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Hello. You're probably here because you know me from the
internet. In case you don't, and randomly happened to stumble upon
this, let me introduce myself and what all of this is about.
My name is Anna Akana. On February 14, 2007, my thirteen year
old sister Kristina committed suicide.
Since then I've noticed how deeply this death has permanently
affected my life (and the lives of my family). Every time I write a
story, it almost always involves the protagonist trying to save
someone. There is usually a suicide involved. There is always
death. I don't do it on purpose, it just happens. And something in
me thinks it will happen for a long, long time, whether I like it
or not.
I came upon my old journal entries from that year, and was
startled at just how deep my sadness, confusion, and anger went,
particularly in my relationship to God. Reading these forgotten
words brought back all the existential struggle, the denial and
acceptance of death and life, the injustice of a child's
solution.
In October 2013, I recorded a video called "Please don't kill
yourself". I had been mulling it over for a while, afraid to put
myself out there in a real way on the internet, but wanted to talk
about the other side of suicide: being the survivor.
I had mentioned my sister's suicide many times in my videos, but
mostly in a superficial way, or only for a brief amount of time.
Never had I divulged into the great depths of grief or despair that
death has left me in.
So I sucked up my embarrassment and my concerns and uploaded
"Please don't kill yourself". To my surprise, it got an
overwhelmingly positive and supportive response. Hordes of people
left comments about similar experiences, or their own struggles
with suicide, or simply supported the message.
After I finished re-reading these old entries, I thought perhaps
someone, somewhere who is also suffering from surviving suicide,
would find these helpful. Comforting, perhaps. Maybe they'd relate,
and feel connected somehow. Not so alone, not so isolated.
Because the most painful part of 2007 was the utterly hopeless,
helpless feeling of being completely alone in the universe. Of
being misunderstood. That feeling of anger, of overwhelming hatred
towards the world, of me versus them, was so strong that I felt
like I was drowning in fire.
I hope that if you are a survivor of suicide, you remember that
you are not alone.
We are all alone together.
-Anna Akana
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1October 26, 2013
PS, If you chose to purchase this, thank you. I will be donating
all the proceeds to youth suicide prevention programs.
If you downloaded this for free, thank you too. Also, I
encourage you to adopt two kittens and give them loving homes.
--
Please note: Names have been changed. Simply because they always
do that in books, and I assume it's for a very good legal
reason.
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2SURVIVING SUICIDE Chronicling the aftermath from 2007-2009
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3February 20, 2007
The way to love anything is to realize it might be lost. I never
knew how much I loved you till now.
Kristina Marie Akana, 13 years young, passed away on Valentine's
day of 2007. The entire day, I never saw it coming. Who could have
seen that coming? And the pain has slowly begun to subside into a
dull numbness, but it doesn't make me feel any less hollow.
I got home for school and started on Anthony's Valentine's day
gift. I planned on a handmade card and a candle-lit picnic at the
park. I sat in my room watching CSI, when Kristina came barging
into the room, fat tears streaking down her face. She wanted to go
to some slumber party that my parents objected to. She was still
allowed to attend the party, just not sleep over. She paced back
and forth, shouting about the injustice she was put through in this
house. Overcome with frustration I yelled at her. I called her
stupid and over reactive. She retaliated and knocked down things
off my desk. I snapped, pushed her out of my room, told her I hated
her, and slammed the door. As I rolled my eyes, I wish someone
would have told me that would be the last time I ever saw her
alive.
Anthony arrived. He first gave me a big bear, then some
chocolates, and finally red flowers. I ran up the stairs and tucked
them away. I glanced at Kristina's closed door, hearing the muffled
music blasting inside. I considered going in and giving her a hug,
apologizing, making things better. My pride brushed it off my
shoulders, and instead I blindfolded Anthony and took him to the
park.
We lay down on a blanket and ate grilled cheese sandwiches,
huddled in a sleeping bag and talked about politics, literature,
astronomy. It was the best date I'd ever had, and out of nowhere I
suddenly felt like something was wrong. I had a terrible feeling in
my gut, but I kept telling myself it was paranoia. What's the
matter with you? Nothing's going to happen. I chided myself. Get
that nagging feeling away. You're just paranoid.
Two police cruisers raced past the park with their lights on and
sirens flaring. A fire truck raced down the street a few moments
later.
"I want to go." I told Anthony. I stood up suddenly. He was
confused, but he didn't really question me. I don't know if it was
the tone of my voice or if he caught the feeling too. I started
packing away everything when my phone rang. William was
calling.
"Anna, what I'm about to tell you will change your life forever.
Kristina tried to hang herself."
I told him to shut up, that he wasn't funny, that he should shut
his mouth.He wasn't kidding.
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4I started sprinting across the park. I couldn't stop
hyperventilating. All of my stuff was falling to the ground, but I
didn't care. We hopped in the car and went down the two blocks to
my house.
As I sat shaking in the car, not once did it occur to me that
she would die. I figured the police were there to give her a pep
talk. That she'd had a close call. I thought "Oh, man, she'll be
grounded for life." But denial doesn't suppress reality.
The moment we parked I noticed my door was wide open, something
our family rarely allows. Policemen freely strolled in and out of
the house, their cruisers on our front lawn. I ran inside and found
my mother sitting on a stool crying. My brother was pacing. My
father solemnly speaking to an officer. Anthony was almost right
behind me.
All we wanted to know was if she was okay. No one would tell us
anything. So we waited.
"What if she dies?" I cried into Anthony's arms, realizing the
truth of the matter. They brought her down on a stretcher as my
brother told me what had happened.
He wanted to tell her to turn her music down, a Korean
soundtrack was playing over and over again at a loud level in her
room and distracting him from his homework. He looked in her room,
but she wasn't there. Bathroom? No. So he opened her closet door.
Kristina often wrote in her diary in the closet, or worked on her
art, or would lip-sing to the mirror. Her closet was her haven.
This day, it was her death place. She was found with a red
sarong wrapped around her neck, hanging from the bars for hangers.
My brother lifted her up, screaming for my father. They brought her
down and my dad tried to do CPR. Her mouth was clenched, jaw shut
tight. They couldn't get any air into her lungs.
I watched my beautiful baby sister, pale with blue lips as she
was carried away.Two EMTs laughed with a police officer while she
lay motionless on the stretcher. I hated them.
We went to the hospital. Anthony drove because none of us were
suitable to get behind the wheel. Dad had to stay home and await
some call from the police. As we walked into the cold emergency
room, I saw two men carrying a dead body on a stretcher, securely
wrapped inside of a black leather zippered case. We were put in a
waiting room decorated with flowers. I looked at the clock,
looming. Tick, tick tick. Time ticking away.
The doctor finally entered and sat down calmly. Everyone was
calm. Why were all of them so calm? A little girl, our beautiful
little girl, was dying. & here are these people who laughed and
joked and spoke calmly. I hated all of them.
"I have bad news," the doctor said. I felt like I was in a
movie. Everyone knew what was
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5coming next. I could practically see myself sitting in that
chair, eyes wide while realization started to sink in. I could see
my mother react slowly, my brother lift his head, Anthony's jaw
tightening. I could see us all, staring blankly at him as he told
our family I'm sorry, we couldn't save her.
I couldn't breathe. They came in short, raspy gasps. The
volunteer looked at me concerning. Anthony put his hand on my back
and looked into my eyes, which I'm sure could no longer focus on
anything other than the doctor.
"I'm sorry." He said calmly, hands neatly placed on the table,
looking at my mother square in the eye. I hated him. My mom asked
to see the body. I still couldn't breathe.
We walked. Anthony had to hold me up because I couldn't use my
brain to control my legs. They placed us in a little room, where a
white sheet covered the face of a small body.
He pulled the sheet away, and there she was.
Belts were wrapped around her stomach at odd angles. Her stomach
was huge, from being pumped or pushed on I do not know, but she
looked like an inflated balloon. Blood was dried about her nostrils
and her neck, which had a hole pierced in it and a tube placed in.
Vomit was in her hair, crusty and dry. Her eyes, half-open and
empty, stared aimlessly at the ceiling. Blue and dry and crisp were
her pale lips, half parted, and would never speak again. Never
smile again. Never laugh again.
& all I wanted to do was run, to look away, but my eyes were
fixated on the still object before me that was once so full of
life. I couldn't comprehend the fact that she was gone, really
gone. My brother turned green. My mother collapsed onto the body in
heavy sobs. My grandmother remained silent.
We mourned. We cried. We even downright screamed. My mother sang
to her softly, in an insane loss. My grandmother yelled at her dead
body for doing such a thing to herself. My brother walked out of
the room. I went in the corner and cried, where the volunteer
hugged me and shoved my face in her breasts. I wanted to push her
away and cuss her the fuck out, but my manners were still intact
despite all the resentment I felt.
My heart collapsed in my chest. Tears would not stop. My legs
shook and my chest throbbed with a pain unexplainable. If you have
never lost a loved one, you cannot imagine the immense suffering
one goes through. You do not feel whole. Your chest is about to
explode from the intensity of your sobs. Your eyes weep lakes. It
is all the dance of death.
I wondered if she was there, standing beside the stretcher,
inbetween worlds. And it struck me. Will she go to damnation for
this? Will she be punished eternally for her
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6nativity? For her sin?
