Three years ago, on this day, my mother was killed. Every year since then, I have written about my thoughts and emotions and posted something online to share. I treat this as a way to share my thoughts with those who are interested. I seek nothing in return. Each year I write about whatever I would want people to know about me at the time. This is not a way for me to solicit condolences or to cause worry. This is a way for me to share parts of myself in a way that would otherwise be impossible.

This year I feel ready to share these thoughts with more people. If this is your first time reading one of my posts, thank you, sincerely. Here are my previous posts, if you are interested:
On Grieving (2018)
On Being Okay (2019)
On Being Alive (2020)

I would like to talk about two experiences from my life. If you choose to read this, please do not feel obligated to let me know that you have done so. I write these for everyone and for no one. Perhaps I write these for myself.

Before I issue this warning, I assure you that I am not in any danger. These events are from over 3 years ago and I am simply recounting them. Let me reiterate: life has been difficult, but I am doing okay right now.

[CONTENT WARNING: I discuss suicide in this post.]

The Time I Met My Mother's Killer

My uncle and my cousin (my mother's brother and his son) were visiting California, from Hungary, in August 2017. If I recall correctly, neither of them had been to America in quite some time. My mom planned to take them on a number of trips during their stay. One of these trips was to get lobster from a restaurant in Baja California, Mexico: La Casa Del Pescador. I didn't really understand why we needed to go to Mexico to get lobster, but I was interested in the miniature road trip. I can't remember what tipped me off to do so, but I repeatedly asked my mom to make sure that it would just be a family outing. She promised me that it would just be the five of us, in one car: her, my grandmother, my uncle, my cousin, and myself. She promised me it would be a one-day trip, there and back. It wasn't long before both of these promises were broken.

Shortly after leaving the house, we made a stop in a nearby parking lot. My grandma and my cousin left our car and met a man who stepped out of the car parked beside us. I had never seen this man before. They got into the car with him and we resumed our trip to Mexico. No matter how much I pleaded with her, my mom refused to tell me who this person was. I overheard a couple speakerphone conversations along the way. Since they were discussing driving directions, I gathered that my mom was talking with this mystery man. The worst part of these calls was hearing him call her "love", "honey", and other nicknames. Each one made my stomach turn.

This wasn't the only time that I had ever felt alone, ignored, and kept in the dark. However, this was the first time in a while that it had happened. I had to bite my tongue and endure it when I was a child, but I had found some autonomy since moving away for college. At this moment, it felt like that agency was stripped away from me again. I felt like an afterthought. My plan for the rest of the day was the same as it always was in these scenarios: participate at the bare minimum, avoid conflict, and bottle my emotions.

We made an unexpected (to me) stop at Pala, a hotel and casino, about an hour later. The drive to the restaurant is only two hours long, so I didn't understand why we needed a pit stop. I tried asking my mom and she told me that we would spend the night there and go to Mexico the next day, in the morning. Stopping at Pala for the day further rewound me into my childhood. We seemingly spent every holiday there, and it always went the same way: my mom and grandma would spend the night at the casino while I tried to find ways to occupy myself. I hated it there. It didn't seem like this would be any different. I resigned to my plan and tried to stay calm under the increasingly stressful circumstances.

This is when I met the man who was driving the other vehicle in our caravan of two. While my mom was arranging the rooms for our stay, he and I stood in silence by each other. He introduced himself as Stephen. I didn't have to introduce myself because he already know who I was. Some more silence passed. He piped up and tried to make small talk about what he did in college. He told me that he knew I was a math major, and that he had studied some statistics in school. I responded with the bare minimum. He tried another subject: he knew that I played tuba in school and proceeded to tell me about how his children (who were now adults) had played instruments in school too. I responded with the bare minimum. He asked me if I had ever heard of George Carlin, because he knew that I enjoyed listening to stand-up comedy. I told him that I was familiar and enjoyed his work. He responded with some more. I responded with the bare minimum. Lastly, and unprompted, he presumed my nonexistent curiosity on the matter and began explaining to me why he had nail polish on just one finger. He told me that it was part of the Polished Man initiative, in which men bring awareness to end child violence by sparking conversations about the topic. I responded with the bare minimum.

