Ever since I learned of my friend Peter’s passing, I have been on the fence about purchasing a ticket home for a long weekend so I could attend his Celebration of Life event next Sunday. Flying to Hawaii is not cheap – and justifying such a short trip is tough when you live paycheck to paycheck.
But I am following my heart.
There is something magical about Hawaii and if you’ve ever been there, you know exactly what I mean. As soon as you exit the plane you feel it: the warm trade-winds weaved within intoxicating breaths of tropical flowers greeting you like family.
Then there are the people.
There is a certain Ohana (family) atmosphere among the people who live on the island I’ve never come across anywhere else. People open their homes and hearts to you in a way that not only makes you feel welcome, it touches your very soul.
Peter was someone I considered part of my Ohana during a time in my life when everything else around me was chaotic. I was in my twenties and in the thick of my stripping career and he worked at a club where we gals hung out after work. It’s a perfect recipe for shallow bar-talk, but my conversations with Peter were anything but.
Peter was a renaissance man – an artist and dreamer. We dished about books, music and movies but most of all about life; what we wanted to be when we grew up – what drove our passion.
I lost touch with Peter after quitting the stripping life and just last year (through Facebook) was elated to have reconnected again. I was thrilled to learn he lived in Los Angeles, a mere hour away. We emailed one another the night I found him and both admitted to be crying, marinating in sappy reunion-Ohana-love. I promised to catch up with him in person, as did he. But life happened, time went by and we never did see each other. And now he’s gone.
I had no idea Peter suffered clinical depression. When I found out he took his life last week I was catapulted to a place of unbelievable shock but most of all, pure sadness and empathy. Everyone who suffers depression has their own story and I don’t assume to know his exact pain, but I know the dark corners of wanting to end it all. That is what jolts me the most about his story. I wish I would have shared my history with him. I wish, I wish.
So here I am, a week after his passing, happy with my decision to go home. His memory lives through all of us who were blessed to know him. His Celebration of Life event will be as spectacular as he was. We’ll dance to his favorite songs and share laughter remembering his spirit.
Even though I never had a chance to see him again, I know he’s proud of the life I’ve made, so many years after leaving the stripping world. He knows how influential he was to me and how our talks helped shape the woman I am today.