A Second Chance

seven out of nine

By twenty-seven years old, Jessica had already died seven recorded times.

Seven.

Most people don’t even come close to death once in their lives, yet Jessica had felt it over and over again. Different rooms. Different circumstances. Different versions of herself lying there broken while people fought to bring her back.

And somehow…

she’s still here.

Still breathing.

Still laughing sometimes.

Still being a mother.

Still waking up every morning with another chance to do things differently.

People expect someone with that kind of history to become bitter.

Jessica understands why.

Addiction stole years from her. Abuse stole pieces of her innocence. The accident stole her legs. Death itself came for her repeatedly.

But strangely enough, surviving all of it made her more grateful than angry.

Because once you’ve truly thought your life was over… ordinary days begin feeling extraordinary.

Jessica notices little things now.

The smell of coffee in the morning.

Rain tapping windows at night.

Elijah laughing from another room.

Music playing while she sits thinking quietly.

Those moments feel sacred to her now.

Because she knows how close she came to losing all of them forever.

Her first overdose happened when she was thirteen years old.

Thirteen.

A child.

It happened because of methamphetamine.

Looking back now, Jessica sometimes struggles wrapping her head around how young she actually was. At thirteen, most kids are worried about school drama or video games or who they’ll sit beside at lunch.

Jessica was overdosing.

Her body had already begun shutting down from substances before she even fully understood herself as a person.

The meth had kept her awake too long. Her body pushed past exhaustion until it simply couldn’t anymore. Her heart raced violently. Her chest hurt. Her breathing became wrong somehow — shallow and panicked at the same time.

Then came darkness.

That’s the part people rarely talk about honestly.

Death itself doesn’t feel dramatic like movies make it seem.

It feels confusing.

Then suddenly…

you’re back.

Jessica remembers that first breath afterward more than anything else. Your lungs almost panic when air rushes back in. Your chest burns. Your body hurts. Everything sounds far away for a few seconds while your brain struggles understanding what just happened.

And emotionally?

There’s confusion too.

Fear.

Shock.

A strange awareness that you just crossed a line most people never experience.

But addiction doesn’t stop simply because death scares you once.

So Jessica kept using.

Her second overdose happened when she was fifteen.

This time because of needles.

Needles changed everything.

By then addiction no longer felt “fun” or exciting. It had become survival. Jessica woke up sick. Slept sick. Thought sick. Her body constantly demanded substances just to feel normal enough to function.

The needles scared her at first.

Then eventually they didn’t.

That’s another terrifying thing addiction does: it normalizes destruction.

The overdose happened fast.

Jessica remembers fragments more than complete memories. Her body feeling heavy. Sound becoming distant. Her vision narrowing strangely around the edges.

Then nothing again.

And then that painful return.

That gasp.

That confusion.

That burning first breath dragging her back into life.

People around her panicked more than she did by that point. Jessica had already become emotionally numb to danger in many ways. Death no longer felt impossible to her.

It felt close constantly.

Like something pacing quietly behind her every day.

Then came the final overdose before everything changed.

Beginning of 2019

Jessica was nineteen years old.

By then Raymond had fully entered her life.

Crack and meth consumed both of them. Their relationship revolved around chaos, fear, manipulation, and staying high. Days blurred together into sleepless nights and arguments that felt endless.

Jessica remembers that night vividly.

Four days awake.

Four.

Her body was already dangerously pushed beyond human limits. Her heart strained constantly. Her brain barely processed reality correctly anymore. She and Raymond argued while standing near a fish tank.

Jessica opened her mouth to yell at him.

Then suddenly—

her body gave out.

Everything shut off instantly.

Her heart stopped.

She stopped breathing.

She nearly smashed her head off the fish stand as she collapsed, but Raymond caught her before impact. He gave her CPR and somehow brought her back.

That should’ve been enough.

It should’ve terrified both of them into stopping forever.

Instead, shortly after Jessica regained consciousness, Raymond forced her to hit the c***k pipe again.

And heartbreakingly…

she did.

Addiction had that much control over her life by then.

When Jessica thinks back on that version of herself now, she doesn’t feel hatred anymore.

Mostly sadness.

Because she realizes how lost she truly was.

Then came years later:

the crash.

The Kawasaki KFX450R.

The final four recorded deaths.

Jessica still remembers the liquid confidence from the Bacardi Gold rum that night. The loud engine beneath her. The speed. The wheelie. The feeling of believing she was untouchable for one more moment.

Until she wasn’t.

140 km/h.

One sloppy movement.

One parked truck.

Impact.

Then darkness again.

Except this time, it lasted much longer.

Jessica lay alone on the road for an hour and a half after midnight before anyone found her.

One and a half hours.

Broken spine.

Destroyed body.

Bleeding in silence under the night sky.

Hospital records show she died four times there after being found.

Four recorded deaths.

Machines. CPR. Doctors fighting. Nurses scrambling while her family begged them not to stop.

But Jessica still wonders about the time before she was discovered.

How many times did her heart stop while she laid there alone?

How many moments did her body almost completely give up?

She’ll never know.

And honestly, maybe that’s okay.

Because what matters now is this:

She survived.

Seven recorded deaths.

Seven out of nine lives gone by twenty-seven years old.

“Seven outta nine lives used up people… seven!”

Jessica says it half-jokingly sometimes because humor makes heavy truths easier to hold. But underneath the joke lives something deeply serious.

She’s done dying now.

Done chasing destruction.

Done escaping herself.

Done treating life like something disposable.

Because death hurts.

That’s something Jessica wishes more people understood before self-destruction consumes them.

Death hurts physically.

Coming back hurts too.

That first breath feels amazing because you’re alive again… but it also burns. Your chest aches. Your body panics. Your mind feels confused and scrambled while reality slowly snaps back together around you.

And emotionally?

Coming back changes you.

Every single time Jessica returned from death, something shifted inside her. Another layer of recklessness peeled away slowly. Another piece of gratitude appeared where numbness used to live.

By now, Jessica doesn’t see herself as invincible.

Actually, it’s the opposite.

She understands exactly how fragile human life really is.

One bad choice.

One bad night.

One wrong hit.

One wheelie.

One second.

Gone.

That understanding made her softer in certain ways.

More patient.

More emotional.

More appreciative.

Especially toward the people who refused to let go of her through everything.

Her parents.

Her family.

Elijah.

Especially Elijah.

Because every single time Jessica came back from death, she came back to people who loved her enough to keep fighting for her.

That realization changed her life more than death itself ever did.

Now when Jessica wakes up in the morning, she doesn’t wake up asking how to escape life anymore.

She wakes up grateful she still has one.