6 minutes ago
My grandfather, my opa killed himself this weekend,
after a week where i personally found myself
tired of trudging through circumstances i didn't specifically ask for,
frustrated by entrepreneurial challenges and
the constant vigilance required to venture beyond victimhood, stressed by the residual effects of trauma that still demand time to heal,
constricted by my medical history and
consequently f****d credit score
that is making it difficult to birth a new business,
like trying so sing my love alive with a strep-sore throat.
it was one of those weeks.
one where i wished i wasn't human. i didn't want to be here.
i felt like things would never change, could not possibly get softer.
it has been over 11 years since i survived my own attempt at suicide, and
this sweet, curious adventure of living is often distasteful because
surviving can feel f*****g far from thriving at times.
discovering opa left while i somehow keep choosing to stay
has been an interesting experience.
i feel exhausted and entirely awake.
he was a brilliant man,
and never mocked me for being strange in my love of
exploring beyond the mainstream.
he was an engineer, his office full of plans and designs for alternative energy generation.
one of my favorite days was spent watching the documentary thrive
with he and my grandmother, who died this spring.
we spent the day talking about my favorite things.
he shared with me his tesla-coil-magnet-contraption,
and we geeked out about things we both knew to be beautiful and true.
i think of my grandparents, and all the sunsets we've watched from their hill in east la, overlooking downtown through the frame of eucalyptus leaves and smoggy sky stroked colors,
witnessing the world slip into darkness while
sparkling light slowly illuminated the horizon.
we would stand together by the window
watching from the warmth of their kitchen,
their german-smoke-spiced smelling kitchen
that held us as our hands held the food we cooked,
herbs always picked from their garden.
sacred love, sacred work.
opa was always the first one with an apron on.
his blood flows in me.
i think of their story, escaping east germany and