It's Hard to Say...

1. Ever since the seventh grade, I noticed that there was something peculiar about me that was different from any of the other school children. I had an insatiable hunger for perfection and an undying need for flawlessness. If ever to make a mistake, I would cause myself great anxiety and stress over the slightest fallibilities. Each night, before going to sleep, I would rummage through my book bag to make sure that all six folders, assorted by color and class, and each almost exactly an inch apart, were visible to my hazel eyes as I lay in bed. I would repeatedly check each one for verification that all homework and needed assignments were correctly placed in their according portfolios for the following day. Unable to simply trust my instincts that all papers were in my backpack, like any “normal” child my age, I obsessed over it, oftentimes crying myself to sleep because I couldn’t resist the lingering temptation. As I later learned, I was diagnosed with OCD, Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and ever since, it has, in one form or another, ruled an aspect of my life.

2. Most girls fantasize about their first time having sex. I guess I did too. I always thought that I would be in love, it would be romantic, and it would be the most wonderful night of my life – the night I’d never forget. Well, two out of three isn’t bad, right?

I will never forget the night it happened, but that’s not because it played out like the fantasy I had always hoped for. In fact, it was just the opposite. Everything was wrong: the guy, the place, the setting, the timing – you name it. The morning after, I was so ashamed of myself that I told my parents. Bad idea. I got in a heap of trouble and worst of all, my dad called his dad to talk to him about the whole thing and to get some background information on the kid that took his youngest daughter’s innocence. I don’t know if I was more embarrassed about the fact that our parent’s were talking about the entire mess-of-a-situation or if it was because my parents now knew that I had a sex life.

Now I am a few years older and can look back at that night, and although it is still hard to think about, let alone talk about (and even worse – to put it into words that are visible for the world to see), I don’t think I would change a thing. I used to regret what I did that night and I used to think I was a bad person for doing what I did, but I soon realized that it was because of that moment in my life that helped shape the woman I am today. I am stronger, more sure of myself and my actions, and more aware of the fact that I can make my own decisions.

3. It was during intermission at a high school play my sophomore year. My best friend, at the time – Ashley, and I were eagerly sitting in the auditorium chairs, waiting for the red, velvet curtain to once again rise; but it didn’t – at least not for us. We will never know what happened during the second half of “Zombie Prom”; for we dashed out of the room upon the news that a boy from our school had just killed himself. Ashley knew him, but I didn’t. That didn’t matter. News of his tragic death hit me as hard as it hit her and everyone else who heard about it. At school the following day, people of all grades, and all connections to him – be it acquaintances to best friends or even friends of friends who knew him, were consumed in the sadness of his death.

As I write this, it’s hard for me to even think of the right words to describe the atmosphere on that day in early November, 2004, so I’m not even going to try.

I remember people who wanted to pay their last respects to him wore shirts that displayed his picture – they were told to take them off. Members of the faculty deemed it as publicizing and supporting his suicide – how ridiculous. Yet some kept them on – they became heroes.

At his funeral the following weekend, hundreds of people showed up; people I never thought would be there. But it didn’t matter. All that mattered was a boy, not yet a man being just shy of his 18th birthday took his own life and by doing so, took the lives of his mother, father, and two older brothers as well.
I’ve never cried so hard, so long, so much in my entire life.
To this day, every time I hear the song “Remember Me” by Sarah McLaughlin, I will always think of Josh and how his death impacted my life and the lives of my high school peers.

A Long Time Coming

Being the youngest of two daughters, I remember – with great vivacity, how for the longest time, I so wanted to be accepted by my sister. When I was in elementary school, she was my hero, the person I admired most. She was cool, had a lot of friends, dressed nice, and was adored by parents, teachers, and peers alike. Being just two years older than me, I always thought that we would be the kind of sisters that were not simply defined by our title, but best friends as well. I used to wish that one day our relationship would resemble that of which I used to revere on the television series “The Babysitters Club.” In the televised program, the older sibling always watched out for the younger one and cared for him or her as though they were their own. They did everything together and stuck side-by-side no matter what. However, as I progressed through grade school, I couldn’t help but notice that my sister and I did not obtain that sense of closeness that I so yearned for – and I didn’t understand why. Other than my parents, she was all I had.

