my side, and wrecked my head around the idea of not existing anymore.

I've laid my hand over my dog's ribcage and watched it rise and fall, encompassing her breathing. She's alive. She's a collection of raging cells, which gathered together to form tissue evolving into organs and systems. An intricate pattern of pulses and beats.

How is it that one moment we are here and gone the next? I've spent hours trying to figure out why we die. Why we cease to be. Why do we exist? The point to it all.

When I was a child back in Coeur D'Alene, I heard my mom talking with her friends and saying something like 'eyes had a light' in them. They went on and on about it, and I was sure it was total nonsense. How could they? It's not like we have bulbs hiding in our sockets.

One afternoon, as I was heading to a friend's house to play hopscotch, I realised I was mistaken. In front of me lay a dead cat on the empty street. This was no stray. It was my neighbour's cat, Felix.

I used to know him. I played with him when he came slinking in my room through the window. I teased him until his tail grew fluffy and held him close to hear his purrs. His eyes sparkled a fluorescent green. Now, they were almost colourless, devoid of light. He was sprawled in the middle of the street where a car had run him over and fled.

I understood what adults meant by 'light leaving the eyes'. With striking clarity, I knew it had something to do with being dead.

I remember running home to tell my dad. I cried all the way to my house... He held me tight and explained that life was a miracle of molecules, infinite and extraordinaire. I thought he'd never die. How could he if the light coming from his eyes was so fierce? We attended Felix's funeral, and Daddy held my hand all the time. I felt like a grown-up. Invincible as long as my fingers remained wrapped in his warm grasp.

I lower my gaze to look at my hands trembling on my lap. I shake them as punishment, and Clover sniffs them with curiosity.

"I know, girl. I'm a mess." She nuzzles up against me and I pat her twice. She craves more cuddles, so I hug her tight as she rests her head over my left shoulder. My mind wanders to how many times I've nearly died...

There was this time I fell off the swing when I was six. Dad had built me an outdoor wooden set with his hands. Back and forth, he huffed and groaned, carrying in the thick logs for the beam and the end brackets. He cussed over the phone with the poor hardware store guy. "What the hell is a D shackle swing seat connector, and why didn't you tell me I needed those fucking things when I was there at the store?"

I repeated those words, "What the fuck is a D shackle! What the fuck! Fuck the D shackle!" upsetting Mom, who barked at Dad for having a foul mouth. Once the swing was built, Dad pushed me so high up I thought I could touch the puffy clouds. I laughed for ten minutes straight. He beamed back at me, proud he'd made his baby bee happy.

But then, when he wasn't watching, I stood up on the swing. Why did I stand? Maybe I thought about flying with the birds above my head, with their loud chirps, as if inviting me to join the flock. Maybe I thought I could blast off into space, reach it faster if I was upright. I don't remember.

I teetered and Dad ran toward me saying, "Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!" He couldn't reach me in time—the birds gave him the evil eye for such careless parenting—and I hit the grass, falling on my arm. I heard the crack of bone, then I screamed in pain. I know now we remember the painful moments the most.

Mom drove us to the hospital, while Dad held me tight. I threw up over his fleece jacket and Mom kept saying, "You could have died, Dawn. If you'd landed on your head, you could have broken your neck! You could have died!"

There was the time I rode into a bush after Dad let go of my bike and chaffed my knee. He said I'd been brave. I hadn't cried from the pain. Truth be told, I also banged my head hard against the boulder that was hiding behind said shrub. When Mom found out about it—thanks to an egg-shaped lump that ratted us out—she was furious. She said, "Go to your room, Dawn." But I could still hear her yelling at Dad, "She could have a concussion, Frank! It's a miracle she's alive!"

After Dad died, there was the time I went for a run with Clover. It was a foggy afternoon, and we sprinted up the road so fast my lungs burned from the strain. I needed the pain to focus on something other than my floating whirlpool of bereavement. The scalding sensation made me breathe harder, blink faster—it made me stay awake. But then, this hare came out of the blue, and Clover ran after it. I panicked and chased her, screaming her name at the top of my lungs. She darted straight to the drive and when I got to the road; I saw her crossing. I lunged forward without looking when this grey van drove past me so fast it made my body shake. The lady behind the wheel got out of the vehicle and shouted at me. Clover barked at her, and I floated adrift, up into the clouds that were threatening to pour their droplets on earth. They were a lot more understanding and welcoming. They said, "Dawn, you don't need this shit right now."

So I shared my droplets instead, watching them splatter onto the stone, concrete, tarmac as the woman left and Clover comforted me. I returned to my body, to her rough tongue lapping my cheeks, just as the van was leaving.