They say that suicide is the hardest death to cope with, because
of the lingering question Why? echoes forever in your head. I must
agree.
They say she left a suicide note. "I'm sorry I make everyone so
miserable." were the final words. She had a special goodbye for her
friends & my cousin Frankie. Nothing for us. Nothing for the
family she was so furious with. No goodbye for those who loved her
most.
It still didn't feel real, for very many days. Several times I
woke up expecting her to be in her room, only to find my mother in
the closet instead. Together, we cried until our heads were about
to crack in half. The sick feeling in our guts only went away after
several hours of sleep. Our faces, however, never changed. The
blank, empty expression always remained. I had a constant headache
from all the crying.
I reached out to touch my sister's hand. She was so cold I felt
like I was on fire. I touched her forehead, and it felt like metal.
Hollow, cold, steel. Not the warmth I felt before when I used to
stroke her hair when she was upset. Never again will I feel that
warmth from my baby sister.
I was supposed to protect her. I was supposed to comfort her. So
many times I walked by her room that night and I could have said
something. Self-blame is inevitable with suicide. Guilt, regret,
anger.
I can't even begin to explain how painful it is.
Death changes you. When I cry over Kristina, there is a familiar
pain in my head. It feels like a knot, or a tumor, or a big black
blob just stuck inside of my brain and I can't scratch it out.
Every time I think of her and cry, it's big heavy, sobs that I
can't seem to control. I felt like the ocean. I felt like my
insides were spread out so far and wide and there were so many
things inside of me all at once, and thoughts racing and swimming
and I felt like I was drowning in tidal waves of grief.And when you
know that your loved one is gone you just want to get up and set
the place on fire. You want to kill the man who tells you this,
even though it's not his fault. You hate everyone, despise
everything. I'm bitter and judgmental and broken.Death makes you
crazy. It's right then, when you see it with your own eyes, that
you know you'll never quite be the same again. Your life is cut
into two sections: before and after. And the shock is a tricky
thing. When I went to her funeral, in a deranged sleepless state, I
remember convincing myself that this was an elaborate prank set up
by one of those corny and extremely stupid Parent-Kid-Prank TV
shows. I recall thinking that maybe I really was dreaming.
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7Or it was some lesson that God was trying to teach me, and once
I learned it, he'd yank me back out of the black and I'd wake up. I
thought of everything. anything. something. Just not the truth. And
I wish she could see herself. I hope she did see herself. In a
kid's coffin, surrounded by letters and cards and the possessions
she held dearly in life. I hope she saw how we all cried, all the
words we said, each speaking of our fondest memory before putting
one red rose on her still large belly. I hope she saw how much pain
she caused. Death brings as much sorrow as birth brings joy.After
that, whenever someone joked, "I'd rather kill myself"It would all
come back to me. Whenever someone even mentioned hangingsI had to
run to the bathroom and cry and try not to throw upAfter that,
whenever I walked on a tall building, I wondered what it would be
like to jumpto fallto drownto die. I would imagine her last breath,
wondered how alone she felt, what was the last thought that ran
through her mind? The last image? And thoughts of her in hell
torment me all the time. But if God is all-forgiving, surely he
wouldn't condemn her, right?
She will never get married, have a child, go to prom. She was
only in the 8th grade, only 13 years old. So young and so
beautiful. She would have been such a beautiful woman, much more
than I'll ever hope to be. She will never stand next to me as my
maid of honor, nor be the aunt of my children and I to hers. She'll
never drive the car she begged me to let her take hold of. She will
never laugh or smile. Her eyes will never see another sunrise or
sunset. Her heart never will take another beat. They say that God
doesn't give you more than you can handle.Tell that to her.
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8April 07, 2007
I decided that I'm going to get a kitten, or a puppy, and no
one, and I mean no one, is going to stop me. And it's a plus that
my father didn't really deny or object or directly state that no I
could not get a pet. Anthony and I went last Saturday, but all the
dogs were obnoxious, and the cats were old and fat and mean. So
today we went again to Petco for Adoption Day. And at the very
corner outside of the store I saw a woman. Holding kittens. Two to
be exact. One was grey and small, and reminded me of Ben, my old
cat when I was younger. It was in the arms of a man who was with, I
could tell, was his girlfriend, who was holding the leash to a dog.
She, and the dog, had the same expression on their faces; I do not
want that cat. But I could tell from the look on the man's face
that he had fallen in love.
So I walked over the lady and saw the future love of my life in
her arms. She was beautiful, so small that she could fit in one of
my tiny hands, mostly black, but with specs of orange and white
surrounding her body. She has a white-tipped tail and light green
eyes. Her claws practically sank into the lady's skin when I asked
if I could hold her, and she meowed to no end. But the moment she
was in my arms I knew, this was The One. And we would spend our
lives together. I threw my arms around the lady who had just given
me this gift, and thanked her.
This excitement, I tell you, was more exciting than the time I
got my belly button pierced. (Which my dad found and forced me to
take out.) Well, I was more nervous than excited, but it was the
same rush, only more. I said I'd take her, and Anthony and I walked
into Petco with my new, and free, kitten.
We spoiled her. A new little house (that Anthony commented she'd
grow out of in a month, but I insisted), plenty of milk substitute,
cat food (although she couldn't eat it yet), canned food, toys,
toys, toys! The little kitten meowed until her head was about to
pop off. She was adorable, and I felt proud to be her new
mother.
A kitten at last!
On the drive home she fell asleep in her comfy new house. She
burrowed her head into the corner as far as it could go and fell
completely asleep. I was worried that she couldn't breathe, but
Anthony laughed and reassured me she was fine. It was pretty early
in the morning, so I started to doze off too. And just as I hit
sleep, I suddenly woke up, turned to him and said, "Her name's
Phoebe."
"Phoebe it is."
And I fell back into sleep with Phoebe, my little Phoebe.
What I realized later, is that Phoebe was seven weeks old when I
got her. The lady told me she was female, and seven weeks. Seven
weeks ago was somewhere around
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9February 14th. And I was, and still am convinced, that she is a
gift from my sister to my family.
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10
April 9, 2007
So it's nearly been two months. Only two. Only two. And I hate
every goddamn day here in Temecula while I'm in school. Everyone's
so fake, attempting to impress and out-dress everyone else.
Everyone gossips about each other; their own friends, their
friends' families, even people they barely know. Their entire lives
feel meaningless and without purpose. Even Samantha, someone who
rebelled against this system of glass faces and self-awareness has
turned into one of them. And I hate her for it. I hate her for her
stupid youtube suicide joke. How dare she.
And I feel so utterly alone in this small town. Even with
Anthony at times I feel like I'm going to be trapped here forever.
The pain persists. I can't accept it, I can't forgive it. I'm so
angry with everything. Angry about being rejected by UCLA, angry
about my downhill spiral in school since Kristina died, angry at my
lack of true friends, and angry that I moved here.
I blame so many things; myself, her friends, this town. I point
the finger at anything that comes near enough to fuel my anger.
& I hate the car. God, I can't handle being alone.
I miss her to a point that I never knew I could possibly miss
someone. Every fiber in my body seems to pull away from my bones in
a cry to hold her. I'll lay in her room and cry and cry and sob and
weep and mourn and stare at the closet. I keep thinking that if I
cry hard enough she'll come back. I keep thinking that if I pray
hard enough, God will decide to turn back the clock and forgive
me.
I keep thinking it's my fault she died.
Some form of punishment for all my sins. Some cruel, twisted way
to punish me and my family for all the things I've done wrong. All
the temptation I gave into, all the crimes I've committed, all the
people I've hurt through my ignorance. & as for God? I don't
know anymore. I don't know where the hell He is.
I don't know whether to believe anymore.What possible good could
have come from her death? What possible good?
Would she have died in a terrible way? Would she have lead a
miserable life? I really don't know. She was so young.
thirteen.
thirteen.
and sometimes i'll just remember strange things.Things in my
life that foreshadowed this event.
How she came into my room, crying.How I turned her away.
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11
How I walked past her door so many times that night, but never
said a word.Why didn't I go in? If only I had just gone in, maybe
it would have gone differently.
& how I felt it.I felt it at the park before the firetrucks
& the police ran past.I felt something inside me twitch and
turn and I wanted to just go home.
She was fucking thirteen. Thir-fucking-teen.
God can have his twisted games.His stolen souls.His unfair
choices between our lives, and our death.God can have whatever He
wants.But He won't have my faith until I'm convinced that taking
her away did some good.
Which I strongly doubt.
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12
April 16 2007
DITCH.
I'm so tempted to just get up and go. Just leave. Get in my car
and drive away. But Anthony's at work, and the school would call my
parents, and I'd have nowhere to go anyway. There's never anywhere
to go. So I've been thinking, what should I do? With my life? With
anything?
ALONE.
The car is the worst place. Every time I sit in the car and
listen to her CDs I eventually break down and cry, biting on the
steering wheel to keep my eyes on the road. Sometimes I really just
want to crash my car into a tree, or run it off a bridge, just get
it over with. Sometimes I can't recall things we used to do
together. Sometimes I can't think of a single memory from the last
13 years.
FAITH.
The moment the doctor gave away the news through his eyes, all
faith I had leaked out of my body and lay in a puddle on the floor.
