The first time I died in my sleep, I was a child. Someone knocked me on the head in my dream and I began rising quickly, into the air. A little voice whispered urgently, Don’t go any higher or you can’t come back! Shaken, I willed myself to fall downward and woke up.

My flying dreams continued as I grew up. It was always the same feeling; a strange lifting sensation began in my solar plexus and I would start to rise. Taking flight awkwardly at first, I would soon be able to cover more distance and fly with greater control.

But I always remembered that voice, that point of no return.

It’s alright if you decide to do it, Amanda says to me on the phone last week. I sit on the corner of my bed, shocked and silent. She continues, I won’t be mad. It’s your right to go.

In one precious and frightening moment, a friend gave me permission to visit that point of no return. She did not chide me, but openly acknowledged the hidden thoughts that over the years and tears and toils and struggles, she has grown to understand deeply.

Nobody has ever offered this kind of acceptance before. All of the loved ones scream and shout and punish and shame when I utter the very real and possible solution. How dare you think that way? Don’t you realize the pain you’d cause others? Stop it. Bad. WRONG!

It's the elephant in the room, isn't it? Amanda asks. I don't want you to do it. Obviously. I love you. But its your choice.

Maybe it's the home I've been looking for, I finally manage to whisper, through tears.

This time, she is silent.

Last year, I would have the most powerful in my series of flying dreams:

My sister and I are in my backyard, chatting on the swinging chair. It’s summer. We’re both relaxed and warmed.

A deep, frightening voice suddenly speaks, very matter-of-factly:

Come with me. It's time.

I am pulled from the chair by a force beyond my control, my feet dragging in the grass like a dead body being hauled off. I am dropped into the front yard where the voice alone waits for me, just a disembodied voice.

Rise, it commands.

I expect to be scared but I'm not. There is no need for fear or fighting. This force is all-powerful. There is only relinquishing, a complete letting go.

My body, flopped forward like a rag doll, begins to rise upward. I see my sister down below, rocking alone in the chair, unaware of my departure. I see the town I live in. The country. The clouds. The stars. I have no control over this flight. I am being pulled by some universal magnet, moving quickly now. Too quickly.

You won't blame yourself if I do, will you?

No, Amanda says, no.

I just can't keep getting up.

Suddenly my back slams into something hard.

It is the sky’s ceiling.

As a child, I believed there was a ceiling beyond the clouds and the blue. A ceiling, an end. You could get no further than that point. Only when you died would it open. I have finally reached it, the point of no return.

My body starts hitting the sky’s ceiling repeatedly. Thump, thump, thump. The ceiling is old and yellowed. A cloud of dust surrounds me with each thud. I am surprised how unceremonious and clumsy this is becoming. They can’t get me past it. What will they do now?

And just at moment, I begin plummeting back to earth. This descent feels dangerous, uncontrolled. The stars, the clouds, the country, the town, my backyard. Slam! My body lands in the grass and my sister sits, swinging in the chair. She is a small child now, looking radiant and sweet.

You’re back, she says, nonplussed, putting daisies in her hair.

Yes, I’m back. Did you miss me?

I always miss you.

I sit next to her but am no longer relaxed, like before. Everything is different. Nothing will ever be the same. And I know, I know, the voice will return. I will rise again.



Image Source: House of the Rising Souls by the amazing 16-year old Lauren Withrow