Something Out Of Nothing.
It all started with the last day of finals in my freshman year at high school. I had just transferred to Bartlett High School into a class of nearly a thousand from a tiny 28-student class at Medinah Christian School. It wasn't until my Choir class that I had finally found my group, my niche. I spent hours and hours in the choir room, tearing open new pieces of music, learning choreography for the musicals and just plain hanging out. Naturally, the first two semesters passed by in a flurry. I hesitantly walked into the Choir room for the impending final at the end of the year. We would be required to sing a solo part and naturally, mine was in Chinese. I struggled to grasp the notes of the last three bars and prepared myself for what I thought would be the defining moment of that day. Unfortunately, I was wrong. Our teacher greeted the entire class and told us that we would be exempt from taking our final. We all quizzically looked at each other and wondered why. A close friend and fellow student, Nassim, would not show up to the final that day - for the previous night, she had been kidnapped, taken to a nearby forrest, raped, brutally beaten and then killed. The air in the room thickened, as did the air in my throat. I felt the entire world collapse beneath my feet and an ocean of tears come to my eyes.
I wish I could say this was the first time I was confronted with a death throughout my high school career, but unfortunately, life took a different turn. It seemed as though two deaths a year ever since I was 15 seemed to be the standard in my life. Every year would pass and every time I'd grab a black dress, purchase tubes of waterproof mascara and tell a family, a friend or a loved one that my deepest sympathies were being sent their way and that I hoped God would comfort them in their sorrow. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten to extend the same sympathies to myself. I built up walls and distanced myself from people, because insofar as I knew, they'd be gone in a blink an eye anyway. So what was the point of getting close?
It wasn't until this past summer, when my beloved Oma (grandma in german) passed away in a silent, dignified and pain-free death. It wasn't until she passed, that my family realized Oma was the glue that held us all together. So this loss, among the many others we've experienced as a family, held a dark, stormy cloud over our heads. Naturally, I pegged myself to be the strong, silent one. I would be the one who would hold my head high, swallow the tears and thank everyone at the wake and funeral for their attendance. At the wake, I held myself with the utmost grace, speaking of her unconditional love and how she taught me to have that kind of love in my own life. I spoke of happy times and seemed as if I was at peace with her passing. And it wasn't until the funeral the next day, after hearing the loving speeches from my sister and my aunt, that I finally realized that I could no longer be the stronghold, that I had to embrace the pain of the losses I had experienced and allowed myself to finally break down and admit that I was not okay.
I've had many lessons in my life, but this, the embracing of the pain and allowing it to wash over me was an experience I wasn't quite prepared for, but needed to have. For so long, I had held it all in, pretended like it didn't matter and quietly suffered because I never wanted to inconvenience anyone. But as we all know, at some point, enough is enough. We need to allow ourselves the room to breathe, to cry and to just be. It took a long time to get here, but now I've finally realized the beauty in the breakdown.
as always, love, t.
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