MILES to GO || before I sleep

Thirteen years ago today, my older half-sister Michelle Smith died.

By this time thirteen years ago, I, at 11 years old, was back here in San Francisco from what was supposed to be a fun weekend trip up to Petaluma with my Dad. It's hard to remember the specifics, but I know we went somewhere, and when we returned to the house and listened to the messages on the answering machine, the only thing distinct was my mom's voice, shouting and crying hysterically.

My dad asked his then-girlfriend to usher me out of the room while he listened to the message again to try and make sense of it. I went outside and played Patty-Cake with his girlfriend. I had no idea what was going on. I was worried about by mom, but for some reason, the thought of something truly terrible having happened did not --could not-- cross my mind.

A few minutes later, my dad brought me down and sat me on the white textured couch we had. White couches are a stupid thing to own. If you do own them, they're more of a statement than a functional piece of furniture. They'll always get dirty, even without an 11 year old and a dog in the house. (For the record, if you're stringent about cleaning and don't have those plastic covers over every piece of furniture, then I guess it's fine. Needless to say, my dad isn't either of those types, then or now.)

Anyway, my dad told me first that Michelle had been in an accident. The first thing that popped into my head was a rather steep hill covered in ivy not that far from our house. It's right beside the Rose Garden, and I knew my sister liked to ride her bike through there. I always thought it was dark and winding and scary. My 11 year old-self thought that there were bears and lions in Golden Gate Park, and that you were more likely to see them in places like that than up in the pretty rose garden. I imagined that she'd been biking on the crest of that hill and fell down, broke her ankle. I seem to remember stories of her having broken her leg or ankle before, so in my mind, it wouldn't have been the first time.

I don't remember if I asked if she'd just broken her ankle. I don't remember if I'd asked anything, doubting and scared, or naive and laughing. My insides were probably like Jello, just quivering, unable to stop.

I do remember being in the back seat of the car, stuck in traffic on the way back to San Francisco. I'd wanted a fun weekend in Petaluma, and now I had to go home. But I was worried about mom, freaked out about Michelle: I'd just had a fight with her about my Dad not long before I'd left, and I felt weird about going back home and having to "face" that, so to speak. I was thinking of how weird it would be, my mom and my dad and his girlfriend in the same room.

The next thing I remember, I was walking back up the stairs to my mom's house, to the dining room. It didn't look too much different from how it looks today. I remember my mom sitting at the head of the table on the left, her back to the piano my sister used to play all the time. She'd recently gotten more interested in the acoustic guitar, though. Besides, the piano was always out of tune, and Michelle was more interested in becoming a filmmaker than a pianist.

I remember the house being filled with cops. I got scared. I felt cold. I think it was then, seeing all the strangers in my house, my mom looking completely broken at the head of the table, shouting or crying or both, that I realized something was really wrong.

I don't really remember much about the next several days. There was a visit to the hospital. I'm not sure if it was for my mom to identify Michelle's body or to arrange for her to be sent to a mortuary or what. I didn't get to see anything. It was probably for the best, though seeing her at the funeral probably wouldn't have been much better.

There was a story that I heard in bits and pieces: Michelle had been out hiking with her friend Rayanna (not even sure if I'm spelling it right; we haven't heard from her since then) at Land's End, a stub of land not too far from Ocean Beach. Back then, it wasn't closed off, but everyone knew you weren't supposed to be over there. There were no fences, no railing, no anything. Just dry grass, dirt, rocks, and the ocean 200 feet below. Michelle and Rayanna weren't part of any sort of hiking expedition. There were no trail leaders or expert backpackers or anything like that. No equipment. I don't even think there were cell phones back then, at least not that Michelle or Rayanna would have owned.

Michelle fell.