Shortly after this interaction, I made a depressing realization: this man felt like he knew who I was because my mom recited our most recent conversation to him. Indeed, in a recent conversation with my mom I had told her that I was studying math in school, that I was playing tuba in the band, and that I had been watching stand-up comedy in my spare time. Is that what she thought was descriptively important about me? Is this all she was able to tell him about me? Is that all she really felt like she knew about me at the time? These are question that I'll never have answers to. These are questions that continue to haunt me.

I tried talking to my mom about how uncomfortable I was with the entire ordeal. I didn't want to be there. I didn't appreciate the surprise add-on to our party. I didn't want to spend more than a day away from home. All of these protests were met with her ignoring me. She accused me of being rude, inconsiderate, and unappreciative. I told her how creepy Stephen was and how uncomfortable he made me. This, too, was ignored. I spent the rest of the night in the hotel room by myself, while everyone else was at the casino.

The next day we actually made the trip to Mexico. I tried, and failed, to ignore all the fawning and romantics that Stephen put on display while we were there. I clenched my jaw, gave minimum participation, and tried to remind myself that this would be over by the end of the day. By now, my cousin, my uncle, and my grandma had noticed that I was not having a good time. They each tried to convince me to lighten up and enjoy myself. I could do no such thing. My mom continued to ignore my attempts to tell her how uncomfortable, unhappy, and disrespected I felt. She told me that I was disrespecting her. We were on our way back by the early afternoon, and I felt my emotional clouds parting. Soon I wouldn't have to ever deal with Stephen again, and I could spend some time alone trying to deal with (read: compartmentalize) the experience of this trip.

There was a bomb threat at the border shortly before we arrived.

I should have expected this, but it surprised me when we made another stop at Pala. It was my understanding that we were done with the trip and on our way back home. My mom told me that we were actually going to spend another night at Pala because she was planning to watch a concert there. She hadn't told me about that until now. This was the second time I felt lied to, and I really had enough. I was 19 years old. I was my own person. I didn't have to be dragged around like this if I didn't want to.

At this point I protested by refusing to order anything at dinner, and I stopped trying to give the bare minimum. I felt hurt. I felt sad. I felt exhausted. I felt ignored. I felt alone. I asked if I could drive myself home that night because there were two cars and only six of us. My mom took that as an attack against everything she stood for. She told me that wasn't an option, lest my dad see everyone else come home in an unknown car. I tried one more time to tell my mom how uncomfortable and hurt I felt. This time she ignored me.

I spent the rest of the night in the hotel room, texting my dad and a close friend. Had they not been house-sitting at the time, my friend would have been more than willing to make the hour-long drive to pick me up from my personal hell. When I texted my dad about what was going on, he seemed to be apathetic about the situation. I told him how excruciatingly uncomfortable I was with how this Stephen person was acting around my mom. He told me, "I don't know, I wasn't invited to go with u guys, so I have no clue" who Stephen is. I asked him if he could take me home, and he told me that he could be there in two hours as long as I told my mom that I was leaving. At that point I didn't really care, and I just wanted to go home. I was emotionally wiped out and I just wanted to have my own space.

Two agonizing hours passed and my dad arrived at Pala. He asked me if I told my mom that I was leaving yet. I said that I hadn't. He casually told me exactly where she was in the casino. I went up to her, trembling, feeling every emotion, and on the verge of tears. I told her that I was going home. She was shocked and asked how. I told her that my dad had come to pick me up. She was incredulous, "You called him?! He's here?!" He was standing some distance behind me. My chest was violently shaking, but I felt the need to take this opportunity of apparent mutual communication to try, one last time, to tell her how I felt.

I told her I was hurt. I told her that it hurt me that she was ignoring my feelings. I told her how disrespected I felt because she wouldn't listen to what I was saying. She held out her palm, faced toward me, and simply repeated "Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. You're done. Bye. Bye. You're done. Thank you. Thank you." I started crying and raised my voice to avoid choking on my words. I was causing a scene in the casino. A scene that would normally mortify me: people were stopping and staring. My entire existence was on fire. Stephen was sitting across the aisle from her, watching this unfold. I kept going. My heart was threatening to burst out of my chest. My mom looked past me and mouthed to my dad, "Please take him away."