Now that I think of it, that was the first time I floated away and my whirlpool took me from my body. It was also the first time I heard Dad... I wasn't crying because I had almost died like Felix the cat—ran over by that van. I sobbed because Dad's voice was so clear and welcoming. He said, "Hi, baby bee. I've missed you." He was back.

Yes, I've died almost a hundred times.

Okay, okay... Three that I can account for.

What about this moment I'm living? What about this new scene in this sappy movie?

This right-here-right-freaking-now time, where I walk into the lake to complete my transition. Where I hope to grow stronger roots and join Dad, but he doesn't like that idea. He thinks I should swim back up, but the mucky water is angry and refuses to soften its grasp.

But a boy pulls me out—paying no attention to how he meddled with my dad and my wishes to find him—and doesn't speak to me afterward because I tell him he should mind his own business.

He says, "What are you doing back in the water, Dawn?"

The sound of my name on his lips crawls its way inside me, imprinting on every atom, cell, and tissue I own. I hate him for it. I can't help but notice his drenched denims, how they cling in a sexy look-at-my-moulded-thighs way. Lake water puddles beneath him, yet he doesn't shiver. I get it... all the cold has buried itself inside me—I'm shivering enough for us both.

I say, "I don't need anyone. Let me get my missing boot back in peace, will you, River?"

Damn you and your watery name.

He watches me squat, which makes my ass look double its size, to grab the stupid thing and says nothing.

He stares at me while I bark into his face I'm not a damsel in distress and says nothing.

He stands there, baffled, while I go on saying that he doesn't know me. That he can go back to his demonic friends and tell them the fat chick needs to gain a few more pounds to float right.

"Why are you telling him these awful things, baby bee?" Dad asks.

Because I'm a mess. And nobody likes messy, Dad. I don't tell him that, I know he'll fade away if I do. So, I say something else instead.

I don't know, Daddy.

I know I am screwing things up. My tongue dries, and I can't speak anymore because boom, there he is, inches from me.

Did he step closer while I was acting all black-mamba-I-will-prey-on-you? Smack dab in my pathetic heart as I fix my gaze on the grass and the crawling caterpillar that's being judgmental. On my stupid boot, that seemed so important and now dangles from my quivering hand. I concentrate hard on not crying in front of him. I'm a damn talented actress, you know? And since we are in a movie, I'll perform all over my grief.

The pistons of my heart move in an almost bell-like sound. My lungs are filling and emptying with a rhythm I've yet to decode. What's happening? It's getting dark. The stars are moving, pushing past daylight and reason. The echo of all the black holes consuming everything... and then, just like that, my head clears, and I'm walking away. Leaving River behind, and he still says nothing.

The sloshy noise from my one boot ricochets against the oak tree trunks. They watch me leave too. It's cold. They shiver in empathy as I stumble past them. Birds cuddle in their branches, and the stars clank against one another muttering, "Silly, girl! Isn't she silly? Too right!"

I watch them parade in the now darkened sky. The wind pays me a visit too. It roars, furious. It calls me names, taunting me. Lightning spears in long electric flashes, and down comes the rain. I thought there were no clouds; I was wrong. I'm always wrong.

The thunder laughs and laughs at me.

Fuck you, thunder.

In the beats between booms, I hear something else. He's calling my name again. I turn around because I can't help it. He is trying to push his way through the storm to where I'm standing.

"It's fine, River. Thank you... okay?" I croon over the slam of the downpour, over the thunder. If the thunder could split me open, it'd look inside and deem me ridiculous.

River mouths something back, but I can't hear him. My sobs now echo louder than the clashing and whipping of this unexpected tempest.

I think of the rain that wets his skin, and I'm jealous of how it gets to touch him while I'll never have the courage to. I think of the wind and how it ripples through his clothes and I envy it. It's closer than my shadow now, far away from the lake.

I could have died today had it not been for him. Maybe I did. Yeah. I am dead in infinite, colliding universes. None of which River and Dawn make sense. Not if I want to find Dad.

So, with all certainty, I'm mostly and most likely dead.

I'm dead here and now.

While I bolt faster ahead.

When I don't glance back.

When my eyes flood and I dissolve with each step I take.

Dead now and here with no room for new possibilities.

Not even a tiny space for what ifs.

A/N. Dawn has dissociative episodes. She calls them her 'whirlwind'. Whenever she feels reality gets 'too real' she floats adrift. I won't label further. I want this story to be brimming with sparks of healing, love and hope.
No more stigmas.