Am I wrong for thinking out the box from where I stay?
Am I wrong for saying that I choose another way?

- Nico & Vinz, Am I Wrong

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When I arrived the Garrett-Fulton wedding in Arizona, I awkwardly hovered by the lemonade & iced tea stand.  Jacob was a groomsman, so I had no idea who to hang out with or mingle with until the reception.

After some time, I hear a woman's voice, "Christa! Oh Christa, there you are!"

I look up.  It's Jacob's paternal grandmother, Jane.  We had spent time together back in San Diego.  She made dinner for the family, and exuberantly invited me to eat with them.  She was incredibly spunky for her age, and refused to let us help her cook or wash dishes.  She was absolutely impressive, and I enjoyed listening to her enthusiastic stories.

Jane hollers, "Christa, come here!  You have to meet the family!"

By Jane's insistence, I quickly transitioned from Awkward Perpetual Arnold Palmer Girl to getting to know much of the Garrett clan.  Jane proudly introduced me to her younger siblings and family as Jacob's date.  I spent much of the celebration with Jane and Jane's siblings.  It was delightful.  At the end of the wedding, Jane saw Jacob and jokingly yelled at her grandson, "Who is this stranger?! I know who Christa is, but who are you?!  I think I've seen Christa more than you this entire wedding!"

Even with so little time spent with Jane, I already have an incredible stock of warm stories about her.  My heart broke at the news of her passing, remembering her steadfast kindness towards me.  I can only imagine the love and warmth she brought to the people that knew her for their entire lives.

Rest in peace, Grandma Jane.

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Daniel and I made plans to drink and be merry together.  As we drove down University Ave, I told Daniel, "I think he and his girl are planning on long-distance."

Daniel scoffed, "Ha! Like that'll work."

I defended the couple's situation, as someone that experienced a similar -- if not completely identical -- tune.  Summer fling turned into a summer relationship turned into a summer love.  I said, "Honestly, if Jacob and I had just slightly different circumstances, I really think we would've worked out."

Daniel pondered, then conceded, "I suppose you're right."

I nodded, "You haven't seen the way he talks about her, man. He's crazy about her. I'm serious, I'd bet on them."

At that moment, I wondered if at one point in my life, Jacob ever talked that way about me.

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That boy is smitten with his girl.

You can see it in his eyes whenever he talks about her, or in his urgent excitement whenever his phone vibrates with a new message. She drew him a wallpaper with a kind, "Hi have a good day," and he'd close all of his desktop windows just to look at it. When I wink (terribly), he can't help but tell me how it reminds him of her. Smitten.

As a very small lab, a lot of our small talk involve gossip or wonderings or even complaints about them.

For two of us in particular, we're simply having a ball. In fact, we'll find ourselves in uproarious laughter over the matter (although not necessarily because anything is that funny, but more because the two of us are known to laugh a lot. A lot.). The two of us chatted about love and relationships the other day, and it became clear. We don't giggle and smirk because we think any less of him. Rather, it's because we understand so perfectly both his adoration and his pain. We know it so precisely and so accurately that he reminds us of a younger version of ourselves. And who would I be if I didn't beat up my younger self for being a softie?

She is leaving this Saturday. It's the last day of their internship, then she'll be flying back to New Jersey - almost "on the completely opposite side of the country" as humanly possible.

We won't be surprised when he'll predictably visit her in New Jersey this winter break, just as I visited Jacob in Georgia and he visited his person in Boston last year.  We also know exactly how much his heart will break the day that she has to fly away.

"This is the one week that can drag on for as long as it wants, and it'd be okay," he told me.

It reminded me of the way my flats clicked along the linoleum tile on Jacob's last day. I could only remember how empty that hallway felt that day, how my footsteps seemed to echo especially loudly in its vastness. I remembered how afraid I was to reach the end of that long hallway.  How afraid I was to accept that it was our last day.

It feels like it was just yesterday that I was so madly in love.  There are some things in life that we don't realize and embrace until it's a gift of hindsight, but I can tell you this with confidence: if Phuc was my first love, Jacob was my second.

Speaking from the present, I can also tell you this: Jacob was my second love.

At one point in my life, I would almost describe Jacob as my muse.  He inspired me to blog, to write poetry, to draw.  Yet, I saw Jacob last weekend, and it was virtually nothing worth writing home about. I always have a great time with him, and I completely adore his family.  None of that changed.  We spent most of the weekend together, and over those few days, I realized who we became. We were no longer lost in love and in hopeless attachment. In fact, we became exactly who we always hoped we'd grow into.

We were friends.

I never stopped loving his company, his conversation, his abrasive wit -- but finally, I could say that I stopped loving him. There was an incredible amount of closure in our last embrace. It was full of heart, but devoid of chemistry. An excited smile, but no slight of sadness in the gaze. It was a warm and kind-spirited, "See you later!"

In reality, that's all I could really want, and that's all I would really ask for.  We lost romance, but we didn't lose friendship -- this is an incredible feat for me. I've never achieved this with another romantic partner before.  We lost being in love, but we didn't have to lose love.

After all, love is what is left after being in love has burned away.