I bawled on the way back home.

My dad asked why I was crying.

I went to sleep feeling empty.

The Time I Almost Killed Myself

I woke up feeling empty.

My eyes were open, but I wasn't present and I didn't want to be. I lied motionless on my bed. My mom came in to say something. I couldn't pay attention. I couldn't react. I couldn't respond. She left. Later, my dad came in to say something. I couldn't pay attention. I couldn't react. I couldn't respond. He left. Soon the house was empty. I had been actionless all morning, and each waking minute grew heavier and denser. I lost my grip on time, and my grip on space was soon to follow. I needed to be over.

I tied a noose. I tested how much weight it could bear. I felt everything and nothing all at once.

A fragment of my consciousness remembered a promise from long ago that a friend had made to me: "If you're ever in trouble, call me. If I don't pick up, then leave a voicemail saying anything, and call again right after that. I will pick up the second time."

I called him.

He picked up instantly.

I wept for minutes before I could tell him that I was standing on a chair.

He talked me down, and asked if we could meet up later that day.

We met later that day.

We walked around.

We talked about life.

We repeat.
We repeat successes and failures.
We repeat habits.
We repeat mistakes and improvements.
We repeat stories.
We repeat highs and lows.
We repeat ideas.
We repeat nightmares and memories.
We repeat others.
We repeat waking and sleeping.
We repeat patterns.
We repeat repetition itself.
Repetition—as an idea—repeats, regardless of us.

These experiences have been repeating in my head for quite some time. This is not uncommon. I often have repeated nightmares surrounding the trauma that I've experienced. Sometimes these nightmares bleed into my waking, conscious hours. However it seems that these are two of the louder nightmares that weigh on me, more so than others. I have been working in therapy to understand why certain experiences like these weigh more than others. There is no single answer, but I have developed a hypothesis: repetition, and lack thereof.

I haven't talked about these experiences with many people. Those close to me probably know what happened to my mom, but I have only talked about that trip to Mexico with a handful of individuals. Only a few people know that I've come close to taking my own life. This lack of external repetition forced these experiences to ferment in the catacombs of my emotions. Not only that, but further traumatic experiences repeated and exacerbated these feelings. That trip to Mexico was excruciating in and of itself, but it took on a whole new pain when my mother was killed. It evolved into an unbelievably harrowing memory once I learned that Stephen was responsible for planting the package bomb that killed her.

Each time I caught a draft of these deep, dark nightmares, I relived those emotions. The repetition echoed and distorted my perception to the point where I began falsely associating these two experiences with each other. Until this week, I thought that these two events were causally related. I thought that I was so empty and defeated from the trip to Mexico that I wanted to take my own life the next day. That is not the case, however. When I was reviewing my old text messages to confirm contextual details, I realized that the trip to Mexico happened weeks after my attempt. How could I have falsely connected these two events?

Herein lies a sinister effect of repetition. By only repeating these memories to myself, I developed an internal canon which seemed emotionally sound but was causally incorrect. These experiences happened within weeks of each other, and it simply made sense at some point for my brain to associate them with each other. This speaks to the incredible—and often subconscious—drive that we have to make reason out of the unreasonable. More importantly, my experience of recalling and writing about this speaks to the value of repetition.

Anyone who speaks with me for long enough might recognize that I use an abundance of metaphors. Personally, it's the easiest way for me to communicate. They allow me to capture more of the abstract, intangible aspects of my thoughts while remaining intelligible. As such, I've been making heavy use of a class of metaphors while in therapy.

I feel as though all of my experiences that I've bottled up and compartmentalized amount to a warehouse of glass jars. These containers are all sealed air-tight, but the pressure is slowly building in each of them. Some are so old that they're caked in dust and I can no longer even tell what's inside. I can't investigate these without opening them up and risking an emotional catastrophe. The pressure in my emotional warehouse builds without any sign of slowing. Sometimes I pick the wrong jar to unpack, and countless others come crashing down on top of me when I am least prepared.

