Tag Archives: LoveNeverDies

Losing Weight

Losing Weight.jpgGrief is heavy. You carry that weight in your body, in your heart, and in your Soul. Some people are lucky enough to experience what I call the “Death Diet.” These lucky bastards are heavy emotionally, and yet they lose so much physical weight they become unrecognizable. Not so much for me. I’ve wrapped myself in comfort food. I’ve eaten my emotions. This sucks. It’s another facet of Grief that changes you. There’s no quick-fix, miracle diet that can help. The heaviness weighs more than pounds, more than tons. Sometimes you don’t even realize how much you are carrying until, one day, it begins to lift.

I know I’ve talked about the physical experience of Grief. I capitalize it because, really, Grief is an entity. It’s more than an emotion. Grief has substance and presence. It has characteristics and influence. When Grief first shows up in your life, it brings its close friend Denial. They work together to make their way into your body a little at a time. Grief is too strong to manage without the numbing influence of Denial. Occasionally their cousin PTSD sneaks into the mix unseen and hides. He’s an asshole. Grief changes every cell of your body. During my first year Since, I would forget people’s names. Even people I had known for years – even people in my family! I couldn’t hold a thought in my head, and I constantly forgot words I meant to use. I could hold a conversation with someone and shortly thereafter have no memory of what we talked about. There was a point where I really did think I had early Alzheimer’s or Dementia. It turns out that “Grief Brain” is a real thing. Seriously. MRI’s show that a person experiencing profound Grief has changes in their brain function. It used to drive Nason crazy having to repeat himself all the time. Thankfully, he’s a pretty awesome kid, and when we explained what Grief Brain is, he accepted that Mom and Dad were just going to be clueless for a while.

Eventually, Denial makes way for Reality to come in. Reality can be a jerk. It hurts. It takes the blinders off and lifts that numbing fog that surrounds you. Reality has a sidekick named Anger. Luckily for me (and everyone around me) Anger doesn’t mesh with my personality and never really took hold. Reality makes way for Acceptance. Acceptance is the hardest to allow into your life. Acceptance means that you give up the fight against What Is. You give up the hope that this is a nightmare and will end someday. You let go of the dream you had for your child’s life; for your family’s life. You allow for the fact that this is how life is going to be. Here’s the kicker that you don’t expect – It’s going to be ok. It will never be the same. It will never be what you wanted. Sadness will live in every moment of every day forever, and even with all that, life is still going to be amazing.

I knew pretty early on that I couldn’t heal living in the house that Nolan died in. Every morning I awoke in the bed where he spoke his last words. I got showered in the bathroom where he took his last breath. I would pass by the spot where he would lay on the floor and sleep in the afternoon sun. I would see where he stood in the kitchen looking up new recipes. I sat on the couch he slept on for a month. I put pellets in the stove he nearly blew up pouring lighter fluid in. I went up the stairs he slid down in laundry baskets and blankets. I put clothes down a laundry shoot he would climb up and play in. He was everywhere, and yet, he was nowhere. His room was frozen exactly the way he left it. Dust settled on everything because I couldn’t even walk upstairs to go near it.

Ray had a different experience of the house. He found comfort in living in the space that Nolan was so happy in. It was really hard to manage between us. I avoided being there, and he never wanted to leave. At one point, I told him I was moving and hoped that he would come with me, but even if he didn’t, I would be moving out in order to heal. It took some long talks and patience for him to get on board with moving. It took time for Nason to be ok with it as well. We had to promise him, cross our hearts, that we would not leave the neighborhood. We do live in a pretty awesome neighborhood, but houses here don’t come up too often and don’t stay on the market long.

It took a year for us to find a house that would feel like home. It’s tiny. I mean, really tiny. To downsize from 7,000 square feet to about 1,500 (and that might be an overestimate) is an undertaking. It’s been a leap of faith. We didn’t want to miss out on this new home waiting for ours to sell, so we had to just dive in head first. Carrying two mortgages is scary! In theory we could afford it if we budgeted carefully, but Reality seldom works out the way you plan. (If anyone wants to buy our old house, now would be great!)

We’ve been in our new home for a few weeks now. The strangest thing has happened. The air fills my lungs again. The music reaches my ears. Beauty is returning to the world. I didn’t realize how much weight I was carrying with me. I was used to the constant struggle to keep my thoughts from darkness. I was used to gearing myself up to enter those walls every night. Now everything feels different. I look forward to coming home after work. On my days off, I don’t want to go anywhere. I wake up in the morning, and the first thing I say is still “Good morning, Nolan,” but the tears don’t flow right away. When I go to bed, the last thing I say is still, “Good night Buddy. I love you,” but then I rest peacefully. Sometimes losing weight has nothing to do with pounds.

