Despite All Odds

Death

is

always

coming

the stone seemed to say as it skipped erratically across the once placid, crystal blue waters of Lake Arrowhead.

That’s something I learned that weekend in the mountains—in the safe haven where people escape to escape, but can never actually leave their past behind—there’s always something to conquer, to finish, or to tie up, once you travel the long and twisted road down the mountain.

Death is always coming, but you don’t always expect it. It’s an inevitable truth I had to relive that weekend with my friends. With the passing of one of their dear friends, I empathized with their feelings of self-blame, of not being there for that person all the time, and ultimately not appreciating someone until they’re gone.

But life is not worth living like that.

When I was in sixth grade, my father disappeared—but I didn’t know that for quite some time, or at least, accept it for quite some time.

He lived in Mexico City. I would see him every couple of months when we went down to Tijuana. My father had known and loved me my whole life, but the feelings weren’t initially mutual since he didn’t live with us. I would only see him a few times a year—he seemed more like a distant relative than a father. I remember hiding behind my mother’s legs, pressing my face into her rough denim jeans as I peered around her calf to get a closer look at the man that was my papi—a man that I hardly knew. I was always a shy child and never felt completely comfortable around him. How could I? How was a kid supposed to act around a man that he hadn’t seen for a long time? At least, that’s what I told myself when I was trying to find a reason why I didn’t appreciate my father enough until he was gone.

Memories of his house consist of Yu-Gi-Oh! cards, Mario-kart toys, and cartoon shows such as Mucha Lucha and Xiaolin Showdown. Surprisingly, there were pictures of me everywhere. It was strange to see myself grow up around the walls of his house—growing up there, but never physically.

I appreciated him nonetheless. He had pictures of me all over his house after all—me at a Jog-a-thon in kindergarten, me with a green belt for taekwando, me as a baby with my mom. He loved me. Visits that were initially uncomfortable and forced soon grew exciting and cherished by the time I entered fourth grade.

I soon looked forward when my mom planned to send me to Mexico City for summer to spend time with my papi. It was going to be the best summer ever—intimate time with my father where I could get to know him even better. Papi loved soccer—so did I. I couldn’t wait to join the school soccer team during my sixth grade year and impress him and maybe even kick the ball back and forth with him.

I didn’t know it would be the last summer I’d have with him.

All I knew: he disappeared.

All I hoped for: he was coming back.

When I was about eleven years old, as I watched the “absorbent, yellow, and porous” sponge walk across the ocean floor with his pink starfish friend on the flickering television screen, my mom told me that papi disappeared. He couldn’t have just disappeared, though. People can’t just disappear. Where do they go when they disappear?

I clung unto the notion that he was still there. It didn’t make any sense.

My mom began having panic attacks, but I still had hopes of him coming back.

My friends didn’t understand me anymore, but I still had hopes of him coming back.

My family began to move on,

but I still had hopes of him coming back.

Coming back

coming back

coming back…

Abruptly, unjustly, unfairly—that’s how he was taken, kidnapped I would later find out in high school.

I felt constant sadness, regret from not being with him enough, and ultimately, longing for a father figure. As more family members began to move on from the situation, these feelings only intensified. My mindset that he would turn up eventually proved to be toxic—like a mountain path that never got shorter in the climb to overcoming the top, I got stuck on the tortuous way up.

What is our purpose on this earth? I know it seems like a jump to ask this question. The truth of the matter is, every event that happens like this makes a person question life. A friend passing unexpectedly, a father taken unjustly, a mother finding a means to move on when her son struggles to keep up—all hurtful events.

I thought I had learned life’s purpose from attending Catholic school for nine years, but through all of this mess I struggled with my faith. I didn’t know my purpose on earth. At one point, I was always upset and didn’t want to do things. I didn’t want to go out to dinners with my family, spend time on homework for school, or even spend time with anyone but myself. I knew there was something wrong—I just didn’t know what or how to define it, and I didn’t want to seem weak to people.

The darkness had overcome the light. At times it felt like it would be so much easier to slip into the void. Would anyone really care?

Would anyone really notice?

I soon began attending therapy when I was fourteen. I remember shrinking at the thought of being labeled as one of “those people”: the people that had to talk to a weird person in a big chair to spill their feelings out. In the end, I was glad my mom took me to a place that exceeded my expectations and that I would never go to of my own volition.

As I sank into the soft cushions of the brown leather seat one day, my therapist asked,

“When did you accept your father’s death?”

I remained quiet for a couple of minutes. Accepting…of death? But I didn’t even know if he really died. There was hope, wasn’t there?

Clinging to the idea of my father anchored me from moving on in life—tethering me to the docks of disappointing and restless uncertainty rather than the hope of each new day. In order to find the purpose and beauty each day offers, I had to stop treading the waters of what could have been and accept the hardship and sadness that some events induce.

When my family and I traveled to Colombia a few years after everything that had happened I felt like something new was taking place within me. The fresh, South American air filled my lungs, and resting in my family’s presence changed the way I saw people. I learned how to find respite with my extended family and appreciate them. I learned that what my mom had tried for years to get me to do—to come out of my room and spend time with her, share meals with her and simply laugh and talk for hours—could become a reality with the affirmation of other family members who loved me.

Life doesn’t go as planned—so much depends upon our perfect vision for the future, especially the ideas we cling onto, despite all of the odds. I don’t know if my papi will ever be found—but I know that I have to move on in order to carry on through life. The most enjoyable facet of this world is to live—to take chances, to spend time with those I love most, to try new activities—because all of this could be gone or taken at a moment’s notice. Though I continue to search for the purpose in life, I know one of the purposes of living:

Why shouldn’t we take chances and make the most of what we have?

My anchor now rests in the hope of what each day has to bring, a liberating light that overcomes any darkness I will face again.

#facingmentalhealth