God dripped out of my heart. But deep down, in a tiny spec of my
soul that keeps all my secrets, I want to believe. I want to know
that my sister is with Him now, happy and cared for.
FUNERAL.
And I sit everyday in class, begging the clock to tick faster,
with the steady beat of a funeral marching through every inch of my
skull. Steady, fast, without end.
And sometimes, when Anthony and I make love, a memory will pop
out of the sky and fall right on my head, knocking all other
thoughts aside, ruining the moment.
I began to lose my appetite. Sometimes I don't remember the last
time I ate something.
I count the Wednesdays that go by.
I sat shaking and sobbing in my car. Heavy long sobs. The kind
of howling you'd hear from an animal. "My family's falling
apart.""No it's not."I cry."She's in a better place" he says.Oh I'm
so sick. Sick of hearing statements that are supposed to make me
feel better."It'll be okay."No, it will never be okay. So I snapped
and shouted at him to shut up. He backed out of the car with a sigh
and ran his hands through his thick black hair.
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13
Is it just me or is the sky falling down? The ground's closing
in on me like a coffin. All the trees bend over to pierce my arms,
scratching me pure. All the blades of grass stretch higher and
higher, reaching to the sky for some rain.
I see possible death everywhere. Everywhere. Loud people annoy
the shit out of me. I'm quick to judge. I'm bitter. I'm angry. I'm
sad. I'm lonely. All of these emotions fill me to the brink to make
me hollow. They're all animals. Loud, obnoxious animals. They will
be slaughtered in life and eaten for someone else's pleasure. Then
their purpose will cease. I hate some of them. Most of them,
actually. I know I have no right to. I know I don't even know them.
I know it's unfair. But many things in life are unfair.
Chickens bokking.Bok bok bok.And running, with no heads
attached.
My heels click against the pavement. Heavy clicks. Then scrapes
occasionally when my legs are too heavy to move. I saw the bare,
naked trees rustling in the wind, black, grey enormous clouds
trudging along the sky.
My life is not supposed to be a tragedy.
Sometimes I wonder how the world can keep turning, how the sun
can keep shining, why the moon's glow remains, why do the star
still shimmer? She's gone. How can the world keep turning when
mine's standing still?
Once you have witnessed a death, one that hits home, you are
changed forever. I see the sun set and rise, I see people laughing,
smiling. But I can never forget. It lingers, like a scar, refusing
to fade completely, refusing to heal or peel or disappear. I see
the glaze of their eyes. They don't remember until they say
something they regret, something stupid and thoughtless.
They say that suicide is the most difficult death to cope with.
But isn't murder harder? All that... rage. Or accidents, all the
unfairness of it all. Suicide is mainly guilt. They are all sorrow.
They are all cruel. Death is in everyone, existing in one form.
Death is your shadow. No matter what, it is nailed to the soles of
our feet, a sign of the inevitable. It is a deep, dark reflection
of our end. and if you look hard enough, it will share with you the
secret of your demise.
When I walk through this judgmental swarm of buzzing mannequins,
I see the eyes of female. Her eyes flicking up and down, smirks or
jealousy or disdain in their eyes. Can't they see? I am no longer a
competitor. I no longer care for perfection. A face is just a face.
I am alone.Where is my brother?
For some reason, everyone feels like laughing obnoxiously loud,
to jump around
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14
excitedly around me like monkeys. I really hate this fucking
table.
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15
April 17, 2007
So I went to the playground from that night. And I stood at the
top in the cold of the night and I howled. I howled like the wolves
calling out to God. I screamed as my face turned red and my eyes
burned and my mind throbbed with fresh pain. All the stars slowly
blinked awake as some raced away from my terrifying sorrow. The
wind curled and in a gust of fresh breeze wrapped its invisible
self around me in a chilly hug of understanding. Crickets sang the
song of summer to the moon, who watched me with pale, glowing
craters for eyes.
The night was beautiful.
I could hear so many things and nothing all at once. I fell to
my knees, seeing glimmers of lights quickly turn on, heard dogs cry
out sympathetically, birds scatter from trees for the sake of my
privacy, whilst all in my head leaked out of my eyes and stained
the grass with my memories. I curled up into a ball on top of the
playground where Anthony and I had talked about the wonders of the
world and our purpose in it, where we watched the stars with wonder
and amazement and hope, where I felt so secure in his arms, where
the phone call interrupted my happiness. I lay on the hard surface
of the playground and cried, like a child who fell off the
slide.
And I woke up.In my bed, shaking from the cold. I shut my window
and glanced outward.Even if I wanted to, I will never have the
courage to return to there.
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16
April 18, 2007
GIRL.There is one girl I always see at school. The first time I
saw her I noticed her clothes, her hair, her style. I've seen her
frequently, yet I've never met her. I wonder if she thinks the same
about me? I wonder who she is, what she's like, what she thinks. I
noticed an immense change in her style over the past year, she now
wears gothic clothes, dark shades of black with belts with studs
and wrench earrings. She dyed red streaks in her hair, pierced her
upper ears and lip. She has dark makeup scribbled across her eyes,
accenting the solemn look she keeps plastered on her face. That
look on her face seems so familiar. How can I put it? It's one of
someone who has a secret, someone who's had a tragic experience.
Someone who's seen death.
SPIDER.There's a song that plays over and over in my head. A
rhyme, or a chant even. It goes;The itsy bitsy spider walked up the
water spoutOut came the rain and washed the spider outBut instead
of the sun drying up the rainThe spider decided that she couldn't
take the painSo she drowned in the floods that came aheadAnd now
the itsy bitsy spider's dead.
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17
April 26, 2007
Gnomes are being stolen. Gnomes. Yeah you heard me, Gnomes.
They're being taken from our neighborhood.
I sat on the curb in front of his house. My entire perspective
changed. The way the grass looked taller, the slope of the street
was perfect for bicycling. And suddenly I wanted ice cream. I
remembered what it felt like to be a kid again, to see adventure at
every corner, curiosity with every insect, the familiar brush of
the grass, the rush when you pedal until the wheels turn on their
own and you can lift your legs up and feel the wind in your hair
and the only thing you see is right in front of you. You don't
think about possible turning cars, you see no danger in the gravel,
the worst thing that would happen is to skin your knee and ruin a
tire on your bike. You don't worry about college, about boys, about
sex or drugs and race and pregnancy and STDs. You don't think about
suicide.
Anthony turned the corner and I stood up. And with that first
step, when my heels clicked against the street, the feeling was
gone. I was thrown into the adult world, the perspective shifted
once more. I felt my keys jingle, my highlighted hair swing in
front of my eyes, the weight of my mascara on my eyelashes. I felt
the weight of the world as the child in me raced down the street,
escaping this world and chasing her own.
"Why are you sitting on the curb?"I watched as the girl turned
the corner, laughing. I just caught a glimpse of that short black
hair whish past her face as she gave me one last regretful
smile.
"Remembering what it felt like to be a kid."
god, where are you?god, i miss you.
no more nature walks on the moon.
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18
April 27, 2007
I haven't been haunted by her since I received Phoebe. She gives
me something to look forward to when I'm going home. But lately
she's coming back. Her death is almost ridiculous. Almost
unbelievable.
Sometimes I hate the life I'm living and I'm jealous of everyone
else.
I thought that when someone dies, a person changes. I thought
you'd lose your sense of being judged and caring about this
judgement; I thought you'd hold life in the palm of your hand and
dance and water it with rain. I thought you'd be able to dance in a
crowd and laugh. But I was wrong. I am insecure, more than I was
before. I take things for granted. I'm angry, mean, judgmental,
critical, bitter and quick to assume. I am lethargic. I despise all
around me. And then some days, I feel normal. I never had a
sister.
Just one brother.Just one.
-
19
May 4, 2007
I began having suicidal thoughts. I thought that maybe I'm meant
to die too. I thought of various ways to kill myself. I ruled out
drowning because I'd never be able to keep myself underwater that
long. Hanging myself was out of the question. Slitting was too
painful and messy. I could never bring my legs to jump, in fear
that I'd live a cripple. Crashing into oncoming traffic would bring
pain to innocent people. Pills were the easiest, painless way. I
went to the pharmacy and looked at various pills as well as prices.
I imagined a life without me in it. I feel insignificant. And one
night, driving home, I spoke to my sister for the first time in a
long time. I told her how lonely I felt, how no one invited me
anywhere or asked me to be a part of anything. I told her how much
I missed her, how I wanted to hold her. And I realized something.
How hurt my mother would be. How lonely my brother would feel. The
face and pain of my father. And in a second I realized I could
never hurt them. I could never bring upon them the pain she brought
upon our family. & I can't escape this labyrinth of suffering.
So I cried harder.
I don't think of it as suicide. I like to think of it as
leaving. She didn't want to stay, so she left. -William
What if I want to leave?
Sometimes I wonder if I need help. Suicidal thoughts aren't
normal, right? constant depression isn't healthy, right? But I
smile all the time. I have my moments. Lately I've been falling
deeply into something I can't get out of. I don't like the life I'm
living. I don't like the person I am. But I love my family and
Anthony and Jessica and Phoebe and Gabby. I love many people, but I
don't feel as though I'm as important to them. I don't feel like
I'll be missed. I wonder if I'll ever be able to tell anyone I need
help. But we don't have the money. We don't have the time. I can't
pause my life for the sake of me. My heart feels like it's slowly
collapsing in my chest, the lights going out, with just a few
flickers left.