 

 

Advertisements

Bye Felicia

bye felicia

2 years Since. It’s really hard to believe it’s been that long. This time of year will always be difficult for me. Difficult is an understatement. It’s torture, really. PTSD is on screech. I relive those moments over and over and over again. The waves roll in and pull me under. After it all, however, I’m still standing. I’m not left curled in the fetal position wishing for Death’s cold embrace. I’m standing tall – as tall as my 5’3″ can be – with my feet planted firmly on the ground, looking towards the light that I know will come out of the dark. I feel proud of myself for how far I’ve come in the last 2 years.

I was recently told by someone I care deeply for that Ray and I were “stuck in our grief, filled with negativity,” and they couldn’t be around us anymore. They needed to “move forward with their life,” and that didn’t include us.  I’ll be honest here. My first reaction was “@!#$&*% *%#@%* !@#@$*&^!” <edited to protect your sense of propriety, ok, not really, but I was so mad, even I didn’t like the words coming out of my mouth> I eventually calmed down and sat to reflect on whether their words had any truth to them. I tried to be brutally honest with myself.

I tried to look at where their perception was coming from. Facebook? I do post a lot about Nolan. After being thrust into a parent’s worst nightmare, the next greatest fear you have is losing another child. After that, it’s the fear that people will forget your child. That’s why I post a lot about Nolan on Facebook. He will always be part of my everyday life whether or not he takes a breath! The memories feature on Facebook is a blessing and a curse. I love finding snippets of conversations I forgot about, or pictures I don’t have on my new phone. I love sharing them even when they make me cry. It helps to make sure people will remember my son.

I suppose if you don’t see us on a regular basis, you may not know. You don’t hear the laughter that still reigns in our home. You don’t see how easily I go from tears to laughter. You don’t see how losing Nolan has enriched our relationship with Nason. You may not see how drastically we’ve changed our priorities and our lifestyle to make the changes in our family that Nolan wanted. I suppose if you’ve never been a parent, you couldn’t imagine how this feels. Even as a parent, you can’t imagine.

A by-product of losing Nolan has been my ability to let people go from my life. I used to try to keep everyone close and everyone happy. I used to say “that’s ok” every time someone said or did something hurtful to me. I’ve realized that I don’t need to do that. I can’t fix anyone else’s relationships. I can’t heal anyone else’s heart. I do need to be sure to surround myself with people who bring light into my day. The people who have remained close to me and the people who have become close to me are of a very different substance than those who have walked away. My heart is open to everyone I meet. I am quick with a smile and a compliment. I am finding more of the old me every day. I support each person around me with any struggle they may be having, but I do not encourage those who vibrate with a sense of drama and negativity. I refuse to participate.

It’s not easy to let people go who you have been close to and love dearly. I remain steadfast in my support should they ask for it. My love is unconditional. I am a work in progress, but I am working every day to be better than the day before. I will always have moments and always have days that are impossible. That is part of the life that comes after losing a child. Here’s the thing, though. Life still comes after losing a child. If you can’t get your head out of your ass to see that, then I only have two words for you.

“Bye Felicia.”

I am the Fire

I am the fire

I made it. I survived another winter; another season of hibernation where the depression is at its worst. The holidays start my downward spiral. With the darkness encroaching and cold creeping in, my thoughts always seem to go to desolate places. I spend a lot of time alone, crying. I avoid everyone and everything. I managed to make it to work every day anyway. There was just one day near Nolan’s birthday that I had to leave because the ptsd was in full force and I couldn’t bring myself out of it. Another day, I needed an hour to pull myself together and went to talk to HR about options for LOA hours. I certainly qualify, and my employer is more than supportive of seeing me through this, yet I still have not applied. I don’t want it to be easier to fall into the darkness. I don’t want a crutch. I have to continue to pull myself along even when I have no strength to do so. I’m better at work than at home anyway.

12496322_10154002549324640_5462354718870671716_o

We celebrated making through another winter by going on vacation to Florida. Ft. Lauderdale to be exact. During spring break. Maybe we didn’t think that through – bringing our 12 year old son to Ft. Lauderdale during spring break. We are either the worst parents ever or the coolest. Either way, it was certainly a learning experience for Nason! It was good to get away, though. We laughed and argued and had a lot of fun. We saw signs that Nolan was with us everywhere.

