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Lucy




My mother has always had a theory that in your early years, the ones we can’t remember, we are close to our past lives, death, rebirth, and some kind of higher power. Babies can choose to leave, but most will stay, crying and screaming out our sorrows and fears of past lives. 

That’s why we’re born without interests, yet we have fear, some seeming irrational; that’s why we’re afraid of being alone, or in the dark. Both are fresh wounds that the experience of death leaves, and they need time to heal over. Yet, there will always be scars. 

When I was born, my mom and her best friend, Pam, went into labor on the same day, same time. They were taken to two different hospitals. I was born a healthy, happy baby, while Pam’s baby had died in childbirth. 

When I was two, one of my first full phrases was “My name is Eva Lucy,” as a response to “Who are you?” or “What’s your name?” 

Later that same year, my mother and Grandfather were talking about how I was very wise and well spoken for a child of three. My grandfather asked me, basically, if I’d been around the block and who I was in my past life. I replied without missing a beat, “Yes, my name was Lucy Ducy.” 

On my eleventh birthday, and by this time I had been diagnosed with MPD (Multiple Personality Disorder), Pam showed up to my family party at our church. She was always a strange woman, but today she seemed oddly retreated into herself. 

The only thing that she said to me that day was “Lucy would have been eleven today.”

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