Yet my sister has always been the type to set herself apart from the family and put her social life before anything else – meaning that friends came first, always. When I was younger, I persistently tried to join in on the fun. Whenever she had a friend over, I would constantly ask her if I could play dress-up, make-believe, or better yet, makeovers with them; yet she would always give me the same answers: “No, Kaylyn,” “Go away!” or, my least favorite, “You have cooties, you can’t play with us!” Eventually, I stopped asking; for I knew my wish would never be granted. At that moment of disheartening epiphany, an overwhelming sadness devoured my body. Being that young and rejected by someone that meant the world to me broke my heart. She made me feel like an outcast within my own family and for the longest time, I hated her for that. I resented everything about her – her individuality, independence, popularity; you name it.

Thus, I withdrew from her from that moment on and we became more like acquaintances rather than sisters. I began to cling to the relationships I formed with friends and treated them better than I did her. If ever I needed to talk, to cry, a favor—anything, I would retreat to them; they were my safe-haven.

Yet, one night I found myself in an uncomfortable situation. I was overwhelmed with different emotions that stemmed from a sort of jealousy of my friends. At the time, they all had significant others and I was the only one out of the group who remained unattached. It had been that way for awhile and in all honesty, towards the beginning, never used to bother me. Unfortunately, being surrounded by it, in what seemed like every minute of every day, I couldn’t help but fester up a strong desire for my own special somebody as well. One night, while I was out with my friends, I couldn’t handle looking at all of them holding hands, holding each other, kissing one another, gazing into one another’s eyes – I just needed to leave. Upon arriving home, I wanted to talk to somebody; but who? I couldn’t resort to my friends, for they were the source of the issue-at-hand and due to embarrassment, was far too afraid to discuss such an issue with my parents. I felt lost in a sea of confusion. I didn’t know what to do or where to turn.

Suddenly, out of some sort of weird sixth-sense/sister-telepathy, my sister (whom I hadn’t seen or spoken to in weeks because she moved out of the house and into her own apartment) text me to see how I was doing. I don’t know how, and I don’t know why, but for some reason I felt the urge to tell her my troubles. I poured my heart and soul into every word that I transferred from my fingers into the phone. Expecting for her to either blow me off or to make fun of me, I was shocked when she replied with sincerity and for the first time in my life, she made everything okay. For the very first time, she became the hero that I had so hungrily pined for when I was a kid. That night, sitting alone in my den, I felt comforted by the fact, that even for a moment, she finally became my sister.

East and West

For as long as I can remember my sister, two years my senior, and I have constantly been told that we look identical and in-so-doing, have been, on several occassions, mistaken for twins. It was not until a few years ago, when those types of comments ceased to roll off the tongues of acquaintances. In reminiscing of why this could be so, I pondered the possible reasons. That is when I stumbled across the memory of the time I stepped-foot in my sister's then, new apartment off the bustling street of Mill Avenue three years ago.

It was as if I was walking into an alternate universe, as if I was tripping on acid, like a supernatural scene from the movie "Across the Universe." As I crossed the threshhold into her new home, the smell of incense burned through the hazy room. I picked up my head and my eyes immediately zoned in on a multi-colored painting of The Beatles hanging above her purple, velvet couch, covered with clothes spew about. Tentatively making my way to the back of the apartment into her room, I couldn't help but realize how my outfit, couture, chic, and trendy, immediately clashed with the sight of dingy earth-tone colors that splashed the walls and devoured her bedspread. Along the corners of the 14 by 10 foot cubbyhole, she had pinned up old posters of classic rock "oldies-but-goodies" as she would say; among them: Bob Dylan, Led Zepplin, the Steve Miller Band, and several pictures of probably the most unforgettable rastafarian known to mankind, Bob Marley, who, in the black and white photograph was embracing the aroma of weed exuding from the joint loosely held in-between his rugged fingers.

Through the reflection of the mirror placed above her oak dresser, I began to study the girl who was once thought to be my replicate. Very thin, ashy colored hair that fell wildly down past her shoulders, hardly any make-up, piercing blue eyes that could match the coldest ocean waters, redish-freckles imprinted on her pale skin from the burning desert sun, clothes, complementing the natural theme of her room draped across her body, and an attitude that could calm even the angriest soul. She was much different than I. Assuming that my thoughts read across my face, she then asked me what was the matter. However, I had no words; I didn't know what to say. I just knew that I felt uncomfortable in the reality that she and I, who were once so alike, were now so dissimilar. That's when I responded, "We are just different, that's all."