I think I was told that death was immediate, that she wasn't in any pain. I kind of doubt that, nowadays. Part of me wants to believe it, of course, but it also hurts to think that she didn't --couldn't-- think of her family in her last moments. If she had, I wonder, would she have thought of how awful I was to still have a father when she didn't? Did she still think I was the worst bratty little sister ever, or would she miss me? I'll never know. It's one thing to tell yourself something to make yourself feel better, but the truth is something else altogether. They're not always the same.

Over the years, I've been to what I thought was Land's End a few times. Most of the time, I've been wrong. I went to the caves near the old Sutro Baths ruins, thinking that was Land's End because my dad told me that it was the "closest I'd ever get to it." I remember seeing people that had climbed over the rusty, single-bar railing sitting up on the rocks, wanting to yell at them because no matter how immortal or careful they were, my SISTER had died there. Were they even thinking of their family or friends in that moment?

There was another place, just past Point Lobos, higher up and surrounded by trees. It was a high cliff with a rocky beach below it, remnants of the Sutro Baths and the war cannon installations here and there. Some people had a tendency of making dirt circles and things like that up there. I kept wanting to see a symbol in them, a message from Michelle to me. Something.

I think this past spring was when I really saw Land's End. There was a sign there that mentioned Painted Rock and Land's End, talking about how dangerous it was and how people had died. Once, I think I wrote (or maybe I was tempted to write, I can't remember) "My sister was one of them!" on that sign. People still went right over the stupid rope fence and walked to take pictures of the stunning view of the ocean and the bay, the Golden Gate Bridge to the right and Marin County to the left. You could hear the fog horn, hear ships coming into port.

There wasn't enough room for more than two people to walk up there at a time, but there were still lots of people there. I wanted to yell at them too, but I was too choked up: angry at them, angry at myself, angry at the world. This spring, I went to the real Land's End alone.

Before, I'd been with other people. Some of those people I brought because I felt they needed to know the truth, the "me" that still was struggling with her half-sister/only sister/only sibling's death. Some of them I brought for purely selfish reasons, because I wanted comfort. I know I used them, and it was wrong, but my story and my feelings at that place have never been anything but the truth. I still think that it's hard for people who haven't really experienced death so close to them to know what I went through. They can just hug you or pat you on the back or say "I'm sorry," and that's all they can do.

For each person, what they need during that time is different. For me, I didn't know what I needed for myself. I decided to be the rock for my mom. Other people reacted to my reaction. The only person I remember being there "for me" explicitly was Christopher Garcia. He'd been a friend of mine at our after school program, Claire Lillienthal.

By the time summer ended, I already felt like it was the "Year of Hell." I didn't hold very high hopes for the remaining five or so months of the year. Having a transition like that, from elementary school to middle school meant that I changed a lot. I was a bitch in middle school. It could have been a lot better. I could have been a lot more mature. But I'd been through hell, and I didn't think anyone else could understand. No one really seemed to be genuinely trying, anyway. At that age, how can you? I'd hoped Chris Garcia would have given it more of a shot, but he chose popularity over me. That was a bit like twisting the knife already stuck in my chest.

He moved away before high school started. I remember seeing him on graduation. We didn't speak to each other, but I desperately wanted to. Years later, when I was working at AMC Theatres on Van Ness, he came to see a movie with a friend. I was so dead-tired that I thought I was dreaming. I didn't think to beg my supervisor to ask for my 15 minute break then, even though there was a line starting to wind throughout the lobby. He checked out the list of shows and couldn't find anything interesting, but he came up to my window in the box office, grabbed my hands through the window, and told me he was sorry for everything he'd done in middle school. He said he was a Marine now. I didn't stop to think for his phone number, his email, where he was stationed, anything.

I can honestly say he was the first boy I was ever truly in love with, and while that might have been a misplaced love due to the death of my sister, I'll always cherish what he did for me. Part of me still wants to see him again, if just to hug him for a good five minutes straight.

I made a lot of enemies in middle school, but a lot of lifelong friends, too. For those that stuck by me and have understood, that have come to know the truth since then, thank you. I hope we'll have thirteen and more years together.