12802695_10208953026169218_4103442748967053481_n

12801234_10154003072274640_5074222681628354294_n

12779166_10154001668359640_2682740569100375733_o

 

 

 

Each day still ended with me crying in the bathroom so nobody would hear – so nobody would see. I think that’s just going to be a part of my life now. Tears. Waves of sadness that will wash over me at the end of each day. I know Moms who are further along this path that say the tears still come, yet not every day. I don’t know if I will be able to say the same, and I don’t know whether to hope for that or not. To be so used to the constant pain that it no longer brings tears, seems even more sad to me.

As is the case with every winter, with every hibernation, spring slips in and makes me start looking outside myself again. I did more work within the darkness than I realized. I feel different than I did last spring. I feel stronger. I feel lighter. Maybe not physically, but I ate my emotions for 3 months, so what can I really expect?

Meri made a comment to me a few weeks ago that really struck a chord. We were in the car car talking about messages from Nolan, and she made an off-hand remark about starting to feel like she was getting her Mom back a little bit. I felt like I had been punched in the stomach. The kids lost so much when Nolan passed. They lost their brother, a future, their family as they knew it, and both of their parents. Truly Ray and I are not the same parents now as we were Before. We aren’t the same people. Hearing Meri say out loud what I had thought in my head was heartbreaking. Yet, it was also comforting. She felt the shift in me. She saw glimmers of her Mom again. She could see me fighting my way back to her. I think, perhaps, she’s the only one who has noticed.

I am finding my way back to my children, to my husband, to myself. It’s a conscious choice every single day to stay positive. I watch myself very carefully to catch my thoughts before they drift down that sad path. I focus on Nolan’s life, not on life without him. I can’t look at pictures of him too long or I begin to dissolve. I can’t allow myself to acknowledge that I will never see him again for the rest of my life. That I will never feel his arms around me. That I will never hold his hand or hear his voice. I will never know the love of his child or see him become a husband. It’s too much to bear, and the sheer panic it evokes is unimaginable. So, I simply don’t allow myself to go there.

I’ve found that with handling PTSD, controlling thoughts helps in controlling the body. Triggers abound and sometimes catch me off guard, but so much less now than ever. When you learn to control your thoughts, you can control your attitude. I try daily to let my spark grow. Yes, the spark of “Me” is still there. Not the same, but still the same. I’m not sure that would make sense to anyone who hasn’t suffered a tragic loss. Parts of me will never be the same again. The innocence of “it could never happen to me” is forever gone. When I sit down and remind myself of all the rotten shit I’ve lived through, I’m amazed at myself for still being here. I have survived so much in my life. Childhood abuse, life on the streets, drugs & alcohol, emotionally and physically abusive relationships, betrayal, abandonment, and so much more, the worst of which is losing a child. And yet…I still want to laugh every day. I still want to bring a smile to those around me. I still want to suck every ounce of adventure out of this life! I want to learn and grow and shine brightly. I want to share my light and see the light in every single person around me. This part of myself is, perhaps, the very basic core of who I am. It’s who Nolan is. We share this thirst for life, for love, for experience. By allowing myself to be Me again, I stay close with him. I feel him the strongest when I am laughing at something I know he would laugh at too.

I am my own spark. Nolan is my inspiration. I aspire to be a Mom he would be proud of, to be a Mom all my kids can be proud of. I failed miserably over the last 20 months. I let them down in so many ways. I can’t change that. I’m here now. I’m stronger. I am getting stronger every day. I am the Fire.

Mixed Blessings

mixed blessingsThings you should know about me:

  1. I am a horrible texter. I’m one of those annoying people that will see your text, answer in my head, and forget to actually text you back.
  2. I never return phone calls. I don’t why. I don’t even listen to my voicemail. I think about it but I never do it.
  3. I am an unreliable friend. I get lost in my head, in my own struggles and get lax on keeping up with yours. I’ll be there in a minute if you say you need me, but I’m not reading between the lines anymore to hear what isn’t being said.
  4. I am a bad blogger. Here I went and invited all of you along this awful journey of mine and then left you behind. It’s not intentional. I blog in my head all the time. Sometimes I’m awake all night blogging in my head. When it comes down to it, I sit at a computer 10 hours a day at work, and the last thing I want to do at home is sit at a computer and confront all the feelings I work so hard to suppress. Still, I promised you the ugly truth, so here it comes.

It’s been 19 months Since. I can’t even wrap my brain around that. 19 months. 19 MONTHS. 585 days Since. How is this even possible? Isn’t Nolan just at school right now? Won’t we argue about putting his laundry away tonight? He’ll fight with his brother and I’ll have to scold them both later. Right? Wrong. He’s not going to be in the crowd of kids flowing through the doors at 2:36. His laundry is packed away in bins. The only one his brother will fight with later is me. Each day these realities hit me and it hurts just the same as it did on day 1.

