I was watching Desperate Housewives yesterday when Bree VanDeKamp explained how she turns off her big emotions. She said she pictures putting emotions into an empty box, then taking that box into an empty closet and putting it onto a shelf. She will revisit the box when she feels ready to do so, but sometimes, it just needs to be put on the shelf.
I’ve written about this topic many times before but for most of my adult life, I’ve kept it in a big empty box inside a big crowded closet. Nonetheless, there are two times a year that I walk into the closet, see that box sitting on the shelf and open it.
I’m no stranger to death and losing loved ones. I’ve never focused so much on the day I lost them but more on the day they were born. Their birthdays are always harder for me because I no longer celebrate another year of their life with them. We don’t meet for dinner or share a cake like we always did on this particular day. Instead, I spend that day in the closet of my mind, haunted by the thought of opening a box that I store away with the memories of them. Time helps me stay with the box longer but I wouldn’t say it gets easier.
When I was eight years old, my parents enrolled me in a public school. Previously, I had only been in private school with small classrooms and an advanced curriculum. I was learning German in first grade and my principal personally picked me up from my house and drove me to school every morning. I wore a uniform every day and I had the same friends in my small classes that I’d had since kindergarten. I went to the same summer camps and after school programs every year and as a child, I found that comforting.
When it was time to enter third grade, my parents decided to put me in public school. My brother had been in private school until sixth grade but for some reason, they transitioned me earlier. Nobody really talks about what a shock to the system changing a kids routine can be but I learned very quickly how disorienting it can feel. I didn’t know how to dress myself for school, how to fold into a friend group of already established friends, or pay for my own lunch in the cafeteria.
Third grade was a notable year for me as a kid. It would be my first year in public school, the year my parents finally decided to call it quits, the year I moved out of the only house I had ever called home, and the year I’d meet my long-time best friend, Alyssa.
I was encouraged to participate in after school activities, something I wasn’t thrilled about. For some reason my parents enrolled me in chorus, even though I’ve never expressed any interest in singing and actually get severely anxious about performing in front of a crowd. Nonetheless, every Wednesday after school, I met with dozens of other kids to learn songs for our upcoming “performances.”
On my first day of chorus, I felt like I was going to throw up. I was having a very hard transitional time with my new school and my style was a work in progress which was mocked by other kids. I wore camouflage pants, sweatshirts, rarely did my hair and looked like a kid who needed some attention. The last thing I wanted to do was sing and socialize with strangers when I could be at home playing with my cats or playing outside instead.
When I was waiting for Omie to pick me up one day after chorus, a girl in an oversized Hawaiian shirt walked towards me. She had strawberry blonde hair and straight across bangs. As she got closer she said “Hi, my name’s Alyssa Beach. Do you want to stand together next week in chorus?” I remember agreeing and pointing out that her last name was Beach and she was wearing a Hawaiian shirt. I’ve never forgotten that moment. I don’t really recall the following chorus practices we had or how that played out, but I’ll never forget the day she walked towards me and introduced herself. It’s a core memory of mine. From that moment, we became good friends for the next 8-9 years.
When you’re a kid and you make a good friend, you stick to them. You learn what loyalty is, you spend your hours on the phone or in-person bonding with them. You learn vulnerability by sharing secrets or intimate parts of yourself as you’re discovering them as a kid/teenager. The bond between friends at that age is so impressionable and important. As the years went on and I spent hours, even days on the phone with Alyssa. I spent countless nights at her house for sleepovers, I traveled with her to her volleyball tournaments and even with her family on vacation and vice versa. We laid on the beach together in California reading Cosmo magazine and listening to our CD players. We ate pancakes with peanut butter on Sunday mornings and watched 10 Things I Hate About You. And most importantly, I was always trying to find a way to make her laugh. Her laugh, is still one of the most clear/beautiful things I can hear in my head when it’s silent.
Our time together as kids wasn’t always easy, though. I always regarded Alyssa as a sister more than a friend. She was my family and I would have done anything for her. I was the first person she called when she learned that her sister had died. I was with her only hours after she found out. I remember running from the driveway of her house and through the front door. I hugged her so tight that night that we couldn’t breathe. I slept next to her and told her everything was going to be okay—that I would be by her side every step of the way. I held her hand at the funeral as we walked amongst hundreds of people who stood in a church to honor her sister.
I spent many nights laying in the hammock of her backyard while she told me her favorite memories of her. We spent so many nights laying opposite in the hammock talking about our futures and what life would bring. We talked about how we’d live in California and go to the beach every day. We talked about our insecurities, our fears, the boys we liked, how hard things were at home for both of us at times. Laying in that hammock with her on a warm summer night in Nokesville is one of the nicest things I can think of in the time I’ve been alive. To lay next to a human being who wasn’t related to me by blood but who felt like my sister by bond made me feel safe, loved and secure at a time when not many other people could make me feel those things.
As I write this, Alyssa has been dead nearly longer than she was alive. The day she died feels like an eternity ago but the memory of her hasn’t faded. I can still hear her voice or see her face as clear as I ever did. When I open that box in my closet, I see us running together in the rain. I see us playing with her dogs or listening to music together. I can remember all the painful details of what made her a special, beautiful person. She was unique for her age and I always thought that. She listened to David Bowie, she wore old army jackets, she had a tattoo, she liked old movies and she drank coffee at 15 years old. I can still remember the way she smelled. She always wore the perfume “I love, love” which has a distinct scent.
Nobody ever prepares you to lose someone you love, especially when you’re essentially a kid. One night, I was asleep in my basement when I got a call from Alyssa’s sister, Jess. She called me on a Saturday night around 11:30pm to tell me Alyssa had been in a car accident and that it was serious. She told me which hospital they were at and that they’d be expecting me. I walked slowly upstairs to my mom’s bedroom to tell her what happened. Stunned, she quickly threw on a jacket and a pair of boots and we drove 35 minutes to the hospital in complete silence. It was rainy and cold that night and I remember staring out at the highway completely numb and unaware of what I was walking into. I had just talked to Alyssa earlier that night. It didn’t seem real.
When I walked through the doors, I saw my brother, Ryan, already standing in the lobby with his friends. I knew it wasn’t good but I wasn’t sure to what extent. I saw Alyssa’s dad sitting in a side hallway so I slid my back down the wall to meet him on the ground. He gave me a side hug and a tight squeeze. He turned to look at me and I already knew what he was going to tell me. He said there wasn’t much hope for the situation and that I should be prepared that Alyssa wouldn’t wake up. We spent days in that hospital hoping for the best but to some degree I knew all along that I’d never get to see my friend again.
Today, Alyssa would have been 32 years old. I wonder what her life would look like today, where she’d be living, or how things would be. May 27 is always a special day for me as it always reminds me of celebrating her. She was a ray of sunshine and the best friend a kid could ask for. I’ll love her always.
