Superstitions

I used to be superstitious. Especially when I was 17, which was when I had a dream that I would die. On Friday the 13th. My dream not only attempted to predict the date when I would die, but showed me how. I was going to die in a car accident.

Now that 22 years have passed, it's obvious why this dream came to me. It was probably obvious at the time, as well. I actually had the dream twice. On two separate occasions, spaced between a visit from a ghost. Or what I was convinced was a ghost. More specifically, the head of a ghost. Even more exact, the head of my dead cousin. During the visit, my cousin was the one who agreed with the dream; I would die in my car on Friday the 13th.

My cousin had died a year prior to these incidents. Not on the most superstitious day, but on her birthday. On her 20th birthday. It was the first of two accidental deaths my family would face within a two year span. My cousin was living the free life of a college student downstate, celebrating an annual event with her boyfriend and his Air Force buddies. They were drinking, and they made a bad decision. Two actually. The first was to make the trek from U of I back to the Chanute Air Force Base after partying most of the night. The second was when my cousin misjudged the distance she had to make a turn in front of an oncoming truck.

We were all devastated, of course. Losing a family member in such a horrific way is difficult to wrap your mind around. So my mind began playing tricks on me.

The dreams and the visit from the hereafter scared my parents. They thought I was telling them something without saying anything specific. They thought I was suicidal. I was taken to a shrink, and asked a series of questions I've long since willingly forgotten. It was suggested that I attend group counseling. Once a week, I was summoned to a large conference room in an office building. I had to sit in a room for an hour with teens who were actually suicidal. Teens who not only dreamt about death, but acted upon an urge.

I knew I didn't belong there. I knew I wasn't suicidal. It was just the opposite for me. I was afraid of death. The dreams and visit themselves scared the shit out of me. I didn't want to die; on Friday the 13th or any other day. I tried telling everyone this, but the more I made my position known, the more the doctor concluded I needed help. Luckily, the therapy was not mandated. My parents didn't force me to go. The school officials had no idea. It was strictly up to me if I chose to attend or not.

After two visits, I quit. The therapist kept calling me at home to see if I was coming back. I think he even called me at the gym where I worked a couple of times. He kept leaving messages like it was urgent I call him back, or that I'd be sorry in the future if I didn't keep the therapy going. I didn't care. His threats or suggestions or whatever they were didn't scare me. At least not any more than the dreams or my fear of death. I know he was just trying to do his job; trying to save me in some way.

I didn't need to be saved. I just needed a lucky rabbit's foot key chain, or to throw salt over my shoulder before I got in the car.