For Jacob and I, that translates into him calling me a nerd and thoughtfully buying me honey.

And I'm okay with that.

I want to be like Kanye --
I'll be the king of me, always!
Do what I want and have it my way,
all day,
like Kanye!

-- The Chainsmokers ft. Siren, Kanye

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Julie texting me at the end of our trip: "our friendship survived the travel test because we didn't want to kill each other"

<3

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The following excerpts were live blogged throughout my trip in Portland. Enjoy.

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The sun shone red and hot onto the horizon of Portland.  Light dripped between the clouds like like honey from a broken bowl. We descended through the cumulonimbus wisps, and I thought of how envious the rest of the world must be of me right now.

Other people are bound to soil, trapped by gravity. Yet here I was, soaring through clouds. Here I was, flying through heaven.

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What first impressed me about Portland was its foliage. I hailed from Sacramento, known in California as the City of Trees, but the evergreens of Portland put Sacramento to shame. Here, the earth was vibrant. Refreshing.

Truly, it was as if I found a way to run away from life itself.

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Being in Portland is full of nostalgia - or rather, the lack of memories of Portland is what makes me nostalgic. I am realizing only now how much I ignored Portland the first time I was here. I was so enthralled with the boy next to me, who at the time received all my infatuation and admiration, that an entire city of color and culture flew over my head. I adored him so much that he made a brand-new city seem like a footnote in my story with him. Since then, he's become the last thing I ever wanted him to become. He grew into just another chapter in my novel. Portland, among many recent events, reminds me of how ephemeral are the syllables in my words, the verses in my poetry. Yesterday, I forgot who Portland was. Today, however, I will seize this city.

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"My co-worker died today."

...

"A toast to Rommel."

-+

At first light, the air felt heavy and the world seemed overly quiet. It almost felt like the calm before the storm, but I knew that the storm had already come. The storm had already gone on a rampage through my life and tore a wound into my soul. All I could hope for that I wasn't in actuality trapped in the eye of a hurricane.

It's funny how the bad tends to compound upon itself. I'd like a life where I tend towards cautious optimism. In reality, every step and every gesture made me hold my breath.

'Please tell me it's over for now.'

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I really want to tell myself that I don't know her story. I want to tell myself that she understood us as little as we understood her. I want to tell myself that regardless of what I think of her, her life has sustenance and meaning.

Yet as we walked away from the bar and back towards our hostel, I laughed and clumsily said what I really wanted to say, because I'm not that perfect, I'm not that selfless, and I'm not that free of judgment,

"Man, what a fucking bitch. She needs to get over herself."

I knew without a doubt that at that moment, she was saying the exact same thing about me.

Bitch.

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During my time in Portland, I realized that I had a decision to make for my return in San Diego.

At the same time, during my time in Portland, I remembered something about myself:

I've never been one to hold back on love.

“I am. I always am. But it’s always worth it.”

My heart is pounding.

I'll worship like a dog 
in the shrine of your lies.

- Hozier, Take Me To Church

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I don't know when I first learned about death.

I wonder if it was from TV or a movie.  I wonder if I watched something not targeted to my age range, and learned about death when the main antagonist was defeated.  I wonder if when he closed his eyes, I understood that they would stay closed forever.  I wonder if was from the many cats that we had in my family when I was a child.  I wonder if a kitten died and my parents struggled to explain the natural phenomena to me.  I wonder if I knew of death before or after my maternal grandfather's funeral, where my mom threw herself upon her father's casket, hysterical in tears.

In either case, I was aware by five years of age that someday, everyone dies.

My first memory of conceptualizing death takes place in my parents' bedroom.  They, and the rest of my family, were in the living room watching the television together.  I don't remember why I was in my parents' bed, but there I was, between the sheets.  It was the middle of the evening, and I was lying quietly in the dark.  I held my breath, and imagined myself no longer breathing.  I closed my eyes and imagined how someday, this darkness will be forever.  I imagined my mom being gone forever.  My dad.  That they would have to endure this darkness.  Then someday, me.  I was suddenly terrified, consumed by a fear of death.  Someday, I will die.  I became overwhelmed by tears.  I was a five-year-old girl rocking in my parents' bed, weeping, "I don't want to die, I don't want to die!"

My first memory of death is as a little girl, begging not to die.

I am currently at the generous age of 23 -- an age in a life where Death is still relatively kind to me.  I've lost less than a handful of friends, although the people around me have lost loved ones.  Both of my parents are still earthbound.  Death has flirted with me, but has not afflicted me.

In these past two weeks, Death made its presence known to me three times.  The first was my battle with the suicide note in my text inbox.   The second is something that impacted millions -- I've never been emotionally affected by a celebrity death before, but I truly mourned the suicide of Robin Williams.  Then the third -- my co-worker has been fighting cancer since before I started at my job.  He is being taken off life support today.  It might even be as I write this.  I'm not at work today, because I'm getting on a plane to Portland in the early evening.  I just know that when I come back to work on Monday, he will have passed away.

I would share my emotional turmoil, but I still need to pack my bags.  My boarding pass to Portland is a sobering reminder to seize life while I have it.  There is so much of the world that I haven't seen -- how much of it will I be able to see before my last breath?