This is my sister. I miss her very much.

On my way home from school today, I spotted a squirrel in its death throes. It had gotten run over right near where I usually meet Baba on campus: across the street from the fountain on Etiwanda.

It was flailing around like crazy but unable to get up off the pavement. Suddenly its tail snapped around a few times, and then it just flopped to the ground. I didn't know what had happened-- I hadn't seen a car hit it, and no one else near me on the sidewalk seemed to notice or care. I walked up to it and saw what happened: its head had been nearly crushed; its brain was leaking out the top of its head. There was blood all over its paws and the street. I saw it stare for a minute, and then its eyes started to close.

I was crying like a basketcase when Baba came to get me; I didn't know what to do, since it was already dead, but I would hate if Baba ran over it again, so I kept trying to say, "Don't run over it, don't run over it," even though she couldn't see the squirrel. She said it took her five minutes just to understand what I was hollering about. Thankfully, she didn't run over the squirrel again, but I still feel awful for some reason. It's not as if there's anything I could have done, whether the squirrel was alive or dead. But I felt disgusted that I was the only one with a sense of compassion for the poor animal.

And let me just say right now: I hate humans that don't pay attention to what they're doing. Not just to animals, but to anyone. Why should you do anything with half your attention? Put all your attention and knowledge into performing any action, do everything with full knowledge and understanding of as many possible impacts on as many outside parties as possible. BE AWARE. There's no downside.

Anyway, I've been trying to be more chipper. We had the second NSLS Presidential Call. Not as funny as the last one, but still helpful. I have the second part of the Presidential Training this week, too.

( Someone get Life & Style a copy editor! )

Another weird dream. This time I'm typing it up right away so I don't forget. Today's Thursday anyway, so I don't have to be at work till 11am.
Anyway, ( it's behind the cut. )

Yesterday night, I lay in a comfy bed in Carmel-by-the-Sea, and I wrote a journal entry about how I felt about Ben dying. But I already let Jesse (one of the guys who came on the trip to Pebble Beach) read it, and I don't think I wanna post it here for all to see in those exact same words. Suffice it to say, I'm feeling numb, depressed/sad, shocked, and a bit angry at myself. The first few feelings I think anyone can relate to death; the shocked one on my part is also related to "He died? Of a car accident? But..." and also the fact that I'm so emotional about his death in the first place.

See, I didn't know Ben that well. I'd met him a few times at anime club (I'm trying to find the post where I probably mentioned him). I somehow developed a kinda-sorta crush on him. Why? Well like I said before, he caught my attention for resembling Cunningham/Rallojay, but of course he was a completely different person --inside and out. He fit the Darien Theory, but big deal? How much does physical attractiveness really play in the long-run of a relationship (of any kind) with someone? It's more like an immediate thing you answer to, and if things work from there, you develop a friendship or a romance.

The guy I remember was funny, rather sweet/charming (I wouldn't think of him that way if my first impression of him was "jerk!" so even if I can't remember exact details, I'm sticking to it), and just plain NICE. But I didn't spend enough time getting to know him. Though at the time, my reasons might have been reasonable or made sense to me, I quit. I wasn't happy there, I didn't make as an immediate connection to the people as I wanted/expected/hoped, and I was so blinded by love for Scott that I thought I didn't need to make any more friends or spend time with anyone else.

Mean as it is for me to say, what a waste. I should have stuck to it longer, realized I shouldn't have compared CSUN to SFSU, and known that if I was starting to CRUSH on other guys while with Scott, something was wrong. Part of me was well aware that Scott and I wouldn't last, but the other part (with the louder voice) was stubborn and didn't want to believe it. That part of me was eternally optimistic and hopeful, despite all the shit I've seen and been through, and despite having a very realistic half that knows that not all life is bells and roses, death exists and comes too soon and for people who "didn't deserve it," and... and so on.

