I lost my father when I was eleven, he had a brain tumor that had not been properly handled. Went into the hospital walking and came out in a wheelchair. And since that moment he health declined and kept getting worse. My mother and my sister took care of him at home. He was bed ridden and I don't remember him talking much. I'm pretty sure that was the depression. I always felt like I could've done more. But being as it's been eight years since his death, I've dealt with it...mainly because I had the giant pillar of support that would always be Mom. 

Seven years after his death I lost my sister. She passed quite suddenly and unexpectedly. She was only twenty-nine, had two babies, and my mom had just talked to her the night before. My sister had gotten off the phone, went to sleep, and suffocated on her own vomit. We got the call next morning and I finally experienced that moment of disbelief. The moment where I would forgive the person telling me this if it really was just some sick joke. 

Just four days ago I lost my mother. She had always, always been this strong hard-headed woman who tried to get me to believe everything was okay. That it was just another cold. I went to work, she was sleeping, I had made sure she had at least drank some broth beforehand because she had refused to eat anything. I get home, she's made it back to her room to sleep. The next day however everything got worse, she had severe stomach pain, couldn't walk, couldn't see. So I called the ambulence, turns out she had a urinary tract infection that had gone septic. I stayed with her the entire time, she died not even six hours later. I held her hand the entire time, stared into her eyes and kept telling her I loved her. 

I'm only nineteen, and this is by far my hardest loss. I have no family to stay with me, and I don't know the first thing I have to do after someone dies. It's gotten a bit easier so far, but really all I want to do is go find a hole and never come out. I don't even want to work, but I have to. 

I knew this day would come eventually, she was seventy-three after all and had always gotten sick easily. But not just one year after my sister. 

My mother had six kids of her own from her first two marriages, then she married my father who had two daughters of his own, so that makes eight. The last three of her children, Chris, Tammy and I were originally her grand-children. My mother's daughter Tina, was our birth mother, but she was raped and murdered so my mom adopted us three, making eleven. 

I just...don't know what to do. I work at a restaurant as a server, I have to be cheerful and kind, but I don't feel like that. I don't think I can do that now. Before I could plaster on a smile and just shoulder my way through my hardships but now...now is a struggle.