I can't tell who wants what. Is it my hurting heart that strives
to heal, and my mind unable to stay stable? Or is it my heart
giving in while my rationality begs to differ? I'm so tired of
feeling alone.
I want to be a writer, an actress, an artist. But I feel like
I'll never succeed. I need a serious attitude adjustment. A mental
make over. If I ever want to be someone, I need to believe in
myself. If only I could believe in myself.
-
20
May 5, 2007
california has lost all its glamour. i see right through the
glitter and make-up. i want to go back where i felt most at home;
Hawaii. My small town, my small school, my friends and family and
simple life. The palm trees, the five-minutes-away beach, the smell
of the sea, the breeze and the laughs and carefree nature of it
all. The slow play of the ukulele by a man who walks amongst the
streets. I believe that in life, all the possibilities take
separate paths; there are millions of different aspects. I have
perished in several. I am only one person in the different
decisions possible. I believe that she's up there somewhere. Death
changes you.
I no longer have her within arms reach. She's no longer here
with me, hearing me cry and coming to console me. She is gone. The
permanent nature of the word is something I can't handle. I'm in a
downward spiral in my sanity. I feel no purpose in my own body or
soul. I have so much locked inside of me. So many emotions so many
thoughts racing to and fro. A million what ifs? Could I have saved
her? did she want to be saved? Is she in heaven, with god, is she
still angry? does she know how much I miss her? How much anger I
have in me? god, where are you? god, i miss you. god...?
I don't know. I just don't know. I stand and I scream and I want
to break everything in sight. Sometimes I wish someone, anyone,
would pick a fight with me just so I could release some anger.
Sometimes I wonder why I wasn't there. I've never told anyone, but
the day she died I felt it. I felt it. I knew something was wrong.
And I play that day over and over again in my mind and I don't know
why I never said anything to her. I walked past her door. I walked
past that door so many times that night. And her closet mirror
cried out to me. She cried for us all to save her. God, why did you
take my beautiful sister away?
Kristina Marie Akana. She's just another name etched on a
tombstone.
I remember when my family would visit cemeteries; we would see
those names, wonder what they were like, who they were. I never
realized the pain that may have come with those deaths. I wonder if
Emily Dickinson, while sitting on that carriage with death, pointed
at my sister and said, "Her. Let's take her."
-
21
May 06, 2007
I still can't find God. I've looked in the sky, the ground, the
trees, the songs of the birds. I've searched the mountains and
oceans and looked in the reflection of the sky on the street after
it rains. I've started into the mirror, searched my eyes, tugged at
my heart, shouted at the stars, reached up to the moon, and turned
every corner of the black, slick streets. But I can't find Him
anywhere. I'm tired of looking.
-
22
May 08, 2007
I remember a family of five, two siblings, two parents and
I.
I remember fights and chasing and tag at the playground. I
remember playing dress-up with high heels and make-up. I remember
as we got older how close we became. I remember curling her hair,
slamming my door, her pleas to borrow my clothes, the loud karaoke
in the car, her insistence to pay for the drive thru food, her
knocking when I'd cry, her face, the last time I ever saw her face.
I recall days where her and William would chase me down the hall
and not let go of my doorknob, where they hid under my bed and
spied on me and my friends, times when we'd sightsee with the
family and travel and go on vacation.
I remember her crying when she was too little to go on a ride at
Disneyland. I remember how beautiful she was when she was a child,
and how beautiful of a woman she was becoming. I remember her
bravery, her cunning ability to always get into trouble, the way
she'd instantly disappear from our side at the grocery store, how
she was always misunderstood, how she always was generous to
everyone around here.
I have days where I can't remember any of this, where I can't
recall a single event other than her death. I have days where all I
want to do is cry, where I just want to fall asleep until I'd
forget. I remember the sound of footsteps in the hallway, the sound
of her laugh, the sisterhood; one brother, one sister. And I can't
explain the feeling, but all I know is I want to hold her. I put my
hand on her urn and cried, placed my cheek against the urn and
cried. There are no more days with her spirit, her compassion.
There are no more nature walks on the moon.
-
23
May 13, 2007
I cried to him, "I hate my life, I hate my life. "He asked me
why."Because my sister's gone and my mother might die."He asked me
if I loved him. I said yes. He asked me if I wanted to be with him.
I couldn't answer.It hurts to be a burden to someone you love so
much. And it hurts when he sits on the edge of the bed with his
hands in his hair and his eyes staring at the floor and tears
falling from the eyes I love so much.
"I try so hard to keep you happy." He said softly. It was the
disappointment in himself that hurt me most.
And that night I confessed that I've been contemplating suicide
since last month. And I heard him sob and choke out that he
wouldn't be able to handle that. And I wondered, am I sick in the
head? So I put my hand to my throat and I pushed down hard and felt
it collapse. I felt my lungs flex and my eyes water. And it didn't
hurt that much, really. And I stared at his ceiling with his
glow-in-the-dark stars splashed across the wall and wondered if
death came easily to her. I thought about how the image of her
hanging there will haunt my brother forever. And I took my hand off
my throat and took a deep breath of life and looked over at his
hunched back.
"I'm sorry." I whispered. "I'm so sorry."
And I chose life and love and happiness and pain, and we never
spoke of it again.The next day he took me on a date. We watched
Spider Man 3 then bought a Where's Waldo? book.
He spent the night and we searched for Waldo and his pals,
trapped in a world of all sorts, forever apart, forever lost.
-
24
May 17, 2007
And I wonder if what all the evil people say about God is true?
The KKK claim that God feels whites superior, that blacks were a
mistake, and that all other races other than those of this purity
must perish. I wonder if God is not the all-forgiving Lord he's
cracked up to be. What if, just what if, these claims are true?
That God isn't so loving after all? What if Lucifer was someone who
spoke out to God, who said that this cruelty and violence wasn't
right?
I mean, come on. What kind of reputable God would gamble with
the souls he claims to love so much? Who would make a war with a
devil, with the lives of his children at stake? Angels may be icons
of deception, doing His bidding and spreading lies about the earth
to shine Himself in glory while He secretly kills off whomever He
pleases. And I look down at my heels clinking against this school's
pavement and wonder what world really lies beneath my feet? It's a
question worth pondering, since I'll have the answer when time
comes.
A few days ago I remembered a dream I had about my sister many
years ago. The first one was by the bank of a river. She was
standing there, stark naked, and for some reason her body was
twisted and deformed. I remember that I was farther away, seeing
through my own eyes. I never have dreams where I see through my own
eyes. But it's the first that I can ever recall. She stood by that
riverbank, staring away from me off somewhere, on a cliff actually.
A waterfall. Then I reached out to her, I remember my hand. I
remember opening my mouth but no words came out. I remember
screaming, but I didn't save her. I couldn't save her. She glanced
at me, then glanced away. And even though I never saw her jump, I
knew she did.
The next dream consisted of us, we were in a room, trapped
together. I was holding her as hundreds of insects squirmed between
the floorboards of a creaky, filthy, and small room where we stood.
I was shielding her, so afraid. She was crying in my arms. They
crawled viciously, hissing and oozing and crawling. And the last
thing I remembered in that dream was them covering me, every inch
of me, while I held my sobbing sister in my arms.
Sometimes I can't believe how she died. I can't believe that the
last thing I said to her were words of anger and hate. I feel
trapped in a movie reel. All my life, since I can remember, I've
wanted something dramatic to happen in my life to give me
perspective. And now, more than ever, I wish I could just take it
all back.
-
25
May 21, 2007
I read an amazing book called "A Mango Shaped Space" by Wendy
Mass. A girl named Mia (that's my mother's name) with a color
condition has a cat named Mango who she believes part of her dead
grandfather is in. I relate to her. I believe part of my sister is
in my Phoebe. Mango died in the book. And I got home and cried. One
day I'll hold Phoebe's stiff and lifeless body in my arms and feel
the permanent nature of her death. I can't handle the thoughts in
my own head anymore. So I'm trying to keep myself occupied with
books. So far I average a book a day. I need something to keep away
the terrible depression.
-
26
June 15, 2007
Graduation.
I am officially a graduate of Chaparral High School as of today.
It was a long and excruciating process, but I have to admit, I did
enjoy it. Purely because I no longer have to be in that miserable
concrete jailhouse, but nonetheless, I do believe I'll miss a few
selected people. It's a strange feeling, graduating. A huge feeling
of accomplishment, anxiousness, hesitation and readiness all at
once.
And that moment, when I looked up and saw the ridiculous hats
and tangled tassels flying through the sunset sky, I knew that I'd
end up okay.
I thought about my sister a lot today. Wondered how it'd be if
she were here. She probably would have been so proud of me,
although she wouldn't have said it out loud. I know she looked up
to me, that I was her hero, as all older sisters commonly are. And
I miss her personality. I think that when she died, she took a bit
of me with her. I'm so quiet now around strangers, so hesitant, so
revoltingly shy. I feel like I'm that awkward pre-teen with no
self-confidence. Ha.