Each time in the past when I tried to seek therapy, I brought with me the mindset of hoping to eliminate these jars. However, eliminating these experiences would amount to eliminating fundamental aspects of my life. The cycle repeated with all of my previous therapists: I would get frustrated that these emotional jars weren't disappearing, I would "disillusion" myself, and I would grow increasingly skeptical of the efficacy of therapy. It got to the point where I refused to search for a therapist in the last two years because I didn't think I could handle repeating that self-defeating cycle.

Fortunately, several months ago, I had a revolutionary chat with a sibling of a friend. This person happened to be a therapist, but we spoke casually. I explained my troubles with past experiences, some of my traumas, and some of my worries. He explained to me that I need to be aware of why I'm going to therapy: "If you're not talking about the things you want to be talking about, then either you're holding back or something about your relationship with your therapist is holding you back." He shared a wealth of knowledge about developing my relationship with a therapist, and with therapy itself. I called this conversation meta-therapy. He chuckled, "I suppose you can call it that!"

I've started seeing a therapist twice a week since then. Though difficult and exhausting, it's slowly helping me understand my own patterns. I'm able to carefully pick out the right emotional jars to unpack when we're in session. Even if I drop some containers and make a(n emotional) mess, I have someone to help me untangle and clean up. Furthermore, I have been finding new ways to interpret my emotions and experiences in a way that is less combative and anxiety-inducing. One of these ideas that I've developed is the importance of "closing the loop" and "repeating the loop".

I'm finding that sometimes certain experiences weigh more than others because they're open loops, fermenting out of control in their emotional jars. In a sense, this is a lack of closure. I have long denied myself the opportunity to sincerely feel and engage with the emotions contained in these events. By wholeheartedly talking about them with others, with my therapist, with you, I feel the loop close. This is not enough, however. Inevitably these thoughts and experiences will resurface. At that point I must embrace the repetition of the loop. I re-experience, re-contextualize, and re-interpret these emotions, but something is different... Each time, something is different... The variation is less important than the repetition itself. By embracing the repetition, I gain new insight, awareness, and even solace. Repeating the loop is how I am able to keep growing, even when it feel like I'm stagnating, stuck in the loop.

(At the risk of putting a metaphorical hat on a hat on my metaphor...) Closing and repeating these loops evokes the image of tracing a circle, naturally. I see poetry in this resemblance. Try to draw a circle, freehand, and it will probably come out a bit oblong. Try again, over your previous attempt, and it will probably be slightly off in a different regard. But, if you try over and over again, you slowly develop an actual, well-formed circle. It's not that any individual future attempt produces a perfect circle; you will never reach perfection. Each repetition contributes to the overall progress toward the goal. Each repetition, though imperfect, is vital. Progress is not measured by individual attempts. Rather, progress is the entire journey itself. Such is life.

So I learned cut out the middle man, make it all for everybody, always
Everybody can't turn around and tell everybody, everybody already knows, I told them
But this means there isn't a place in my life for you or someone like you
Is it sad? Sure. But it's a sadness I chose
I wish I could say this was a story about how I got on the bus a boy
And got off a man more cynical, hardened, and mature and shit
But that's not true. The truth is I got on the bus a boy. And I never got off the bus
I still haven't
- Childish Gambino. "That Power", Camp, 2011.

I have had to deal with my depression since middle school, and I have become aware of my issues with anxiety since starting college. On top of both of those, dealing with the trauma of everything surrounding my mom's death has been one of the greatest challenges that I have ever faced. Unlike the academic challenges that I welcome and willingly put myself up against such as AP, IB, and now my Master's Degree, I don't know when this will end. I often fear that it will never end.

There are days where it feels like I am living a normal life, free of existential burdens. Days where I can enjoy life, the company of my friends, and fun activities, all without my fears looming over me. But these days are few and far between. I am constantly trying to balance keeping myself busy enough to distract from my emotions while not overworking myself into complete and utter exhaustion. Unfortunately, for the last year, I have been leaning heavily toward the latter.

Is this what it means to be alive? To constantly run from my nightmares while maintaining some facade that I am outpacing them? It's exhausting. At first, I struggled with even opening large packages. I was terrified that I would receive a package bomb much like the one that killed my mom. Even with a suspect in custody, I feared for my life. I still do... After enough time, I was able to move past that fear and onto the next: talking to people about what happened.

