Vanessa Libertad Garcia
My inability to adapt to life’s challenges and assimilate its’ lessons into wisdom, gratitude and optimism have left me psychologically torn, emotionally numb, physically exhausted, and spiritually destitute. I do feel, however, that I gave it a damn good try. — Vanessa Libertad Garcia
Vanessa has died.
There is so much to express from this, and it feels impossibly difficult to concentrate on it when my ears are continually flooded with the sound of cars passing below my bedroom window. I’ve moved to the porch in an attempt to embrace the incessant noise of New Hampshire Avenue, and now I’m writing it down in a further attempt at the same goal. Round and around the cars go, looping Grant Circle endlessly. For me it may be the same fifteen, thirty cars that go and go and go vroom, vroom, vroom around the traffic circle. The sound of their exteriors bludgeoning the air in their paths, and the sound of that air swooshing lithely beneath them, and around their wheels on the asphalt, comes to me as the sound of waves. And so I say the sound floods my ears.
The waves of Santa Monica Beach are beneath these cars. It really seems so. On an overcast yet warm day like today, it really feels like I am there, and not here. A moist breeze ruffles the leaves of the young oak trees planted into the sidewalk before my house. The cars go by and the leaves flutter lazily, suggesting causality. I’m so, so tempted to bash my head in for thinking something so stupid. But what would Vanessa say?
It seems as though she did not want anyone to suffer. She said so in her suicide note:
I leave with absolutely no animosity, anger or resentment toward anyone. I love each and every one of you and will miss you with all of me. Whether we’ve spoken recently or not for many years, you are carved into me and I remember you with deep affection and gratitude.
I am told she jumped off a building. Though it be sick, a part of me smiled. She would, that part said. She so would.
Always passionate, always so fucking glamorous, even at her darkest. I hope she thought, as I did, of Dorothy Hale — or, more specifically, of Frida Kahlo’s great portrayal of the actress’s death.
I hope she would laugh and smile to see that this is where my mind went.
Glamorous, and funny, too: “DO NOT RESUSCITATE, mkay!”
God save me from being selfish.
She was always such an inspiration. Our friendship began on a Monday night in 2011 when we were both depressed, hopeless, and, as she would say, crispy (or crissssp-ay). We enjoyed each other’s company. We talked about women, being broke, art and that horrible emptiness inside. With effort, mine changed; it seems hers could not, or would not.
My soul is at home. My soul is in Los Angeles. All my love to you, too.