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DEATH AND ME
Death wasn't uncommon in anyone's life, just unexpected. What hurts the most is the unexpectant of the loved one being gone—the dreaded call of being told about death.
And for me, at the age of 16 years old, I still mourn each passing day, each passing hour, each passing minute all the way down to the seconds I mourn for my loved ones. I hate funerals- I hate having my last memory of them being laid to rest forever. I hate seeing their lifeless bodies and not their beautiful eyes or smiles or hearing their laughs.
At the age of seven, I lost a grandmother- one that Ionly met three years prior I bonded so quickly with her, but three years of memories with her wasn't enough, memories that fade away without permission, memories I wish I could relive, I wish I could remember. Little did I know 2014 would be a whole bunch of crying and heartbreak.
One of the first funerals I can remember as a child is my pop pop’s (grandfather). I remember hearing my mom's phone ring through our tiny apartment, a call that I wished never ever came, it was a moment I wished my mom didn't have to go through. I remember my mom locking herself and the bathroom crying, cries that could break even a cold foul human being's heart. At age 8, I experienced heartache- painful heartache that I try to cover with laughs to this day.
At age 9, the bullying started. I took it for months because when school was over each day I remember I had my family at home to make me feel better, to make me laugh, to make me feel loved and wanted. 5th grade came and everything became ten times worse. I fell into depression; the bullying was taking a toll on my 11-year-old self.
My grandma was in rehab for her foot surgery, she was doing good from what I saw when I visited. My grandma was truly my best friend she was funny and loved clothes- she loved fur, leopard anything eye catching. She had beautiful freckles across her face, that sometimes I wished I had.
Imagine 11-year-old me, being picked up early from play rehearsals confused as to why am I leaving early, imagining that small little girl getting sorrowful looks by the admiration when she walked into the office, or when she looked into her parent's red eyes.
And asked, “hy are you guys crying?’’
Only to get no response until they were outside the school,
“ Grandmom,’’ I remember seeing the tears swell in my mom's eyes as she spoke.
“ She’s died.’’
Tears flooded down my face, not even a second later; my parents comforted me with hugs and forehead kisses, but all I could think is that it was not true that this was some sick joke that was being played on me.
The news of the death of my grandma wasn't what little me wanted to hear or wanted to be true. The days and weeks collided together after my grandma's death, funeral homes became places I knew too well, too well for a kid to know. Family members were passing like crazy, some I barely knew to some that were too young to go.
The excitement for summer was long gone, and the feeling of staying alive was low, too low. A classmate found a letter of mine about killing myself. I was sad and angry at too many things, sad that I couldn’t have my grandma here with me, and mad that the bullies couldn't give me a break, not just for a day.
I was sent to a crisis hospital by my guidance counselor that same day after she called my parents up to talk about the note.
I hated the sad look on my parent's faces when they saw the note, and I never wanted to see that look on their face again, and realized how I could never leave them or my siblings here alone.
How could I ever think or write a note like that?
At times, I still struggle with being sad, like everyone else does, and I learned that I have a loving family who wants nothing but the best for me, and i'm reminded that at least I still have them with me. I still have some healing to do but I'm sure I'll get there with my family by my side.