Ever since my mom died, I have been extremely aware of how I phrase my sentences. "My mom is" or "My mom was" is a decision I have to make every time I talk about her. Do I use verbiage that indicates that my mom is dead, thus inviting a request for an explanation? Do I bite my tongue and pretend that everything is fine? More often than not, to make things easier for everyone, I choose the latter. Nobody knows how to respond or help whenever they find out, and I feel awful burdening them with the information. It is easier for everyone, including myself, to avoid recanting the traumatic events altogether. For so many reasons, this is extremely taxing. There are cases where this is impossible to avoid, though.

When is it appropriate to tell someone that my mom was killed in an explosion that left almost no identifiable remains of her? When should I tell someone that I often fear that I will be the victim of such a targeted attack? How do I so without alienating those who are close to me? I don't know the answer to these questions, and I don't think there are any answers. Unfortunately these questions, and a plethora of similar questions, are constantly spinning in my head. They often keep me up at night when my insomnia is particularly bad.

As with any intractable problem, I do my best by making educated guesses. I try not to burden anyone with this information unless I have known them for enough time, or until I feel comfortable sharing this part of my story with them. I have built my support system that I heavily rely on. I have my coping mechanisms, be they healthy, self-destructive, or anywhere in between. Although these strategies can have adverse effects on my well-being, they are often sufficient (and sometimes necessary) to distract me from my deepest fears and traumas.

Is this all there is to life? Is my eternal task to establish and maintain support networks that keep me out of the void of rumination? This is untenable and unfulfilling. I have my own aspirations and dreams that I have to sideline in order to maintain what's left of my sanity. This is impossible. Why do I bother trying? I just... I just want to give up. I am constantly so fucking tired of existing. Nothing seems to work. Nothing seems to improve. Everything is futile.

"Chaos already dominates enough of our lives. The universe is an endless raging sea of randomness. Our job isn't to fight it, but to weather it together, on the raft of life. A raft held together by those few, rare, beautiful things that we know to be predictable."
- Abed Nadir, Community (Season 3, Episode 4: "Remedial Chaos Theory")

Why do I keep going? I recently told a friend, "I have no will for anything left in me. Yet, I have never before felt so much love for the people close to me. I'm doing this for them." As morbid and scary as this may be to read—and admit—this is the truth. Those who are close to me and the organizations that I am a part of have given me so much. I have been supported every step of the way, and I try very hard not to take that for granted. Thank you to everyone involved. Thank you, the reader. Everyone has their burdens that they carry. Big or small. Private or public. I hope that one day I will be able to support those close to me as they have supported me. Nobody should ever have to go through something like this alone. I am not sure where I would be without my support raft.

“Yet, even amid hatred and carnage, life is still worth living. It is possible for wonderful encounters and beautiful things to exist.”
- Hayao Miyazaki, co-founder of Studio Ghibli

Life is scary, but it is beautiful too. There is so much out there that it is incomprehensible. So much so that we often overlook the vastness of everything that there is. So much to do, so much to see. So what's wrong with taking the backstreets? Life is what you make of it, whatever and however that may be. I find it incredible that our eyes can see a candle light from a mile away. Similarly, a modicum of hope shines bright in the omnipresence of fear. That's what I see right now. I'm not sure what it is, how far away it is, or what I need to do to get there. However small it may be, that's all I've got.

That's what I'm holding on to.

"Life isn't always this happy, but you have to keep living on! I'm going to try!"
- my mom

My mom was killed exactly one year ago.

A lot happened before that, a lot happened on that day, and a lot has happened since.

Goodbye

The last time I saw my mom was when she came to visit Seattle with my uncle, who was visiting from Hungary. I showed her all the places that I love about Seattle, all the things I did in my free time, and spent the whole day with her. Since then, I carry the public transit pass that she bought with me. It's always sandwiched between the back of my phone and my phone case:

The last time I spoke to my mom was on Mother's Day, 2018. I think she was in a rush, because we only spoke for a couple minutes and she didn't have much to ask me about. She hung up before I could say goodbye.

