From a letter to Katherine

It's been two years to the day since I was in that hospital on the south side of Corpus Christi -- the day my brother's heart stopped beating.

In these two years I've made new friends, created new inside jokes and even had my heart broken. I graduated college, started my career and am already looking to see where my words will carry me next.

Time kept going and I did too, even when I didn't think I could.

Oddly enough I've had some of the greatest days and nights in these last two years -- nights where all I can remember is aching from laughter. I owe that to the people around me. Maybe they're not in this state or even in this country, but they continue to piece me back together every day.

You know who you are, and you know I love you.

I will spend the rest of my life searching for moments full of Aaron.
I think I will spend the rest of my days recreating conversations we had by myself.
I'm certain I will cry every time I hear "Baby, I love your way" or if I stare at my tattoos too long.
I will absolutely think of him every time I reach a new point in my life.
And every so often when I'm on a long drive home, I will get the urge to call him like I used to.

But I'll always keep moving forward.

 "If I never see you again
I will always carry you
inside
outside

on the fingertips
and at brain edges

and in centers
centers 
of what I am of 
what remains."

Today is Suicide Awareness Day -- this is my (short) story

Suicide Awareness Day is September 10. I wrote the latter portion of this on that day but couldn't bring myself to post it. This is partially because I wanted my parents to read it first. But also because I was worried how people would take it. I wondered if they would see me differently.

Since my brother's death, many have told me I have to be a certain way.

"Be strong for your parents," they said. "They need you."
You have to do this, you have to do that. It took a toll on me. I've gotten better, but it's something I still struggle with. 

"You have to give your parents a son now, Lea." 

"You have to stay with them. Don't move too far away." 

I didn't want anyone to see that maybe Lea wasn't as strong as she made herself out to be. Ultimately, I realized this is a story people needed to hear; a story I shouldn't be ashamed of.

_____________

I cannot say I attempted to commit suicide any one particular time. But I entertained the idea more than I would like to say.

Today is Suicide Awareness Day. It's another day I get to celebrate my life, even if it's from my bedroom with Will & Grace on the TV.

Today I get to look back on my lowest points and pat myself on the back because I've come so far.

I very vividly remember my state only a year ago -- feeling empty and numb to everything and everyone that once made me beam. I very vividly remember thinking I would feel that way forever. So I turned to a friend.

"You're not supposed to feel...empty," she said. "That's not normal and it can be scary sometimes to notice that you dont feel much, but talking about it helps." 

Talking did help. Each week I sat in the counselor's room and clawed my way out of the grave was buried in. It wasn't always easy and it wasn't exactly fun. But I knew I needed to be brought back to life. 

I surrounded myself with my own tiny balls of fire and sunshine. (Shout out to my close friends and family.) I went on new adventures, both small and big, and met beautiful human beings who stoked the fire inside me that had nearly burnt out.

I didn't pray to any god or almighty being. (And if you do, that's rad, too.) But it is possible to get help without feeling the need to be religious. All prayers and positivity from anyone both religious and secular are accepted for me.

I fell in love with the beauty of life all over again, as difficult as it was. (Some days it still is.) Thanks to a friend, I fell in love with a mad man with a box, who still gets me through those tough days. But most importantly, I fell in love with me. And I lived.

__________________

Aaron's lovely bones

I like to think that Aaron still attends our family gatherings. That he laughs at the stories and jesting comments. That he leans up against the wall and watches us interact with each other, especially those that have bonded as a result of his passing. 

"These were the lovely bones that had grown around my absence. The connections -- sometimes tenuous, sometimes made at great cost, but often magnificent -- that happened after I was gone. And I began to see things in a way that let me hold the world without me in it. The events that my death wrought were merely the bones of a body that would become whole at some unpredictable time in the future. The price of what I came to see as this miraculous body had been my life." - Alice Sebold, The Lovely Bones

I don't have to be religious or spiritual to feel his presence. Because even in his absence, he continues to bring people together. And that is proof enough to me that Aaron still with me. 

Carry the fire

I don't look at Whataburger the same anymore. I wince at the word "punch." My heart breaks a little when someone mentions their brother or little sister or sibling in general. 