This is a poem I found that I wrote shortly after she died;
Last night I had a dream;In front of folded white cover cloth I
stoodAnd next to her a figure in a hoodPeeled back the cloth to
show me paper eyesSo dull and void and filled with lack of
lifeGlass case encaged me there with pale blue lips Half-parted
with her fleeting breathAnd my eyes were experienced in deathWith
screams of terror, the glass began to shakeBut I did not awake.I
did not awake.
Weird and dark and tragic, but it's not supposed to be that way.
It was just reflecting memories, things I had to get out of my
mind. Things that haunted me, things that plagued my dreams or
conscious mind. Things that occupied all thoughts, all the time.
What other way to keep sane than to write it all down, to get it
all out? I don't want to forget her. I don't want to forget
anything about her. Her laugh or her smile or her face or her voice
and the way she lit up when she recalled something funny. Or her
charm, her ability to disappear no matter where she was, her
generosity, her charisma.
I don't want to forget anything.
-
27
June 18, 2007
Yesterday I got high for the first time. We all hopped into
Dennis's red truck and drove around to the corner. Being high is
unexplainable to those who haven't experienced it. You don't really
realize you're high until it smacks you in the face. It occurs
slowly, but suddenly, all at once. And time stands still, but
before you know it, someone's changed the clock an hour ahead.
Crazy, right? Wrong. That's weed for you, my friends.
It hit me hard. But I liked it. I only took two hits, coughing
and sputtering because it was clogged. Dennis packed in so much
that Anthony had to unclog it and throw the rest out the window. I
was high, but not sleepy. I liked it. I was fully awake, not
constantly finding myself with my eyes half-closed and ready to nod
off.
Being high is like watching a movie. You're outside of yourself,
looking into the binocular of eyes you used to call your own. Your
mind is only a whisper of influence. Mary Jane takes over you,
decides that you need to let loose, have a little fun. And boy, are
you starving.
Then Stephanie called. Let's get one thing straight about
Stephanie What's-Her-Face, she's a downright Bitch. The Bitch of
All Bitches possible. I took Dennis's phone while he and Anthony
hit the rest of the weed, and she was furious that I, (or who she
thought was Dennis) refused to come over at 12 A.M. in the
morning.
"I'm so sorry. I'm really tired and I have work tomorrow at
nine." I texted her."Oh, so all the times I stayed up late when I
had work don't matter?" Wow. Bitch, right?So then she called, and I
answered the phone saying, "Hi Stephanie, Dennis just went to the
bathroom."Click. Bitch hung up on me.She then called Dennis back,
screaming at the top of her lungs (we heard her quite clearly) that
I needed to fuck off and stay out of Dennis's business."She was
doing a polite thing, by answering the phone while I was in the
bathroom.""I don't give a FUCK what she was doing Dennis! Tell her
to stay out of our business."
Woah. I didn't know answering the phone for a friend was a
crime. She knows I'm dating Anthony. Heck, we've double dated
before. If only Jesus were here, what would he have done?
I don't even think Jesus would like Stephanie, the reincarnate
of Satan's daughter. No, not even Satan could control her either. I
was pretty much convinced. So while Dennis argued calmly with the
raging gorilla blonde on the phone, I lay my head on Anthony's
shoulder and looked out to the sky.
It was a beautiful night. And I felt like I was in one of those
novels I read all the time, the main girl who struggles through a
series of tragic events, only to rise to the top as some kind of
model or famous person or something. But real life doesn't work
that way. And
-
28
besides, main girls are always tall, blonde, and beautiful. I'm
short, asian, and cute.
But it really was a magical moment, I must say. Before I knew
it, we were home, and time had tricked me again. I stopped everyone
on the driveway and looked up at the sky and all the stars were
aligned and it was perfect and I decided right then and there a
speech was needed.So I stopped, and I hugged Anthony and Dennis and
coughed for their attention and began:
"Tonight guys, the stars are all aligne-""My mom's room is right
there. Move." Anthony interrupted.I continued without
hesitation.But he kept interrupting. So we got into a little
argument about my delicious speech before Dennis and Anthony
wrestled from my grip and walked to the door.
So much for the oscar award winning moment. But I was still
giggling.
We got up to Anthony's room, where Dennis walked into his own
and argued with Satan's daughter. I saw a leftover salad from Jack
In the Box on the floor and dove for it. Eating while Mary Jane's
inside of you is simple. It's like having a black hole instead of a
stomach, so when you eat, it's like not consuming anything at all.
And all your taste buds have been sprinkled with star dust, so
everything tastes like heaven. Also, when you eat on Mary Jane,
that's all you CAN do.
Eat. Nothing else. All attention on salad. Fork to food, fork to
mouth, fork to food, dammit a crouton fell, just pick it up with
hands, eat. Eat. Eat. Bite. Chew. Swallow. Eat more. Not even full
although I've consumed half the salad. It tastes amazing. Well, for
a salad that's been sitting here for an hour getting soggy, it's
not that amazing when you think about it. But when you're high, it
feels amazing. But your taste buds still know that no, it's not
that spectacular.
"How's that salad?" Anthony laughed.I smiled. "Amazing." After I
finished off the rest of the salad, I took a chug of the Kool-Aid
in Anthony's Gatorade bottle. It felt like a river, a river of life
flowing down my body into the black hole of creating.
Amazing.Anthony turned off his light and flicked on the TV and laid
down next to me, putting his arms around me and smiling.
"You're beautiful."
It always takes my breath away when he says things like that. I
ran my hands over his body, over his knuckles and stomach and face
and the crook of his nose, and an epiphany hit me. "You're body is
like a Landscape." I said."A what?"
-
29
"A landscape." I repeated, running my hand down his face.
"See?"I touched his knuckles. "Hills."I traced the crook of his
nose. "Mountains."I spread my hand on his stomach.
"Plains.""Planes?" he laughed. "Where did planes come from?""No,
silly. Plains. I-N-S."Anthony laughed.I traced my fingers down the
smooth length of his arms. "Rivers."Then ran my hand through his
thick black hair. "Forests."Anthony laughed and held my hand, then
kissed my palm. "I love you." He whispered."And I love you too."We
kissed, and Mary Jane felt the excitement. As if we'd never felt
each other's lips before.I pulled back, and put my finger to the
tip of his nose and traced his nostril. "Caves." I said in a deep,
serious voice.He laughed even harder. "Did you just think of
that?"
I rested my head in the crook of his neck and wrapped my arms
around him, holding him close. There we slept.
-
30
June 25, 2007
If I could, I would reverse the rotation of the sun and fall
back. Back to the days where my room's windows all were open, and
strong, but comforting breezes would fill the room like an ocean.
And I'd lay on my bed staring at the ceiling with hours upon end, a
CD on REPEAT ALL dancing around the room, pushing away sleep from
my eyes. The days when my heart didn't know pain, where I could
only fantasize of the feeling of a kiss, where warm embraces were
enough to fill my heart with joy.
-
31
June 29, 2007
I've been feeling a little off lately. It's hard to explain.
Usually I've got my head on straight, but not lately, no. All I
want to do is get high, and settle for being bored. I smoke a
cigarette, and when I'm done I'm overwhelmed with guilt.
I heard a song the other day. I don't remember where, the weed
must be getting to my brain cells. But it went, this is your life,
are you who you wanted to be? This is your life, are you happy with
who you are? This is your life. Something along those lines.
And you know what? I'm not sure I'm the person I wanted to be. I
used to be ready to get out there, meet some amazing man who would
give me the love story of a lifetime, grow up to be beautiful
inside and out, and live a life with children and a husband while
balancing a career. I used to imagine being unimaginably happy with
a simple, but exciting life. Fulfilling.
It seems as though the older you get, the harder it is to
remember what makes you happy. Nothing ever seems to be enough,
really. You're never pretty enough, smart enough, sexy enough.
Never talented enough, satisfying enough, never good enough. I look
in the magazines and all I see are beautiful, flawless faces and
bodies. I see gorgeous men with gorgeous women with glamorous lives
and money, money, money. The race is continuing, and everyone is
chasing something just a little bit out of reach; perfection.
I know I'm no barbie doll, no blonde blue-eyed gorgeous tanned
woman with long legs and 5"8. I'm short, I'm brunette, and my legs
are very far from long and tanned. I'm asian, with little eyes, no
eyelashes (well, pretty much) a small mouth, and with weight in all
the wrong places. And to be honest, I know I'm going to live a very
simple, very boring life. And the thought haunts me every time I
wonder about the future and every time I'm forced to choose
anything that has to deal with it.
-
32
July 1, 2007
Phoebe's been sick lately. At times she'll roll from side to
side meowing, gurgling, I don't know how to describe the sound.
She'll walk funny, with her stomach arched to the ground and her
butt in the air, meowing with pain as she walks. Luckily a few days
ago I scheduled a vet appointment, which is tomorrow. Hopefully
she'll be okay. Even my dad noticed that something was wrong with
her. She's not bouncing off the walls; she's calm and relaxed and
tired.
I have this theory. One of those crazy theories about life and
stuff, you know? I believe that life began with one person, or one
thing, any piece of life that was given choice. Life then took two
paths, one for each choice. So there were two men, or two things,
or two persons that emerged from that one life, two for each choice
they took. And the universe has several dimensions, consisting of
the choices of everyday life. For example, there is a universe
almost exact to the one we live in now, except in that universe, my
chromosomes created me a boy. Or in others, the fork was never
created. In some, I have died long ago due to choices. But it's far
more complex than that, you see. Because one choice ultimately
affects many choices of others. So there are millions, no--billions
upon billions of universes that overlap and cross due to
choice.