2018-05-15

I had recently begun a new job at school, and it was my third day working. I received a distressed message from one of my mom's friends, around 2:00 PM, while I was working. She asked if my mom was okay, if she was back from her trip to Hungary, and if I had spoken to her recently. I honestly did not know the answer to any of these questions, because I didn't speak very frequently with my mom but I was under the impression that she was still on her trip in Hungary. Then my mom's friend said that "something happened" at the private salon that she operated, Magyar Kozmetika. My head was spinning. A quick search online gave me a single article which claimed that a car had crashed into a business complex on Mareblu, next to the building that my mom's salon was in. I was somewhat relieved, but still shocked and worried. So I tried texting and calling my mother's phone, but got no response. My first thought was that there were so many people trying to do the same, that the nearby cell tower was being overloaded. Unfortunately, that was not the case.

I tried to continue working my shift, while frequently checking for new articles online about the incident. Different articles and updates to previous ones slowly trickled in as the hour passed, and the consensus was that a gas leak cause some sort of explosion. At this point I began to panic, and tried to contact my mom with no success. Shortly after, an article posted an aerial picture of the scene with an updated address: 11 Mareblu, Aliso Viejo, California. My heart sank, because I had recently helped my mom move to her new location and that was the address. Further in the article, it mentioned that the incident took place in a "corner suite on the first floor" of the business complex. Magyar Kozmetika was in a corner suite, on the first floor. I took a closer look at the aerial image, and tried to imagine my steps through the building, only to realize that that was a picture of my mom's corner suite. It was undeniable: something happened in my mom's corner suite.

I left work immediately, and ran to my dorm. I frantically called the Orange County Sheriff's hotline to find out more information about the victims or about what happened. Their lines were so flooded, that there was an automated message pertaining to the incident. It said that information about the incident would be released online as soon as it was available. But that was not going to work for me. The most recent articles confirmed that some sort of explosion occurred, killing someone and injuring (and seriously burning) two others. I began to cry, but I did everything I could to find hope. I called every ER, ICU, burn ward, and hospital in Orange County and asked if they had recently admitted anyone by the name "Ildiko", "Ilidko Krajnyak", "Ildiko Krajnyak-Vestil", or "Ildiko Vestil". One by one they all told me that no one by that name had been admitted, and I held back tears while I begged them if they knew anything about the incident. Only one hospital had heard about it, but they didn't know where any of the victims would have gone for treatment. I was running out of options.

There was no way that my mom was killed. She's... my mom. It just wasn't possible. I refused to accept it. After another round of calling various hospitals, I tried calling the Orange County Sheriff's Office again. I finally got through to a live person, and uttered a phrase that I never thought I would have to. My mind was racing, tears were streaming, I could barely talk, and my body was shaking. All I could let out was, "I think I'm next of kin." The person on the other end of the line said, "Let me connect you to the coroner's office." I felt my heart stop. I knew it was in the realm of possibilities, but I did not prepare myself to hear that. I spoke to someone at the coroner's office, repeated the same phrase, and they connected me to their field agent. To paraphrase, part of our conversation went as follows:

...
Field Agent: There have been a couple people that say that they saw your mom walking in and out of the building today so, considering the circumstances and the other two victims, we think that it is likely that your mom was killed in the explosion. I so sorry to tell you this.
Me: Is there any way for you to tell for sure?
Field Agent: The explosion compromised the structural integrity of the building, so they are not letting anyone on to the scene yet. But I'll be one of the first people there, and I'll call you as soon as I know more.
...

I wept. I bawled. I think I screamed. My head was pounding. My body felt like it was about to implode. I felt so small and powerless. Tears were smearing case numbers, phone numbers, and names that I had been jotting down in my notebook. I couldn't handle being in my dorm, so I left for a walk. I didn't know when I would come back, or where I would go but I needed to do something. While I was out, I received a phone call from the field agent that was a first in a series of incomprehensible conversations that I would have following this day.

Field Agent: So they just let us onto the scene, and we cannot tell for sure but we think that the victim is your mom. Again, I'm so sorry to tell you this.
Me: What do you mean that you can't tell for sure?
Field Agent: Well, normally, we can identify the victim by looking at their body. But sometimes that's not an option for us. At that point, we would take fingerprints to try to identify the body but we are not able to do that in this case.

