Surviving Suicide 1u3s5s

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 ed "Please don't kill yourself". To my surprise, it got an overwhelmingly positive and ive response. Hordes of people left comments about similar experiences, or their own struggles with suicide, or simply ed 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 that you are not alone. We are all alone together. -Anna Akana

1 October 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 ed 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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SURVIVING SUICIDE Chronicling the aftermath from 2007-2009

3 February 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, ed 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.

4 I 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 R. 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

5 coming 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

6 nativity? 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 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.

7 Or 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 hangings I had to run to the bathroom and cry and try not to throw up After that, whenever I walked on a tall building, I wondered what it would be like to jump to fall to drown to 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.

8 April 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

9 February 14th. And I was, and still am convinced, that she is a gift from my sister to my family.

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 outdress 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 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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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.

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 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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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 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

14 excitedly around me like monkeys. I really hate this fucking table.

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.

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 spout Out came the rain and washed the spider out But instead of the sun drying up the rain The spider decided that she couldn't take the pain So she drowned in the floods that came ahead And now the itsy bitsy spider's dead.

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 ed 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. "ing what it felt like to be a kid." god, where are you? god, i miss you. no more nature walks on the moon.

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 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 a family of five, two siblings, two parents and I. I fights and chasing and tag at the playground. I playing dress-up with high heels and make-up. I as we got older how close we became. I 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 her crying when she was too little to go on a ride at Disneyland. I how beautiful she was when she was a child, and how beautiful of a woman she was becoming. I 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 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 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 comion. 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 ed 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 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 my hand. I opening my mouth but no words came out. I 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 ed 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 , 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 it, 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 stood And next to her a figure in a hood Peeled back the cloth to show me paper eyes So dull and void and filled with lack of life Glass case encaged me there with pale blue lips Half-parted with her fleeting breath And my eyes were experienced in death With screams of terror, the glass began to shake But 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 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 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.

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.

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 R 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?

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.

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!

39 August 5, 2007 And thoughts of her in hell torment me all the time. But if God is all-forgiving, surely he wouldn't right? she will never get married. nor go to prom. she was only in 8th grade. she was 13. so young. and she was so beautiful would have been a beautiful woman. she will never be my maid of honor nor the aunt of my children never drive the car she begged me to let her take hold of never laugh again never see again never smile with blue lips. They say that God doesn't give you more than you can handle tell that to her.

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 collegeready 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?

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 ed. 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.

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.

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 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.

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 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.

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 ed 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 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 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?

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,

47 I'm not alone, I'm not lost. I'm not lost, right?

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.

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 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

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.

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?

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 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.

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 hospital, and I was wheeled inside. I sat there, in utter discomfort, for God knows how long. It appears that Temecula "took off" (said the driver of the ambulance) and there had been about five accidents in the area, most serious. I began reconsidering this whole hospital deal. I felt fine, despite the burning on my

54 hand. I knew nothing was broken, because if it was, I would be in hell. My back could move without pain, and my neck, despite it's restrictions, could twist and turn with ease. I lay there, praying that they would unstrap me soon. My hair clip in the back of my head was digging into my skull, and it hurt like hell. I was going to ask for them to get me out, but I knew they probably wouldn't have. My dad told me that once they it you to a hospital, they can't let you leave till you check out. I finally was set onto a bed in the crammed hallway, where another girl who had collapsed during workouts lay. I have never felt such relief in my life when the buckles were undone. A doctor checked out my neck, abdomen, and explained that the burns on my hands would quickly disappear in a few days. I still had my cellphone, and I called Anthony to let him know I was okay once he had left. My EMT sat on a chair next to my bed, writing down notes and listening. You sure you okay? Yes, Anthony, I'm okay. Just scratches on your legs? Yeah, and burns on my hands. Aw, you should have gotten a scar on your face. Yeah, I'm disappointed that I don't have a scar on my face either. The EMT laughed quietly, shaking his head as he continued writing. I said my I-loveyous, hung up, and waited. My father was finally itted after about an hour, and we waited for another hour to be released. Dad and I went to Jack in the Box, called the police to find out where the car had been towed, then headed home. Today we went to get all the personal affects from the car. I was stunned by how completely totaled it really is. It's a wreck. It looks like I should have died in it. Anthony says I'm very lucky. He said that it could have been worse. If something bad had happened, you would have been more depressed than you are now. Really? Really. Someone up there is watching out for you. But I think differently. I think someone up there is messing with me. They are taking away things I love, but leaving me unscathed. My sister. My cat. My car. If my car was going to go down, I would have wanted to go down with it. Or at least with a fight. I would have at least wanted to have some serious injury. Instead I feel like it's

55 all just a waste of time, a consequence of my stupidity, another reason why I'm useless. If I had been seriously injured in that accident, maybe a near-death experience would have knocked me out of my depression. Maybe it would have made me see something to give me faith in life. Instead I'm pissed off that I get to walk away from an accident with nothing more than a glorified burn and a scraped knee. As for the other car, they were sent to another hospital due to neck and back problems. The cops reassure me that they'll be fine and it's no major injury. My insurance will cover everything, except for our five hundred dollar deductible. The cost will definitely go up. As I tell you, I am cursed.

