Okay, so there's my grandma. Who had a stroke when I was born and died years later. The only grandma I knew was disabled. Bed ridden. I wanted to help her celebrate. I made a gift for her. For Christmas. Grandpa threw it away. She died a month later.

I was twelve.

And my sister. The ever-so-great sister. Who was on the A honor roll. Who went to the university of Chicago. Who received a Fulbright. Who got accepted into medical school. Who I have been compared to my entire life. Who made my parents think that I'm not good enough. Who made me think I am not good enough.

There's also my grandpa. My moms dad. He had died about 4 years ago. His arched back told the story. His story. How he fought in the war. He was taken as a prisoner. He only lived because he was able to speak their language. The language of the enemy. He knew medicine too. He was forced to fix the lives of the enemy. He had to be someone else in order to survive.

I have to be a different person. I have to survive.  At the place where nothing, everything is quiet.  I can let people in and out.  The place where I do everything. The place where I sleep. The place where I do my homework. The place where I survive. I survive and, therefore, I am alive.  I can envision my life because I am alive. I see myself in that room everyday. Throughout grade school, middle school, and high school. I see myself grow up in that room. I see myself cry in that room. I see myself laugh in that room. I see... I see and therefore I am able to survive.