I felt like I was about to vomit.

Field Agent: The next options we would look to are dental records or surgical records. I know this is a very hard question, and you don't need to have an answer right away but it would help us immensely if you could think about this. Do you know if your mom had any recent dental work or metal implants as a result from surgery?

I knew that my mom recently had dental work at the same orthodontist that I went to, so I told the field agent what I knew. She asked if I knew my mom's dentist, and that was also the same as mine. Our conversation ended there.

My neighbor informed me that the FBI had raided my home with about 30 agents wielding guns. She said that they were carrying boxes out of my house, and loading them into a massive van. That explained why my dad wasn't responding to my messages that night. It turned out that every phone and computer in my house had been collected as evidence, and my father, grandmother, and my mom's cousin were being held in the living room while this took place overnight. There was going to be a press conference in the morning about the incident, so I couldn't sleep. My mind was racing. Why did this happen? How did this happen?

The next morning, I sat in the HUB with some friends while I watched the press conference. At 3:00 minutes into the press conference, they said my mom's name and I began bawling in a public space. I couldn't control myself. I... My world stopped. The other part of that press conference that broke me, was that they did not believe the incident to be an accident. ... Someone did this. After that I knew I wasn't going to be able to go to my classes, but I was compelled to inform my professors. I was blinded by all my emotions when I burst into my Probability class, late, while everyone was silently taking a quiz, and told my professor out loud "My mom was killed yesterday in an explosion, so I don't think I'm going to be able to attend class for a while." My next interaction with a professor went a little better.

I went to Adam Blank's office, and probably interrupted him while he was finishing the slides for the lecture that he about to give in 30 minutes. I broke down crying in the middle of explaining myself, and he told me that he's gonna make sure that I get all the help that I can. He walked me down to the advising office, introduced me to an advisor that he was close to, and sat there with me while I just cried for 30 minutes. I tried to remind him that his class was about to start, but he told me that he wanted to make sure that I was okay before he left. If you're reading this, Adam, thank you.

After that was a series of therapists, flights, condolences, and interactions that are a visceral, traumatizing blur. But above all of it, the worst things I experienced were the decisions that I had to make, and the constant harassment from TV news stations that stalked my home. I left school for two weeks, and was fortunately afforded to opportunity to complete all of my missed work over the following summer.

Hello

I'm okay.

That is my honest, sincere, complete answer to the question "How are you doing?" I don't know if it will ever get better, but I seriously doubt that it will. Every day is a challenge, and I am faced with the Sisyphean task of distracting myself with enough work to not think about my trauma. Obviously this does not work all the time, and I either overwork myself or ruminate for hours, replaying in my head everything that has happened. I'm trying my very best. I don't know what to do, or what's best for me, but I am trying so hard.

People share their condolences and sometimes commend me for how "strong" I am and how well I'm doing, but I don't really know how to respond or how to agree with them. Things aren't getting better, but I'm still managing to keep my head above the water. I started working as a Teaching Assistant in the Computer Science department this quarter, which gives me the fulfillment of helping other with something that I am passionate about. I've been making more friends than I thought I would ever have, and I've been connecting more with those who are close to me. I'm not sure where I would be without that support network. I wish I knew how to appropriately and adequately thank everyone that has helped me along the way, and everyone who still helps me. I appreciate every thought, even when it's hard for me to see past the past.

I haven't really been able to sleep for the last year, and that's only become worse with recent developments in the FBI investigation. Every day feels like I'm more tired than the last. My nightmares have become so frequent and intense that I often wake up and genuinely fear that someone is trying to kill me. I'm struggling to find things that keep me going, and I'm running out of things to try. But I haven't given up. A long-time friend told me that I'm never going to have the same "normal" life that I used to have, and I'll have to find a "new normal." I'm still trying to find that.

I'm still figuring out how I want to lead my life, and what I want to do with it. As of now, I'm doing my best to support the people close to me.

