9 years.

It seems almost surreal that 9 years have passed, that I'm actually still here and functioning and actually doing pretty well for myself. I remember, 9 years ago, thinking that my life had ended. I had lost a part of me and it felt so horribly hollow that I didn't think I could continue living. I cried every night, fingers crossed, waiting for him to come back. I would wake up at 2am in the morning, in cold sweat, from nightmares about the accident, and I would crane my neck to listen for the soft music from his room, or his familiar cough.

Of course, none of that came.

It took me 2 years to accept that he was gone, totally gone, and I would never again be able to fight with him over what show to watch at dinner. At 11, I didn't understand death. Or rather, I decided I wouldn't try to. When people died, others cried, and you never saw that person again. You're told that they've gone to a better place.

I remember thinking, "Why didn't you bring me with you?"

But it's been 9 years, and so much has changed. When it happened, when I watched the last mound of soil cover the wooden prison that encased his body, I didn't know what to do. I didn't know how to move forward. It just seemed like I would always be in that moment, wet cheeks, red-eyed, light-headed. I didn't realise that all I needed to do was take one step. Then another. Move on. No, it wasn't easy. I came back to school and everyone treaded on eggshells around me. I was fragile to them. I couldn't blame them for treating me differently. Although I seemed fine, I was breaking every other day inside.

So, move on.

People always say that. Here's the deal, though. Don't ever say that to someone who lost her brother, or a parent, or a friend, or, quite simply, anyone. You have no idea what they're dealing with. You have no idea if they've started taking that baby steps. And telling someone to "move on", it just undermines everything they've done to, well, move on. Because even though it seems like we still cry and miss them, we're coming to terms with it in our own ways. I no longer have nightmares. I no longer sit by his grave and break down. I no longer think that I should have been the one who died that evening.

And that, to me, is moving on.

9 years is a long time. But when all you used to know was him, when he was the one who used to carry you in his arms when you were just a baby, it doesn't matter if it's 3 years or 9 or even 20. You're going to miss him. You're going to wonder how different life would be if he was still alive. You're going to have days where you backtrack. That isn't anything to be ashamed about.

When all that's said and done, it's just really so damn easy to miss what we lost. It's even easier to miss them when they used to be such a big part of your life. You can try and try to fill that empty hole they've left behind with work, TV shows or even volunteering. Truth is, you probably will never find a good fit for that gaping hole, because everyone who comes and goes leaves their own unique mark on you.

But what I've realised, a bit late, admittedly, is that there's still so many things to be grateful for. I'm part of an amazing school. I've got some pretty awesome friends who deal with my crazy and love me despite all my fuck-ups, who forgive me when I act out or break down at their doors. I've still got family, and they support me through all the risks I'm currently taking, even though they can't quite express it.

In the words of an old friend, I'm #blessed.

home and family

I was in a cab with a friend the other day, and she turned to me and asked if I call my dorm by its name, RC4, or if I called it home.

I didn't answer for awhile, because I was thinking very hard about what home meant to me. It means different things to different people, but for me, it was very simple. Home is where family is. It's where you feel the safest. It's the place you go to after a long, tiring day and are completely comfortable. It's where you can laugh, cry, throw a fit, and be okay.

And then it occurred to me that whenever I was out with friends, I would always tell them, "I'm going home."

It became second nature to me after awhile, calling this place home. I don't know when this happened. I don't know when I stopped calling this place "RC4" and started calling it "home". Words say so much more than we think, and I realise that this place is my home because the people here are my family.

So I told my friend that I called it home, and said it's where my family is. Somewhere along that sentence, my voice cracked. Family. It was painful to say that word.

"Home is where family is, but I broke that family up two months ago."

In what I gather was a bid to comfort me, she said something about how I've known these people for slightly over half a year, and how that can't exactly mean they're my family.

Well, honestly? I disagree. I really do. I think there's so much more to being family than time. I've known some people for half my life, but they're just good friends. I love some people to death, but they're just good friends. Family is different. Family is a whole new level of commitment. Of promises. Of love, and of forgiveness.

I remember the moment I decided every single one of these people were family. I remember the feeling of safety, hugging a friend by the Esplanade waterfront, and realising I hadn't felt safe for a long, long time. I remember breaking down at another friend's door from emotional stress, and instead of being disgusted, he made me come in, sit on his bed and let me cry it all out. I remember a conversation two friends had in secret (but one told me) where they both expressed how difficult it was to show they loved me, but that they were seized by an overwhelming need to protect me if the need ever arose. I remember sitting by the lift lobby and talking about family. I remember fights and I remember reunions. But most of all, I remember all the love and the trust.

My biggest mistake, though, was deciding that these people were family. Because you don't get to decide. It's got to happen on its own. Words say so much more than we think, but sometimes, they don't say enough.

Sometimes, even family isn't enough.