So hindsight is 20/20, and I regret not thinking that way sooner, not wanting to spend more time with a guy that attracted me, and could have been a very good friend, if not more. Isn't it silly for me to think that if I done something differently, maybe I would have been in Carmel-by-the-Sea under different circumstances? Maybe I would have gotten to know Ben better, maybe I would have gone to AX with them, to Big Bear with them (the other people being the other members of the Anime Club), maybe I wouldn't feel so guilty (now) about trying to figure out what Ben was to me. Was I his friend, even if I didn't remember his name right off the bat when Phil said he'd died? Do I have any right to feel that way, did I have any right to even be there at his funeral, or get comped hotel rooms at the La Playa Hotel by his parents? (They were extremely nice when they found out we'd driven 6 hours from Northridge.)

For the record, his full name was Benjamin Ridge Watson. He was born December 13th, 1984, and he died August 21st, 2005. He was going up a mountain pass in Pebble Beach (or thereabouts) and swerved to avoid a truck. Unfortunately, he was going about 90 miles per hour in his Acura Integra, and he slammed right into an oak tree. I don't know what happened after that-- if airbags inflated, if the car caught fire, if the truck driver tried to help him. I don't know if he died instantly or hours later in the hospital.

I don't know why Phil (Anime Club president, as I'm sure I've mentioned once or twice before) even thought to tell me, because the last meeting I went to was December 3rd, 2004 (far as I know), and I don't even remember if Ben was there. I remember seeing him my first semester when I walked down that hallway from my CAD class--turns out that's because he was very much into computer science and building his own 16-hard drive computer (got all the parts for it too. I had no idea he was so intelligent, so dedicated, and so damn RICH!), and he took computer-aided design classes. He was even fluent enough in Japanese to win over sushi chefs in Monterey Bay-- another thing I didn't have a clue about. He was also very much into challenges, winning competitions, and... racing.

So you can see how his death ties into all this, right? He probably thought he was some hotshot out of Initial D. But I'd like to think he was smarter than that, and accident or no, "shit happens." I wish he'd survived so I could have told him how much I was looking forward to seeing him again-- me, the girl that couldn't remember his name, only his face, his smile. I saw him at Winnetka once or twice. I thought for sure he had a girlfriend. I thought he never even thought twice about me, but Phil said Ben was actually kind of disappointed that I'd left that one night we were supposed to go laser tagging and I decided to leave and go with Scott instead.

Scott came over just after I'd gotten home, and I didn't have the heart to look at him or talk to him, mostly out of fear that I would say something along the lines of "Why did I waste so much time on you, when I knew it would end?" But he didn't even bother to come up and ask me if I was okay, or just to hug me as a means of comfort. He just left. I eventually called him and apologized for making him feel so awkward, and we talked for a good 40 minutes, figuring things out. Lately I've been putting myself down, and it's not like myself. But it's a mechanism inside me, I don't realize I'm doing it until people notice it and get annoyed by the abrupt change in my attitude.

I keep thinking what if I'd done things differently. Maybe Ben could have taught me to sail, or how to take apart a computer, or how to speak/understand Japanese. Maybe I could have developed a taste for sushi, instead of a fear of fish. Maybe... but maybe not. I can't really regret what I never had, what I can NEVER have, right? But I still miss Ben, and I don't really understand why. It makes me so upset that I won't see him this coming Friday (not tomorrow) when club starts again. I don't remember his voice too well, or even what animes he liked better than others, but I will miss his pouty lips and his rather nice, but awkward smile.

And as much as I loathe regretting things, I will regret not saying hi to him when I saw him, when I had the chance. Maybe he recognized me those times, and maybe he didn't remember my name... or maybe he knew I didn't remember HIS name. Maybe he just thought it was too awkward. And wouldn't it have been funny if he had a crush on me too, and all this time I didn't know it?

...I could have had a really good friend, and now he's gone. I'm sad, but I think for now I'm all cried out.