"I believe our adventure through time has taken a most serious turn."
-Ted (Theodore) Logan, Bill & Ted's Excellent Adventure

There are a lot of things I don't know how to do. I don't know how to change the tire on a car. I don't know how to operate a dishwasher. I don't know to ice skate without hurting myself. But, among all of those things, the most daunting thing is that I don't know how to grieve. Every person that I have spoken to has assured me that everyone grieves differently, and that I should take all the time I need. But I'm worried that I'm just not doing it right.

In the last year I lost a friend to an overdose, a friend to suicide, and my mother due to a package bomb that was delivered to her workplace. I can't say that any of these were easy things to comprehend, let alone cope with. I've yet to have a day pass where I don't think of any of these people. They all meant very much to me and my life has certainly changed for the best because of them. I want to do everything in my power to live my life and honor them. But what does that mean?

"How do you deal with all of it?"

I've honestly anticipated this question more than I've heard it asked of me, but my answer is somewhat straightforward: one day at a time. With all of these losses, especially my mother's, there is so much that I don't understand and that I fear I will never understand. I can't justify dwelling on it all and hoping that something will improve. I've come to learn that that's just not how life goes. There is so much to life in the small and the big, in the order and the chaos, and in the old and the new. So much is overlooked and taken for granted. In the last month, I've learned that that is not how I want to lead my life anymore. There's something in everything, if you look close enough with an open mind.

"When life gives you lemons, don't make lemonade. Make life take the lemons back! Get mad! I don't want your damn lemons, what the hell am I supposed to do with these? Demand to see life's manager! Make life rue the day it thought it could give Cave Johnson lemons! Do you know who I am? I'm the man who's gonna burn your house down! With the lemons! I'm gonna get my engineers to invent a combustible lemon that burns your house down!"
- Cave Johnson, Portal 2 (2011)

The most surprising thing that I've noticed, out of everything in the last month, is that I've yet to be truly angry or mad in regards to the event. I've been sad, scared, helpless, confused, and everything in between, but I have yet to feel any animosity whatsoever. Instead, I think that a lot of those emotions have been filled with depression and anxiety. But that's what I would prefer, if I had the choice. At least I'm used to those emotions.

The closest I came to any sort of anger, is from the utter lack of respect that the media showed when they constantly harassed my family and me. Even then, I understand where they're coming from: it's their livelihood and they need to do what they need to do, in order to make a living. I just can't sufficiently articulate how much I despise being the center of attention, especially when they sensationalize everything that did and did not happen. The other thing that bothers me is when people try to tell me how I feel and what I'm thinking. I don't even know how I feel or what I'm thinking, so I don't know how anyone else would.

There are just so many things that I experienced in the last month that I never thought I would have decide, talk about, or even think of. It feels like I haven't slept in a month, and that's starting to catch up with me.

I want to be able to say that I've grown as a person or learned valuable lessons from everything, but I just simply can't. There's no story here, there's no moral lesson, there's no silver lining. It's all pain manifesting in unexpected ways every day. It's been a month, and nothing is getting better. The only difference is that I've gathered the composure to lead a normal life and interact with people without breaking down. The more I try to think about it, the more I feel my brain dumping every thought into my subconscious and the more speechless and thoughtless I feel...

One thing that I've particularly developed an anxiety-ridden reaction to is responding to condolences. I don't know what to say. I don't think other people know what to say. Nobody knows what to say, nobody knows what to do, and nobody knows... why this all happened. That last one keeps me up most nights. This is all such an emotion vortex that I get sucked in and zone out to oblivion if I let myself ruminate for too long. That's why I've tried to keep myself occupied for the last month.

I've made a steady effort to get out and spend time with people every day, learn new things, and be the best that I can for everyone. This isn't meant to be a sob story, and I'm not asking for anything from anyone. I just needed to write this to give an update. I'm living my life, day by day, to the best of my ability. I think that's the most that one can ask for, when considering the circumstances.

I especially want to thank those closest to me for taking care of me, for checking up on me, and for helping me with the unimaginable. Y'all are the best. If you would like to reach out, feel free to do so by whatever means you know of. I'll do my best to have a timely response, but sometimes it's hard.

Life is short, Earth is small, and we are but morsels of matter in the universe. As Ted "Theodore" Logan, portrayed by my alter-ego, was once advised:

"Be excellent to each other."