A long time ago, in a galaxy far away...
I had a group of friends, we called ourselves the Ohana. A group of people with pasts, with baggage, who chose to make a family. We started out just me & James, Brittany & Phillip, Kim, Andrea, and three kiddos. We got close, we worked together on my house and made crafts with mod podge and did Bible studies and shared sex tips and I learned about a ton of music artists I hadn't heard of and would up tattooing small children with sharpies and playing in rain.
I trusted them. I loved them. It was intense and amazing and probably some of the best times of my whole life.
Somehow, 9 years later I still can't tell you how, everything shattered. And somehow, though were were all a bunch of grown adults, I have shouldered the weight of the broken Ohana. If I had been better, stronger, prayed more, been more spiritual - somehow, in some way the Ohana would still be whole. It's all my fault. Since then, I have resisted connection with anyone and everyone - surface friendships. Walls, I don't want anyone inside, because they will be worse off when they leave me than when they started.
That wound has never healed. I've never forgotten what it was like to have an Ohana, and never forgot how deeply it hurt to lose them. I don't hang out after work with coworkers, I stay on the fringes of church, because I know interacting with humans just brings me that much closer to connecting, and connecting - well, you see how that went before.
This week we lost an Ohana member forever, when a drunk driver hit her car. It was unjust, and unnecessary, and unfair to her three children. The broken remnants of the Ohana gathered together today, at a funeral home.
I had a group of friends, we called ourselves the Ohana. A group of people with pasts, with baggage, who chose to make a family. We started out just me & James, Brittany & Phillip, Kim, Andrea, and three kiddos. We got close, we worked together on my house and made crafts with mod podge and did Bible studies and shared sex tips and I learned about a ton of music artists I hadn't heard of and would up tattooing small children with sharpies and playing in rain.
I trusted them. I loved them. It was intense and amazing and probably some of the best times of my whole life.
Somehow, 9 years later I still can't tell you how, everything shattered. And somehow, though were were all a bunch of grown adults, I have shouldered the weight of the broken Ohana. If I had been better, stronger, prayed more, been more spiritual - somehow, in some way the Ohana would still be whole. It's all my fault. Since then, I have resisted connection with anyone and everyone - surface friendships. Walls, I don't want anyone inside, because they will be worse off when they leave me than when they started.
That wound has never healed. I've never forgotten what it was like to have an Ohana, and never forgot how deeply it hurt to lose them. I don't hang out after work with coworkers, I stay on the fringes of church, because I know interacting with humans just brings me that much closer to connecting, and connecting - well, you see how that went before.
This week we lost an Ohana member forever, when a drunk driver hit her car. It was unjust, and unnecessary, and unfair to her three children. The broken remnants of the Ohana gathered together today, at a funeral home.