It's been a year since I've heard my brother's voice. The days have simultaneously crawled along and zoomed by. I no longer wake up in the morning and for the first few seconds feel as if he's alive, then get the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that he's not. At least not every morning. 

It's important not to stop. Not to think. Don't think about the bad, sometimes even the good. Don't think. Because then it becomes real. Then I have to remember. I have to remember that I no longer have my brother with me on this earth. I have to remember that I'll never hear his voice again. 

But I'm not suppressing. I'm not pushing it away. I've done my opening up to friends, family, strangers, counselors. I've discussed everything. I've been to the therapy sessions and cried so much I felt dry inside. But it still doesn't change the fact that my brother is gone. It doesn't hurt any less to relive that day over and over and over again. It doesn't change that 20 years with my big brother was not enough time. Not nearly enough. I still cry the same. My heart aches just the same. No amount of time or talking will change that. 

But I'm not trying to forget. I'm just trying to not remember. I don't want to think about how at one point I was completely and entirely happy, and how I'll never feel that way again. I've come to terms with it. And that's not to say I'll never be happy again. Because I will. I am. But not like that. Not the same. Not ever. 

But I push forward. I march on. I don't think. Because when I think I get the bad thoughts again, the ones that sent me to counseling in the first place. If I don't think, I live. And I have to live. I need to. I have to carry the torch. I have to warm the hearts that never got to feel his. I want to. 

I testified as a character witness for my brother in court. 

"He was sunshine," I said. "He was that glow, that warmth, that feel-good." 

He still is. 

It's been one year. One long and quick year. And it's only the beginning. 

There's a time to dance

It's been months since I was in the room I last saw my brother in. 

Heavenly Grace funeral home held their annual candlelight vigil Dec. 11 for the families of those who are buried at the park. 

About 50 people showed - some were smiles, others had more somber looks on their faces, but all held the faux candles lit by lightbulbs, in honor of their loved ones.

There was a choir made up of kids anywhere from 6 years old to 13, who sang a variety of spiritual Christmas songs. 

There was a pastor who spoke, consoling the attendees and reminding them that our loved ones live on through us.

While he spoke, the tears trickled down my cheek as I played back 20 years worth of memories with my big brother. 

"There's a time to cry, a time to laugh, a time to mourn and a time to dance," he said.

The candlelight glowed on people's faces, revealing the reflection of the tears rolling down their cheeks. 

In that moment I cried and I mourned, but every day I smile as I'm reminded about the wonderful person my brother was.

Icepocalypse

The trip to Dallas for the National Association of Hispanic Journalists conference had been in the making since the summer. It's a chance for journalists to network and for young journalists like myself to land jobs.

It wasn't until two days before the conference that we heard the weather was going to take a turn for the cold - the really, really cold. 

We left on a Thursday morning, but the weather wasn't supposed to be bad until Thursday night. The four of us (myself, Norma, Susan and Elva) arrived safe and sound. But the next morning we woke to the shimmering white, icy streets.

Buildings, cars, plants and all were covered in ice. The sidewalks were slippery and all but one of us was accustomed to this icy terrain, but we ventured off into winter wonderland anyways, and it was beautiful. 

Everything was stock still, not only frozen in ice but almost frozen in time. The ground crunched beneath our feet, cracking with the heels of our boots.

My clothed seemed ill equipped for the icepocalypse as the wind chill stung my body. But the city sights were enough to make me forget how cold I was. 

Rock-N-Roll

Mom and dad were training for a marathon since April. It was supposed to be a family thing. My aunts, cousin, parents and myself were all going to participate.

We were going to run in honor of my aunt who passed away from cancer last year. And when my brother passed away, my parents wanted to run for him too, even though his death wasn't cancer related. 

A few of us stopped training, but my folks kept on running their miles every day. On Nov. 17 they completed their first half marathon, wearing my brother's scholarship button the whole way.

I saw them off at the starting line, amid the crazy costumes and various team shirts. Words of inspiration lined the streets.

"I run for my brother."

"I believe in you, random stranger!"

"I beat cancer and now I'm beating you."

The roads were full of runners and bikers participating in their respective courses for the San Antonio Rock-N-Roll marathon. 

I met my folks at the end. They looked tired and were drenched in sweat as they held hands crossing the finish line. But they finished what they set out to do and I couldn't have been more proud.