In my theory, chance also comes into play. Due to the choice of
an individual, their chances of affecting others varies. These
chances create results, decisions, choices, life and death. It's
complex, but someday I'll figure it out and maybe write a book or
something. To put it simply, it's like a large tree. The tree
begins with a seed, which then grows roots (choices) and a large
trunk full of bark (various choices and chance), branches with
twigs spreading out to show different choices and chance, then
finally, leaves. The results, several different, unique. And so
forth, and so forth.When I walk by, I like to think that in a
universe, somewhat like my own, my sister is alive. My brother
found her in time. I chose to walk into her room. God changed His
mind. Anything to give me comfort. And I like to think, that in a
perfect universe, where all the choices yielded positive results, I
am obliviously, and blissfully, happy.
-
33
July 12, 2007
I will contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will
contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will contain my
temper. I will contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will
contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will contain my
temper. I will contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will
contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will contain my
temper. I will contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will
contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will contain my
temper. I will contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will
contain my temper. I will contain my temper.I will contain my
temper. I will contain my temper. I will contain my temper. I will
contain my temper.
I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more
patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be
more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I
will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more
patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be
more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I
will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more
patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be
more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I
will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more
patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be
more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I
will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more
patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be
more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I
will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more
patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be
more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I
will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more
patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be
more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I
will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more
patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I will be
more patient. I will be more patient. I will be more patient. I
will be more patient.
-
34
July 18, 2007
I went in my room and painted. Surprisingly I was able to make
it smooth and flow without hesitation. I think it's because I'm
always trying to paint or draw something beautiful. But today I
just spread my paint on the floor with a cup of water and put my
lamp next to me. Phoebe tipped over my cup of water and
accidentally jumped on my canvas once when it was wet, but that's
about all. I used various colors; blue, yellow, green, black,
brown, and mixed them throughout the canvas. I spread them like
waves across the white, tainting it. Filling the canvas like
experience changes an innocent child. And I dabbed the brush
repetitively in heavy chunks of paint, spreading it slowly, with
thick strokes and free moves of hand and wrist.William, Josh &
William Louis came in and watched me paint, creating random and
very irrelevant meanings as to what I was doing. It was just
whatever came through. From heart straight to paper. From soul to
art. And I went outside for a fresh breath of air.
Car lights trailing from those long roads down, the howl of
coyotes faint in the night, clear star skies shining from above,
reminding me that in a world of billions, I am but one. But one can
make all the difference. & I believe that is what everyone
wants; to be someone, or something, to make a difference. To stand
out, be special beyond, to fulfill a purpose set out not by fate,
not by God, but by our own choice.
Sadly, many of us die without fulfilling, nor finding this
purpose we self-created. Every time I look up at the stars, I know
that. But maybe, just maybe, they'll pick me. Anyone out there will
pick me. And I will be destined for a greater purpose, a greater
destiny, something more than this provincial life.
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35
July 26, 2007
Her life, to me, will never be over. Not as long as she is in my
heart. As long as her memories flow through me, as long as I can
still picture her face in my mind, as long as I can hear her voice
in my ears, she will never die.
But when I do think of her death, its permanency, its
incredulity... I'm afraid. I imagine her being tortured in hell,
for suicide is technically defined as sin. I imagine her crying out
to me, to all of us, begging for salvation. And when I sin in life,
I do not fear hell. For if she is in hell, then I will reside with
her, bearing her pain along with her.
Because she is my sister and I am her protector.And since I
failed in that duty in life, I will satisfy it in death.
I cannot bear these thoughts that circle in my brain, like the
vultures that fly over rotting corpses.
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36
July 28, 2007
It's five am in the morning and I can't sleep. I'm haunted by
the thoughts of her.
Hanging in the closet by a blood red scarf, life draining from
her lips. Last sighs and last thoughts and colorless eyes and blue
lips and fingers. And touching her cold skin at the hospital and
dad trying to give her CPR and the vomit in her hair and her
stomach all inflated and hard and her sitting in a small coffin
with my Japanese dress on surrounded by letters and toys. Fresh
pain. Fresh, fresh, raw pain leaking out.
And I can't stop crying.
And the familiar throb in my head is ready to explode and I'm
just ready for the pain to leak out onto the carpet and stain it
red.
I just want to go into her closet and yell and scream and I want
to shake her and hold her and turn back time so badly. And I want
to reach out to her from behind that closed closet door and tell
her that it's okay, that life goes on, that you can still attempt
to make it. And I'm staring into the dark and I'm afraid.
Where is she?
Where is she?
Where is she?
I look into the sky and I see no answers. I look inside my heart
and I feel no comfort. I pray to God himself yet feel no release
from the pain. Death leaves his own bitter aftertaste. A big fat
tumor in my brain.
Along with the cold chills of the lonely night.
And I called Anthony because I needed a voice, a voice of a
living person who was sane and who could talk some sense into this
scared-senseless me. But he's asleep, and I understand. But my
baby. My baby sister. Oh my baby sister.
I wonder how hard this is for my mother. I wonder if she breaks
down in the middle of the night, if she can't sleep, if she hears
Kristina calling out in the night for someone to hold her.
What if she's lonely?
What if she's still in pain?
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37
What if after death she went to the fiery depths of hell and
can't escape?
Would our all-forgiving God allow one of his children to
maintain such a fate for eternity? The thought bothers me. It
creates a knot in my head that I can't scratch out. If I tried I
would only bleed. But maybe that would make the wound feel better.
I'm drained. I'm exhausted. I'm haunted by nightmares and her face
scares me to a point of insomnia. I miss you baby.I miss you.
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38
August 4, 2007
Today I finally got her. Lily.Last week Saturday, precisely, I
saw the most adorable kitten up for adoption in a cage in Petco. I
went over to fetch some kitty litter for Phoebe, but once I saw her
my heart just jumped right over the moon.
"Call dad & ask if I can have her," I told William."Do you
really need another cat? What for?""Phoebe's lonely and bored. She
needs a friend. A playmate. A companion." A sister. "Besides. If I
can make a difference and give a kitten a loving home, why
shouldn't I? I already have all the things I need to raise
her."
So Will called Dad and guess what he said? YES! YES YES YES. You
can have her as long as you take her with you when you move out.
His exact words.
After rapidly filling out the adoption papers and handing them
in however, I was struck with a conflict. The kitten in the cage,
approximately a month old, is spayed. Phoebe has yet to be spayed.
Their policies forbid them from allowing her to enter a home with
another cat that doesn't have the operation.
So I had to wait a week, which is today, so Anthony could adopt
her for me.And I brought her home in a Petco Box which says "I love
my pet" on the side. Lily is beautiful. I knew that would be her
name the moment I thought about it. She's all black with white paws
and a white lower jaw. A speck of white also graces her upper lip,
so she looks silly, as though she's got a milk mustache.
Overall, my hopes for her and Phoebe's meeting went quite as I
hadn't planned. Phoebe hissed the moment she sniffed Lily out, and
they both bicker constantly. Mom said not to worry though, in a
week or two they'll be good friends.
Yay!
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39
August 5, 2007
And thoughts of her in hell torment me all the time. But if God
is all-forgiving, surely he wouldn'tright? she will never get
married.nor go to prom.she was only in 8th grade. she was 13.so
young. and she was so beautifulwould have beena beautiful woman.
she will never be my maid of honornor the aunt of my childrennever
drive the car she begged me to let her take hold ofnever laugh
againnever see againnever smile with blue lips.They say that God
doesn't give you more than you can handletell thatto her.
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40
August 10, 2007
I don't like to think that I'm a pothead. I don't like to think
I'm addicted to getting high, to inhaling that burning smoke, to
separate my mind from body and allow my thoughts to jumble across
my brain. And I'm not.
But I got high again today. & do you want to know why?
Because when I look up at the sky, with glazed eyes and hazy
thoughts, I know that something lies out there, watching me,
protecting me. & when the smoke infiltrates my veins, I slip
through Death's bony fingers, and he falls out of my mind into the
deep hole within.
When the fog rolls over, spinning, spiraling throughout my
insides, I laugh again. True, genuine laughter. I forget that I'm
somewhat of a loser to those who look at me from the outside. Not
going to college yet because I'm so fucked up after my sister's
death. Friends who don't bother to keep in touch with me. My best
friend can't even find the time to hang out with me this summer. I
listen as my "peers" get ready to set off for their first year of
college and I wonder, wasn't that supposed to be me? Wasn't I
college-ready my entire life? Since Kindergarten I've been prepping
for that moment, when I'd throw my hideous cap into the air and
dive head first into the life of dorm rooms and grassy
campuses.
I guess I was wrong.Who am I again?
Whenever I am under this sea of content, I come up with theories
about my own existence, about my own state of mind. I also believe
in the religious idea, that when you inhale the burning essence of
the ganja, we are Eve before she was tempted by the snake. However,
there is another notion. A terrible one.