56 October 10, 2007 Anthony, my mom and I drove to Mrs. Kaylee's house to check out her newborn kittens. We decided on the odd one out in the litter; the only gray kitten. Anthony wants to name him Jim. We agreed that he can call him Jim and I can call him James. That's funny. Lily & James. Like Harry Potter, eh?

57 May 13, 2008 I'm afraid to look in the mirror and see a junkie. Anthony tells me I'm not a junkie. We're not junkies. We don't do anything like coke or heroin or anything crazy like that. But after saying NO to drugs all my life, I can't help but feel like a bad person for doing them now. I doubt I'll ever snort anything up my nose or inject a needle into my arm, but isn't popping pills the same? Or is it not? I can't help but feel ashamed of myself. My life is so boring and hollow and empty and dead that I have to do drugs as a means to feel alive. My life is so confusing that I dive deeper into substance as a means to figure out who I am. What part of that makes sense? I wonder. If Kristina never died, would I still be into these things? If she were still alive, would I still need the thrill of a high to feel better? Why do we ask questions we'll never get the answers to? Sometimes I hate being sober. Hate being me. I feel ugly and dirty and useless. I feel like I am just another extra in the background of a movie, and that's all I ever will be. Why do I feel the need to be significant? Why do I need to be important in the eyes of many to feel important to myself? Why do I need to feel great? I sit here and smoke pot everyday and question my subconscious for the secret and meaning of all existence that I have ever known. But the truth does not lie with me, it's somewhere out there. I wish I were happy with who I am. I wish I were a perfect person. With the right morals, the right priorities, good and solid decisions. I wish I were able to refuse everything and all temptation put before me. I wish I had the courage and strength to be myself, and to be content with myself. But wishes rarely come true. I don't know. Maybe I'm being overdramatic. Maybe it's just the afterglow talking. I should stop starting my sentences with "but", "maybe" and "I." Ha ha ha.

58 November 16, 2008 Wednesdays Remind me of rainy days Remind me of darker times Wednesdays Brings me back to a darkness That I could only claim as mine I hate Wednesdays Cause that's the day of your last breath The day that I met death Face to face Oh Wednesdays Bring to the world a flow of tears And despite all these years I still cry As though it's Wednesday

59 June 23, 2009 Skye gave Anthony two more hits of acid. The trip yesterday was different. The grass looked like the three meter long tube worms I witnessed in ocean deeps from Planet Earth. The houses all seemed to swirl like a living creature and their colors were brightly glittering. I kept alternating from hot to cold, cold to hot, but the room pulsed with such intensity that I didn't mind it much. At one point, Will came in the room and hung out with us. He didn't notice a thing (I think.) Time to roam off and do... something . . .

60 July 24, 2009 I'm a shadow of a shadow walking An echo of a song long gone still talking I'm the ghost in an empty room in haunting The name on a grave that's ever daunting

61 September 2, 2009 Sometimes I can't stand who I am. I look in the mirror and I feel a shudder of disgust at all of my failures and regrets and mistakes. I try to talk myself out of it; living is learning, right? Trial and error, right? Maybe my standards are too high, I don't know. Dad's moral com is hard to mimic. I think I'm starting to inch closer and closer to atheism. There are just so many contradictions with God, no matter how much I want to believe that such a deity exists. It just doesn't make sense. If God is all-knowing, then he/she knows what will happen ahead of time. Does that interfere with free will? And what happens when God wants to change something, will he/she just keep on changing things forever? (Since the future would most likely be completely altered each time God interfered.) If there is no God, how was the universe made? Nothing can come from nothing. Which means that the matter of the universe must have existed forever. How can anything last forever? Anything that has a beginning has an end. Unless perhaps it is recycled. But then what energy does it run on? How does the universe work? Can it extend infinitely? Woah. I really like philosophy class. I want to believe that Kristina is somewhere up on a space cloud, watching me from up there, waiting until my time comes. Another part of me thinks that's ridiculous. How could any part of her be floating in the universe I would guess that the energy in her body became something else in the apieron (the unlimited). Can there be a God? What does it even mean to be a God? Could God just be the greatest abstract creation of the human race? Christian religion boldly states that man was created in the image of God. I highly doubt that. Man is the creation of genetic mutations over a series of millions of years. Complex organs and nervous/circulatory systems! Yet even still, man is nothing compared to the wonders of the natural universe. God, if there is one, would definitely be different. Wow. I'm twenty years old. Rene Descartes invented analytic geometry in his early twenties. Talk about pressure.

