It Is My Suitcase

I emptied it today. Completely. It is the first time in over two months that it is empty. Even when I was home for a few weeks in between my visits with my sister, it was never completely empty. I lived out of it for a while. It was a companion of mine, comforting even with its cold hard exterior.

My nephew (Nue's son) said to me as I was leaving a couple of days ago, "I'll see you in another two weeks. You're always leaving and coming back, so I'll see you soon." I wish, little one, I wish.

My suitcase, it sits empty now. My heart, too afraid to move.

March 23, 2018

My sister Nue passed away last night surrounded by so many loved ones. She fought until the very end. I am so very proud of her and of her family, all of us who stood tall by her side.

I did not just lose a sister, I lost a soulmate: someone who knows me, someone who is a part of me, someone who shares my story. I know that I can only talk to her now in my past, but I will carry her forever in my heart.

May she rest in peace.

Green

One early exhausted morning, I asked Nue what is her favorite color.

"Green," she replied, gritting her teeth through the pain, "like the dress that I wore at your wedding. I like that color green."

It's a Pink Floyd Kind of Day

Every single day or days or weeks or months. Years even. Forever, really. Don't know what's worse...for you to be completely gone so I can finally grieve, or to be here but not here so that I'm in a perpetual limbo. To be happy to still see your face but to know I will never be able to share a truly genuine moment with you ever again. To be so mad and so angry but to know there is nothing I can do, so I smile and I wish you well, and I pick up all of my broken pieces and I continue to move forward, and I hope I'll meet you again somewhere on this journey. I hope that you're smiling wherever you are up above or lost deep inside of yourself. I hope that wherever you are, you are safe. I miss you every single effing day: my oldest beautiful friend Lisa, my lost beloved brother Lee, and now my precious tormented sister Nue.

"Everyone is going through something that we can’t see."

https://www.themaven.net/sustainablehuman/space-between-stories/everyone-is-going-through-something-_1jQoXKP70aZkWsxKL5fng

This article speaks volumes about the stigma of mental health, but mental health is so important.

For me, it’s like the ceiling is falling down and I’m trying to hold it up but then the walls start to cave in too. So do I let it crush me or do I move on? I move on and I keep moving on until one day it catches up to me. The road behind me is destroyed and I’ve just slammed into a wall. Yet, my demons are still there. So I turn to face them, and I hope that I will win but I know that I may not.

Please remember that we all can fall apart, we all can have moments where we can’t catch our breath, and the floor drops from under us and we just want to give up. So many of us suffer in silence and alone, but we are not alone. We are not sad stories. We are not victims. We are not pitiful. We are life happening to us, and we just need a little help. As much as it can be beautiful, life can be just as devastating.

I am indebted to the ones who have walked this journey with me, the ones who have walked into the darkness with me, and even the ones who just waited for me on the other end. Please check in with the ones you love, check in with the ones who love you. If you need help, don't be afraid to ask; and if someone should be kind enough to offer help, try to accept it. I know I'll never judge you because your story may not be so different from mine.

An American Point of View

I asked her what she thought about what is currently happening in this country. "I don't understand American (as in the language), so I don't know what's really going on." Lol! "Yeah," I agreed, "I don't understand American either." I tried to explain a bit of it to her, to which she explained carefully back to me, "This may be our country now, but it is not our land. We will always be guests."

My mother is an American citizen, living in a country, her country, where she will always feel like a guest. She remembers fleeing Laos, a country she was born into. She fears for me, "When are you going to get your American citizenship?"

One Person at a Time

Politics belong to the politicians. Protests belong to the protesters. Marches belong to the marchers. It's not for everyone. (It's not for me.) I searched a long time for my weapon of choice, and I am happy with my decision. I am a volunteer at women's shelters, at homeless shelters, at wherever they can use me. It's the frontlines; it's where I feel I can best affect change. It's not glorious, not full of powerful words or chants, or witty signs. It's hard, it's dirty, it's lonely, and you will have to beg for help & money more times than you'd like. But it's humbling, and in this life I have chosen to witness the humility of mankind. I've found that it exists deep down inside of us when we think we've nothing left to give. I see it every time I volunteer. We're all not politicians, we're all not protesters, we're all not marchers, but in the end, we do know where we belong and we do have to make a choice on how best we choose to fight for what we believe in.