When you breathe in the deathly fumes, it speeds your mind to a
point that your body will crumble. The treacherous smoke is like a
poison, but also a gift. A gift short-lived. It forces your
circuits to shut down, your limbs cannot respond to the speed of
your commands and demands. You are helpless. Today I will look up
the sky and raise my arms up in the air and spin and spin and ask
God why? Why can't I find you? & why won't you save me?
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41
August 18, 2007
I am eighteen today. It is about 2 AM in the morning. I work
today at 1030 to about 230PM. Working on my birthday. Typical.
I'm crying because I was thinking about my future. I was looking
at Lily and Phoebe and thinking about how I love them, and I
wondered how much love I would feel for my own child. And then I
thought about having more than one child, and them growing up
together, fighting and loving each other and living together.
And then I thought about the day where they would fight
horribly, and I would tell them how much they should love each
other, because my sister is gone. And I will live my life until
that point without her. Without the bond of sisterhood that so many
others have the privilege of experiencing. I have truly lost myself
these past months.
I didn't even notice it was my birthday.
The only people who said happy birthday to me at midnight were
Anthony and Samantha. No high school friends bothered to call, or
even text. I doubt they even remembered. My brother hasn't even
said happy birthday yet. Nor my mother and father. And they're
awake, trust me.
I don't know if I mentioned this yet, but I noticed it.
I used to think that Phoebe was a part of my sister. Or that
Kristina somehow sent her to me, with a piece of her own soul
inside of her. But I was wrong.
Phoebe was an easy kitten, she was warm, affectionate, loving.
She always took naps with me and was obedient with any of my
demands. Lily, however, is somewhat impossible. She'll jump into my
mom's fake plant and bite off all the leaves and grass. I'll yell
softly, but firmly, then pluck her off by the top of her neck, like
mothers do. She'll pause, look at me, then jump right back in. We
repeated the procedure ten times until I threw my hands in the air
and gave up.
Lily hides. She disappears to nowhere and no one in the entire
house can find her until she decides it's time to eat. She hates
cuddling, or being pet, and instead loves to trot off to explore.
She provokes fights out of Phoebe. Whenever Phoebe tries to lick
Lily in an attempt to clean her, Lily will pounce and bite and
scratch Phoebe's ears. However, Lily decided that she has the right
to lick Phoebe whenever she wants to.
She pushes Phoebe out of the way when Phoebe's eating, even
though Lily has her own bowl. She loves to chase Phoebe around and
attack, until Phoebe gets aggressive, in which Lily responds by
squeaking and yelping, knowing full well that I'll break up the
fight because it's gone too far.
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42
No, Phoebe is not like my sister at all. Phoebe is me. And Lily
is her, the little sister tagging along. I'm sure Phoebe doesn't
see how great Lily is right now, but she'll know someday.
I watch them all the time, even though I'm rarely home due to
work. I've noticed that Phoebe isn't as hyper anymore, but instead
watches Lily play around. But I know the look in her eyes. She's
being protective. She's acting as a sister, an older one.
They sleep together, occasionally. Phoebe will still get jealous
whenever people come over and pay more attention to Lily than her,
but other times will follow her around in an attempt to befriend
her. And another thing, Phoebe has explored every inch of the house
except for the bathtubs. She hates them, fears them, because she's
heard me take showers in them before and knows that water can be
present. Lily jumps in my bathtub constantly, and even when I turn
on the water to get her out of there, she still returns to jump and
play and slide all over it.
She's just like my sister. Does whatever she wants, when she
wants, and has fun.
Today I am eighteen.
And my sister isn't here to wish me happy birthday.
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43
August 23, 2007
I drove home feeling empty. And I started to cry. No, sob. Weep.
I felt like I was going to die right there in the car with the way
I was crying so heavy and deep. So many things just flashed through
my head; all the disappointments in my life. My life will never be
like the books I love so much. I will never find the type of
unexplainable love in them, nor be able to hold onto it.
My existence is insignificant. Really, think about it. I wake
up, I go to work, I earn money that I spend on material things to
keep me superficially content. Anthony and I are routine, every
bitter and bickering argument or happy and bubbly moment. I see
family. I wonder about careers and work and school. What the hell
is the point of it all? No, really.
And I was driving through these tears, because I knew somehow
that something is wrong. I'm wrong. There is something wrong with
me. Normal people don't think this, do they?
I wanted to speed up and launch into the oncoming cars in the
next lane. I saw the lights from the "city" in a daze, as small as
Temecula is, I felt so alone. As though there is no one here who
truly, truly connects with me. No one who knows what I'm going
through.
I thought of my past. I thought of all the disappointments I
experienced. My first kiss? Completely forgettable and lame. My
first dance? Terrible choice of song with the wrong person.
Boyfriends? Arrogant. Inconsiderate. Misleading. Untrustworthy.
I remember when I was younger, and I used to love reading books
about the mysterious and the mythological. I used to pray at night,
get down on my knees at the heel of the bed and beg God over and
over, Please make me special, please make me special, please make
me special.
Surely there is something other than this provincial, simple,
insignificant cause I call my purpose? And the horrible shocking
truth struck in me; I will never be extraordinary, I will never
experience the kind of situations that occur in the books I read,
nor will I ever meet a boy who will keep me captivated and awed and
so in love as though it is the first day over and over. Because we
are human. We adapt, we adjust, and we think too damn much.
My life will always be simple. Predictable. Mundane. And I
realized, someday I'll die. Someday I will be dead. It could be any
day.
I convinced myself, today is that day.
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44
I wanted to turn around and get on the freeway, where the impact
of a crash would surely be devastating, and hopefully, fatal.
I wanted to go to the 24 hour pharmacy and buy the bottle of
sleeping pills I had intended to buy, then ensure that I swallowed
one too many.
I considered slitting my wrists in the bathtub, but I shuddered
at the thought of the pain, and the blood.
I mused over drowning, but I'd tried before, and it was
unpleasant as well as frightening.
No. Fast and quick and painless. That is the way we all want to
go.
Then I thought of Kristina. And all the pain that we went
through, the funeral, the arrangements, the night in the hospital
and all the nights I've been up since that.I saw the look in my
brother's eyes and I cried even harder.I would never. I would
never. I would never... ever hurt my family. I couldn't, no matter
how much it hurts me to stay.
I was only going about 25 miles per hour on a 50 mile road, my
foot off the gas and the break, head back on my seat with eyes
closed, hands helpless at my sides. It's a wonder my car didn't
venture somewhere off the road.
I blasted the music, a sad love song I somehow knew the lyrics
to, although I couldn't remember the title or artist. I turned it
up even louder when I heard the sound of me crying. It was a
hideous noise, like a dying cow, or a heaving elephant. Something
beastly almost. Something terribly pathetic.
Something that needed to be put out of its misery.
I eventually turned off the stereo, carried my things upstairs,
and crawled in my room and cried.It will be a long night.
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45
September 12, 2007
I had the weirdest dream last night. I was being haunted, going
crazy, and feeling scared. I was being stalked by my dead sister in
my dream. And there, where no one could reach out and wake me, I
was slowly succumbing to insanity.
A creepy dream to have right before her 14th birthday. She was
born on September 13, 1993 on a Friday.
I don't know what we intend to do for her birthday occasion.
Right after that, on the 14th, is the 7 month mark of her
death.
Sometimes I forget she even passed away. Like I've been too busy
to notice it, with work and all that. Other times, I forget she
even existed. I can't remember a single day of the past 13 years
with her besides the night that she killed herself.
It's hard to explain, but even harder to go through
emotionally.
So I got high yesterday with Anthony and Dennis and laughed the
night away. Then the end of the high came, and I felt my mind
grasping for the blanket that shielded it from reality and pain. I
hate sitting there, feeling completely unhappy and completely
useless with my life. I'd rather feel giddy and hungry and silly
instead. I'd rather watch an entire episode of The Office and not
remember a single thing except for a stapler in jello and Steve
Carrell muttering Tatatatatata!
Nothing much has changed. I still feel the impulse to swerve
into oncoming traffic. I still feel the loneliness when I look up
at the stars. I still feel the hole that burns. Nothing's
changed.
I wonder, if I woke up dead today, how long would it take for
someone to find me?
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46
September 13, 2007
Happy birthday Kristina Marie Akana. She would have been
fourteen today. It's a strange feeling, knowing it's her birthday
although instead of aging into the beautiful woman she could be,
instead she's just a rotting corpse, decaying underground. No,
wait. She was cremated. My mother couldn't bear the thought of
burying her, so instead she was cremated and kept at home in our
formal living room.
My whole day was uneventful. I sat around, reading books I
bought from Barnes and Nobles, feeling useless and insignificant
and depressed. My mom made spaghetti when she came home and bought
my sister balloons which were tied to the box-urn that has her
ashes in them. My dad and brother came home later, and we lit the
tiny cake with the name "Kris" on it, surrounded by pink strings
and icing. We sang happy birthday to her on the couch, looking up
at the huge frame of selected pictures that my mother had wanted
when we prepped for the funeral. Candles were lit, the usual for my
mom on days when she's especially blue. It was scary, in a way.
I was choking on the words, and the song, almost ready to cry.
It came so violently, so randomly, that I was surprised. I sit
around the whole day and only now, only when we sing the actual
song, I'm ready to burst out into sobs?
Death's a tricky thing. You're fine one minute, and the next
moment it crashes into you with the force of an incoming car.