( This is Ben. )

Six years ago today-- on a Saturday, too, in fact, I got the worst news a ten year old could receive in her life. My half-sister Michelle died six years ago, and it changed who I was forever. I'm a different person because of it-- for better or for worse, and for the first time in all that time, I went to the place where she died.

It's called Land's End, and is basically a rounded cliffside that drops-- over 200 feet-- right into the Pacific Ocean. When Michelle died, it was shocking... unexpected, to say the least. She might have only been my half-sister, but she meant the world to me, and I had a hard time expressing it, because I was so childish. Like all people who lose someone, I had a million and one regrets-- things I wish I could have said, or could have taken back. I wish I could have apologized for that stupid argument the night before, wished I could have thanked her for all she'd ever done for me, and told her, above all, that I loved her.

Six years later, I'm still sad, but I guess the need to hide my sadness and loneliness isn't so great. My sister was the only one I could relate to about a lot of things, was the only one I could talk to when I had problems with boys, or mom, or my own friends. My mom didn't understand any of that.

When Michelle died, I felt the need to be strong for my mom-- not show any weakness. People passed by us, offering their apologies and condolences, but it all seemed so empty then. I kind of get irritated even now, when people get nervous just *asking* me about my sister, or when they do find out about her dying, say "sorry," as if it were their fault. I suppose it's only natural to react that way, since people who haven't experienced loss at such a young age (Michelle was only 19) don't know what to say-- they couldn't have known how it felt.

Over the years, there's a lot of things I wish I could talk to Michelle about... things I wish I could simply ask her, or maybe tell her. It tears at my conscience to try and imagine her voice in my head, and not come up with anything solid. All I have are memories, and they mean so much to me, good and bad alike.

When my sister died, there only seemed to be two people in my life who cared that *I* had lost someone too- my dad and my then-crush/boyfriend (if you can call it that in 5th grade, but that's another story), Chris. Chris is probably in Santa Cruz right now, doesn't even remember what DAY this is-- and we parted on bad terms, so I can't expect anything on his end. But I do kind of wish, even with all the hostility between my father and I that he would have called me today.

Even if he doesn't, in the last forty-five minutes there are LEFT of this day, I know that I take comfort in at least knowing that I *have* a father, whether he talks to me, thinks about me, cares about me at all, or not. I hope that he does call me one day-- or maybe write.

I know my sister didn't like him much-- even convinced me several times that my father was a downright bad person-- but now that both of them are out of my life, and Michelle is gone on a permanent basis, I can't help but want to talk to my father. If something happened to him, I'd still feel loss... regardless of us not talking in so long.

I'm glad my boyfriend was with me today. I found myself apologizing and saying thank you more times than I thought I would, and I especially thought he'd be uncomfortable with the whole idea of being with me on a day that held significance only for my mother and myself. We took a long walk all the way past the beach to Land's End, and just sat there for a while. I'm not ashamed anymore to say that I cried... I missed my sister, was angry at the world for taking her away from me, and was angry at myself for not saying what I should have that day six years ago. But the one thing that stays in my mind-- all this time-- is that you never know how much someone means to you until they are gone.

People hear that all the time, and never take it seriously enough. But it's true. People may lose grandparents, or distant relatives who die of old age, but when someone as young and close to you as a sister is suddenly *ripped* from your life, it's a greater shock than anyone can imagine. I told my boyfriend to go home today and tell his sister that he loved her. Even if she was mad, even if it didn't sound like he meant it, it would matter to her-- it would COUNT, in the end, regardless of how many days, weeks, months, or years passed between him saying that and the inevitability of death. 'It's the thought that counts' has never had more significance than now. So, unlike my other rant-like entries, I ask you, dear reader-- go home today-- or if you are home, leave this page, get up, and find a family member. Be it a mother, father, sister, brother, cousin, aunt, uncle... anyone. Walk up to them, hug them as tight as the both of you can stand, and tell them you love them. There doesn't need to be any celebration, or any explanation. But just telling them will make the day a bit brighter... even if it doesn't seem that way.