Has it been Ten?

I still write to Lisa Empanada.  Not as often as I used to, but I still do.  Yes, I know she won't read it, but it helps me sort my thoughts sometimes.

For those who don't know, I write about Lisa often, but THIS is as good a starting point as any.

I hate this time of year, as the anniversaries come one after the other.  Being thrown out, SEC, birthday, Lisa's suicide, funeral.  This year it's a bit rougher.

This year it's 10.

Ten years since I was thrown out.  Ten years since I last spoke to Lisa.  Ten years since she died, and everyone endured her funeral.  Is it even possible that ten years have passed?  I'm much older now than she ever lived to be.  (Yes that's grammar error.  Live with it.)

Why do I still write about her?  Why do I still talk about her?  Only a small group of people have even heard of Lisa Empanada these days, compared to when she died, when she was relatively well known.  After all, the transgender community has a high attrition rate, what with murders and suicides and such.  Why do I still have a small urn of her ashes displayed next to her picture and one of her wigs?  Isn't that creepy?  Is this an obsession?

In the end, after all this time, aside from her family, who really gives a flying f*ck about Lisa Empanada?

I do.

She was my dearest friend (aside from my Wife).  She's not the only dear friend I've lost in my life, God knows, and not even the only suicide, but she was the closest.  Lisa exists now only in yellowing pictures, pixels, and memories.  Her voice is only remembered by a few, as she rarely recorded it.  But I remember her.  And I don't want that memory to die.

Lisa's story should be one of happiness and triumph, and, to a certain point it is.  Her wife and children for the most part were supportive.  She volunteered her time and love to the transgender community, and was an amazing ambassador.  BUT...

Then she killed herself.  All that life, that love, that strength... gone.  Died in the back of a dirty painter's van.  Alone.  The way she wanted it.  Then, burned to ashes, again as she wanted it.  Some of the ashes were spread at certain places.  Some were given to close friends.  Most are inurned in her old bedroom.  The urn is purple: her favorite color.   

So, now she's been gone for a decade.

As I said above, in the past ten years, many of my friends died.  Some were quite close.  One was very recent.  I've written about a few of them in this blog.  I also lost many (almost all) of my old friends when I transitioned in 2014.  I'm used to losing people, especially as I get older.  When I leave a job, I want to keep in touch with people, but the ties that bind fade with time.  People that once were family to me are now echoes on the internet.  Maybe an occasional phone call.  "We must get together sometime."  I'm used to being isolated, as I had few friends growing up, and in reality, I'm really socially awkward.  Anyone who knows me knows that I'm prone to saying the wrong things or committing faux pas at alarming rates.  I never learned what it meant to be among people.  That's the price of a lonely childhood.

Taken the day before she died

However, that also means that I treasure the friends that I have, and especially the ones I keep.  They are all that keeps me alive.  They remind me that maybe my life ripples beyond what little I perceive.  My closest friends, well I hope they know what they mean to me.  Linda has been my roomie for almost ten years and hasn't run away screaming.  Ally has also been here for me for ten years.  Other friends stayed despite my transition, some of whom I've known most of my life.  That word "friend" is one I don't use lightly- but I mean it when I use it.

Why do I still write about Lisa Empanada?  Because she was dear to me.  She was my friend, and I WANT people to remember her.  I want her memory to survive as long as it can- far longer than she did in my life.

Lisa was special, and I loved her.  

I miss you, Lisa, and I always will.