Sometimes I wonder how my mom handles it. Does Dad hold her at
night when she cries? Does she cry? Or does she mourn in a way that
doesn't require tears? I think she cries. Probably more than I
do.
When Kristina died, my mom said that losing your baby is worse
than losing a husband, a father, a mother, or a sibling. She said
losing a baby is like losing yourself, a part of yourself that you
can never get back. She said it's like having a piece of your heart
ripped out. She said a mother losing a child is the worst pain in
the world.
Or at least she said most of those things. The rest I just
knew.
You just know, by the eyes. When you look into a mother's eyes,
you see the pain there. Behind the smiles, behind laughs, behind
boredom or everyday activities. You see the hole, where that piece
used to be.
And I know that we all act normal. We all act casual. But I bet
that everyone cries in the middle of the night just like I do, but
we just don't want anyone else to know. It's too private, too
awkward almost. We want to mourn alone, in the comfort of
ourselves.
I know William would probably like to cry alone. And so do I,
most of the time. But sometimes I need Anthony to hold me, just so
I feel safe. Sane. So I know I'm still here,
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47
I'm not alone, I'm not lost.
I'm not lost, right?
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48
September 25, 2007
I went to the lake and walked around it once, listening to Sara
Bareilles's Love Song over and over again. At a few times I almost
cried, but I kept it in. Or the tears were reluctant to come out.
It was a full moon tonight.And I wonder if hell is on the moon?
Cause it sure is a place no one wants to be. There's nothing to do,
it's all crater-y, dry, no oxygen, lame. And you can't see people
on earth.I wonder if my sister is on the moon.I wonder if she was
walking by my side.I wonder if her conscious exists anywhere, or if
she's just... gone.
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49
September 27, 2007
Last night I took a butter knife to the porcelain bulldog
piggy-bank (doggy-bank?) that Anthony gave me so that I could clean
out all the change, and only put quarters in it. Lily was in my
room playing in a basket and I hadn't seen Phoebe in a while.
Anthony called on his way over, then suddenly said, Oh no, Please
don't be Phoebe. Oh no.
I ran outside.
And I saw a white tipped tail.
And screamed.
She had somehow gotten outside, and then run over in the middle
of the street in front of my house. She was taking ragged breaths,
blood was coming out of her mouth, and I picked her up as Anthony
raced over. I put her down on the kitchen floor and we tried to
contact an emergency Pet Clinic. My mom wrapped her up in a blanket
and we held her and stroked her as she took deep, ragged breaths.
There were pauses in between the breaths, her eyes were glazed
over, she was looking right at me and I was crying and crying and
it hurt so much to see her in such pain.
We finally found a clinic and Anthony drove us over there.
Halfway to the clinic she stopped breathing in my arms, and her
heart gave out.
I wanted to go to the clinic anyway, just in case, just in case
we could save her. They said she was gone. It was all internal. She
had been run over.
Anthony said that when he arrived, there were coyotes
surrounding her. I'm torn between being glad that she spent her
final moments in my arms with me telling her I love her, and the
coyotes not taking her away, but I'm also unbelievably sad. She was
a symbol of hope to me. She was my first kitty, she was something
almost magical, like a gift from my sister.
She made me so happy. She always took naps with me, always raced
to the door when I came home, stuck her paws underneath the crack
in doors when I went to the bathroom. It's not fair. She's in a box
right now. We left her in the blanket, said our goodbyes, and my
mom taped up the box so her smell wouldn't get out. Anthony slept
over. We kept Phoebe in my room and wrote goodbyes with Sharpies
all over the box.
I took two sleeping pills because the pain wouldn't go away, and
the knot in my head throbbed and gave me a headache. I've still got
the headache.
The thought of her in that pain hurts so bad, and I'm glad she's
not suffering anymore, but I can't stop crying. No more Phoebe to
sleep with me, to play fetch with, to keep me company as I read. No
Phoebe to chase around the house, to talk to (she meowed a lot
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50
lately), to fight and play with Lily. No more Phoebe, my
beautiful beautiful baby.
There's so much going on in my head right now.There's so many
emotions running through me.I just wanna break down.
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51
October 3, 2007
I cried for days after Phoebe died. Anthony covered my shifts at
work while I stayed at home, under the covers, crying my eyes out,
pouring over pictures of my little kitty. We were originally going
to have her buried in the backyard, but I changed my mind and
decided to have her cremated. Anthony and I took her last Sunday.
Although it's a hundred and seventy dollars, it's worth it. She is
my first kitten, my favorite companion, and I'm going to miss her
for the rest of my life.
I am cursed. I know it.
Yesterday I was going to watch movies with Jessica Hobel and
Gabby. I stopped by the mall to buy Levi a game with my employee
discount and give Anthony lunch money, then went to pick up my
brother from school since daddy was going to be late. Calvin saw
William cross the street at the intersection, which meant he was
walking to the warehouse. I was scanning the sidewalks for him,
completely oblivious to the large suburban which had come to a halt
in front of me.
I glanced forward, but I was sadly, too late. The car was close.
So close. I was going forty five miles per hour. Forty five to a
complete stop. I closed my eyes and tightened my hands on the wheel
and hit the brakes then everything went black and I was shaking and
I couldn't feel half of my face and my world was in silence. I
opened my eyes and my windshield was shattered, my front hood
popped up, and my engine hanging out of the car. I shakily tried to
open my door, my leg was bleeding, and there was a large burn on my
right and left hands from the air bag.
I was terrified. Unbelievably terrified. I realized that my car
had skipped over a full lane. The suburban in front of me had
jumped several feet, it's bumper hanging off. A lady in her
mid-forties rushed over to me and dragged me to sit in her car as I
clutched my cell phone. 911.
Ring. Don't move!Ring.Are you okay?Ring.I'm shaking. I can't
hear that well. My head hurts. What happened?Ring.I think you're
going to be okay. Ring.Why is this taking so long? I thought
emergency phone calls would be answered quickly?
Hello, 911.Hello, I was just in an accident. Where are you?
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52
Winchester Rd.Where on Winchester?Um... um.. I blanked. I turned
to the lady in front of me. Where are we?The man was still feeling
my arms, making sure nothing was broken.Let me take the phone
honey. I clumsily gave it to her. Hello, we're right in front of
Murrieta...
I looked down, shaking. I could hear the sirens already, a
firetruck, an ambulance, police. What had I done? How had this
happened? I glanced at my car, a complete wreck. The front was half
the size it's supposed to be, all the parts inside hanging out like
the insides of a human being.
Green blood was pouring from it's underside, shattered glass on
the outskirts of the road.People stared, but quickly dodged my car
and drove by.A fireman came by and started feeling my arms, legs,
back, and neck, asking me questions. How fast were you going?Forty
five. Do you remember the accident?Yes. How could I not? Did you
lose consciousness?No. At least, I don't think so. There were
moments of black, a moment of silence, but was I unconscious?Does
this hurt?No.This?Yes.Don't move. How old are you?Eighteen.Because
you are eighteen, you have the choice whether to go to the hospital
or not. But I recommend you do.Okay.They put me on a stretcher, my
hand was on fire. My glasses were still intact despite both of my
airbags deploying. I was still clutching my cell phone, as the lady
asked for my father's number, who she called.Hello, is this Anna's
father...? I closed my eyes. I could feel tears trickle down my
face. I was still shaking. This would cost my father a fortune. My
insurance would go up... My car gone.
I'm sorry, I told the fireman.He laughed. You have nothing to be
sorry for, sweetheart. These things happen all the time.More than
you know, another fireman said.
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53
They strapped me tight, belts and buckles going across my chest,
making it very difficult to breathe. They also gave me a neck
brace, just in case there was any damage to my back and neck. Were
you wearing a seatbelt, dear?Always.
They hoisted me up and set me in the shade of the firetruck, and
another man came over and taped my head down. I couldn't breathe.
It was so uncomfortable. I was breathing hard, fast, gasps. Don't
have a panic attack. Just breathe. It's gonna be okay. People are
right here. You are not going to die. You feel fine. You're just
gonna get checked out. I looked up at the sky. Clear blue. No
clouds, no rain. It would have been better if it were raining. Not
such drama on such a nice day.
Two EMTs lifted me up and set me in the ambulance. The world
looks different when you're lying down, strapped to a board. I saw
the roof of the ambulance, and I couldn't move my neck. My vision
was limited, I couldn't get a good look at faces or anything around
me.I've got to stick an IV in you, just a standard procedure in
case they have to put you on Meds in the hospital.
I shuddered. Needles.
It hurt, but not as much as I anticipated. I concentrated on
breathing and fighting a panic attack. I waited while we drove to
the hospital, a trip of ten minutes.My EMT called the hospital, let
them know we were coming.18 female in compact black Honda Civic
rear-ended large suburban. Complains of bilateral arm pain, few
scratches and bruises, burns from air bag deploy. Serious damage to
vehicle, moderate damage to patient.... I tried to breathe. I felt
so stupid, so stupid. I should have slowed down! I should have
known there would be traffic at three on Winchester. I closed my
eyes, bit my chapped lips, wondered how I got out of that with
merely scratches.
He hung up.You nailed that suburban pretty good. I made a weak
attempt at a laugh. That one your car, right? The totaled one?
Yeah. He laughed. The totaled one... Funny.
We got to the