I think a lot about my eventual death.  I think a lot about the last thing I'll see, or think, or feel.  Will I be afraid, or will I realize acceptance?  Will my final gasp be spent on a softly whispered, "I love you," or on a helpless scream?

I would think I'm going through my quarter-life crisis, but who knows if it's actually my midlife crisis, or my 90%?  Or, on the other hand, technology advances the human lifespan significantly during my lifetime, and I'm actually just a mere 5% done?  One can laugh and dream, but really -- who knows?

Death placed a hand on my shoulder.  I am stricken.  Yet somehow, life goes on.

The worst possible thing to have at a time like this is restlessness.

You don't get a chance to gather your thoughts, to properly motivate yourself to sleep on it, to wake up refreshed and look at your situation with a new mindset.  If you're lucky enough to sleep sometime late in the small hours, you'll awaken with fatigue and anxiousness.  There's a painfully high risk that the morning will just exacerbate the situation.

I am suffering restlessness at a time like this.

At a time like this, there's one particular question that haunts,

one question that would haunt anyone in my shoes,

"Why not me?  What's wrong with me?"

I'll be better when I'm older;
I'll be the biggest fan of your life.

-- Edwin McCain, I'll Be

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"Love you, Christa."

-- "Love you too, man."

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Imagine that a person wakes up and finds a new message in her text inbox.  She goes on about her day.  She puts off reading her texts as she rushes to get to work.  When she finally arrives at work, she checks her phone.  Her latest text is a five-page rant from one of her close friends from high school.  As she reads it, her heart sinks, "This text is a suicide note."

What goes through her mind now?

What would've gone through yours?

This is the way I spent my morning.  This morning, I had to deal with this text.  I had to deal with this question.  What goes through my mind now?  What do I do now?

First, I was stunned.  I was in disbelief, and I still needed to let it sink in.  Then, one piece of reflection finally made it all tumble down on me.

I thought, "Is he dead?  Is he dead right now?"  Realizing this as a real, tangible possibility shook me to my core.

I walked into my building, overcome by tears.  I had a mental breakdown as I threw my things down onto my work desk.  I texted him with no reply.  I called him with no answer.  The question kept haunting me.  Is he dead?  I was crying so much that I was having tunnel vision, and my hands shook so severely that it took five tries to pick up my phone and call the San Diego Suicide Prevention Hotline.  Is he dead?

I wept as the hotline counselor inquired why I was calling.

"My friend," I trembled, "I think my friend just texted me his suicide note."

She told me her name was Lyn.  Lyn reassured me, "Honey, you are doing the right thing.  I need you to stay calm, but you do whatever you need to do, and I am right here with you."

My morning turned into a two-hour phone conversation with Lyn.  She was incredible.  I struggled to keep myself together, and she reassured, "I don't even know who you are, but I trust you."

I replied in my panic, "And I don't even know who you are, but I love you."

"Oh, honey," she said, "I love you, too.  Now we're going to go on an adventure together.  We're gonna find your friend and see if he's alright, okay?"

"Okay," I sniffled.

"Now, honey," Lyn told me, "I'm going to need you to do me a favor."

"Anything," I said.

"I need you to get a glass of water."

I laughed, "Okay!"

I came back, sipping my water, and told her how I truly felt, "This is the best goddamn cup of water I've ever had."

We laughed together.  We were two strangers talking over the phone about a potential suicide, and we were laughing together.

I read her the text, and she agreed that it sounded like a suicide note.  She decided to call the authorities to check if he's okay.  I read the text to the dispatcher, too -- she also agreed that it was "a hell of a note."  She told me that she would send someone to check on him.  I thanked everyone.

It became the waiting game.  I was there, at work, waiting to hear if my friend was alive or dead.

Then, I checked my phone.

Seeing who the caller was filled me with incredible relief, "Oh god, oh god!  He's alive!"

I picked up, and we spoke in a mix of anger and love.  I told him that I was so grateful that he was okay, but that he scared the shit out of me. I told him to not give me a heart attack like that again.  We argued, but I didn't care.  He was alive.  I didn't know much, but I didn't care about that, either.  It didn't matter.  He was alive.

Lyn gave me a follow-up call.  The worst was over, but I was still incredibly stressed.  I just spent the first half of my workday thinking my high school friend was dead.

She told me, "I have to say.  You are my favorite person I've ever talked to on this hotline.  Who else laughs on a suicide hotline?  You made my day, sugar.  You are the reason I'm happy I came to work today."

I told her, "You made my day, too.  You are the best thing that I could've ever asked for in a situation like this."

She said, "Do you mind taking a consumer survey to rate how satisfied you were with this conversation?"

I replied, "Is there a 'Hell Yeah' raiting?"

She laughed, "Oh, you are precious!  Unfortunately, there's no 'Hell Yeah.'  But you are just wonderful."

"You too, Lyn.  You're awesome!  Bye, thanks for everything."

"Bye, honey."

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Fuck.  I can almost remember when the future used to look bright and I wasn't lying every single time I said, "I'm fine."