62 September 11, 2009 I like to think of God as a mother; she can create life, but can only watch her life take an identity of its own. A quote I read once put it: As a mother, I hurl you into the universe and pray. I like to think that if there is a God out there somewhere, he or she cannot control us, or has not predetermined what would happen. What kind of destiny is suicide? Or murder? Or rape? No, there is no divine being who has foreseen all and simultaneously wills all. There is no Great Plan. I like looking up to the sky and knowing that in this universe, my entire life is only a blink of an eye. No matter what I do in my lifetime, I will barely leave a mark. The point is there's no point. We are born and we must make the most of it. We have the ability to continue to pursue our dreams, our happiness, which is only definable by us, not by someone we can't even see, hear, or talk to. When I look up at the sky, I want to believe that there is a heaven, that there is some ethereal comfort out there in the clouds, waiting for me. But I can't believe. If there is a heaven, there's a hell, isn't there? They are what define each other. If there were no hell, we would not know what heaven is, and vice versa. According to Christian/Catholic rules, if there is a hell, my sister resides in it. Suicide is allegedly an "unforgivable sin" to their all-forgiving Lord. I cannot accept the words of someone who lived thousands of years ago, most likely contorted throughout time by corruptible men. Men are corruptible, so everything they say should be doubted. We as an intelligent race cannot accept what is at face value, we need to inquire. The unexamined life is not worth living. We need to realize that religion is a tool, a tool to control you by fear. I'm not saying that religion is bad; faith is something personal and important. I'm saying that believing in something just because that's how it is is not acceptable. We need to believe because we came to that conclusion ourselves. We need to believe in what our hearts tell us. Although I have let go of my Christian faith, I still do believe that there is some purpose in the here and now. I just don't know what that purpose is. I like to think that death is just like sleeping, and in that eternal sleep we dream, and in our dreams we're free.

63 September 22, 2009 So I've decided to pursue stand up comedy. And go after my dreams wholeheartedly before I do anything else. I'm already dead. I don't want to waste another moment of my life succumbing to fear. Kristina was always the courageous one. She had all the bravery. But now that she's gone, I feel it's up to me to live for the both of us. To refuse to take another breath for granted. Tomorrow isn't really a guarantee. If I died today would I honestly be able to let go of this life without regret? Hell no. So it's about time to live accordingly. Stop being such a depressed asshole, Anna. It's been two years. It's about time you start to turn this experience into something positive, learn something from it. You can't change the past, you can't alter what has already taken place. All you have control over is this moment. Chase it.

64 No date God? We met under a beautiful scarlet sunset that reached out to yellow & orange tinted clouds in a perfect blend of color. The moon & the stars were suspended by strings, dangling above us like chimes swinging from an open doorway. The tide pulled in, the waves crashing against the sand in the sweet music of newfound love. He met me, swooned me, and gave me flowers and the butterflies. Then he took it all away. Where is he now? I don't know where the hell he is; probably meeting some other girl underneath another sunset.

65 October 27, 2013 It has been six years since my sister's death. I live in Los Angeles now. I moved out when I turned twenty-one and decided to pursue acting, something I've always wanted to do but never had the courage to. I've come farther than I ever dreamed of, and am excited for the future. I attend therapy regularly, not only as a means to maintain my sanity, but to control my substance abuse issues. Some days are better than others in that regard. I had a brief stint where I was convinced I was an alcoholic. If you even have to ask yourself if you're an alcoholic, that's probably a bad sign. My cat count has been upped to four: Lily, Jimmy, Abby & Congress. I still have Phoebe's cremated ashes in a little box on my dresser, as well as a clay imprint of her paw that the clinic gave me. I've become obsessed with speaking out about suicide. Not only in my personal life, but in my professional life too. I wrote a script called Riley Rewind. It's about a time traveling high school girl who tries to save a classmate from committing suicide. It's set to debut two months from now, in December. I can't say that I've completely accepted death and moved on from her suicide, but I have learned to take it one day at a time. Because beyond that, we have no guarantees, right? So just one day at a time. One breath at a time. Until the end.