Things that haven’t changed Since? The tears. Every day. Every. Single. Day. I believe I will cry every day for the rest of my life. If I think about Nolan for more than 3 seconds, the tears flow. I’ve timed this, actually. No joke. Nolan is the first thing on my mind in the morning and the last thing on my mind at night. I say “I miss you Buddy” about 8,000 times per day. My biggest wish is to have him back, even for a single heartbeat. I still feel lonely no matter who is around. Sometimes I’m the least lonely by myself. The guilt is still there – that somehow I could have saved him. If only I had known…If only I had pushed for an mri…I think that will stay with me forever.PTSD still rears it’s ugly head. If I hear sirens or see an ambulance, I’m lost back in that night. If I smell the hospital disinfectant, I’m lost in that night. If I’m not vigilant about my thoughts, I’m lost in that night. PTSD isn’t just remembering. You re-experience the event. The hormones and chemical response in your body is the same as it was the first time. I’ve experienced Nolan’s death hundreds of times and it doesn’t get any easier. For the span of the flashback, I am back on July 18, 2014. I feel him crawling in my lap and hear him say “Mommy it hurts.” I see him lying on the bathroom floor unmoving. I feel my hand on his chest and his heart fluttering beneath my touch. I feel when he exhales and then doesn’t inhale again. I see Ray doing CPR. I hear Nason screaming for help. I see everything happen all over and I know the outcome and am helpless to stop it. I see the neurologist in his minion t-shirt at 2am, and I hear him telling us that Nolan isn’t going to recover. I hear the screams of someone being torn in two, of their insides being torn asunder…and then I realize those screams are coming from me. These things may never change.

Many things have changed. I’ve gone back to work full time, and it was the best decision I’ve made Since. It helps the hours go by and keeps my mind occupied. For the most part, I’m able to hold it together at work. Except yesterday. I woke up in the midst of the overwhelming grief and couldn’t get myself together. I cried all morning. I cried on my way to work. I went to talk to my boss and started crying again. I couldn’t stop. I took my emergency pills, but they didn’t help. I couldn’t get myself out of that night. I couldn’t stop the tears or the panic. I actually had to leave the office. I was incapable of holding myself together to get any work done. It was sad. It was embarrassing. I try to be so much stronger than that. This month is hard. Nolan’s birthday is on Saturday, and I’m so lost in where he should be that I can’t deal with reality.

Nolan’s friends come by less frequently than they did. I understand this, and it’s good for them to keep moving forward. Being here brings them back to missing him even more. I know they still think of him even when they’re busy with other things. Still…I miss the sounds of teenagers making a mess and cooking all my food. Nolan’s girl has another boyfriend and has for a while. I’m happy for her even though I hate her boyfriend. It isn’t fair of me since I’ve never even spoken to the kid. I hate him because he’s not Nolan. Who’s to say they would still be together by now anyway? It’s healthy for her to keep moving forward. I can’t help hating the boyfriend though.

I’ve moved past the “passive suicide” behaviors that colored most of this past year. I stopped drinking and self-medicating. I’m not putting myself in situations that could go horribly wrong. I don’t have the overwhelming urge to end this life. I still welcome death should it come naturally, but I’ve stop pursing it. My head has cleared enough to see – truly see – my other kids again. The horror of knowing their Mom would choose death with Nolan rather than life with them is something I could never put them through. That’s probably the biggest area of growth I’ve had Since.

I’ve learned to laugh again. I smile easily. I look at everything differently. I appreciate the beauty of a single moment more than I ever did Before. Handprints on glass, a sticky table from life with a toddler, 3 pairs of shoes by the front door all make me smile. Our house is filled up again with Meri and Eli having moved home. I can dance in the middle of a restaurant with Nason and not care who’s watching. Amongst all the joy I’ve let back into my life, there is a heaviness too. Each giggle is tinged with sadness. Each new adventure is tinged with regret. Every new memory holds an empty space where Nolan should be. Mixed blessings. Maybe that’s the best I can hope for.

 

Necessary Joy

12273731_10153793033819640_5812817887801253905_o

When your child dies, every day is the hardest day you will face. Colors are muted. Laughter is muffled. Taste is bland. There’s a bleakness that surrounds you and creates a barrier between you and Life. You exist in a fog seemingly forever. A wasteland, desolate, dry, harsh. Your life stops with your child’s last heartbeat. Their last breath takes all the oxygen out of this world. You stand in a vacuum. How long you stay in this place is anyone’s guess. Some people stay forever. I refuse.

It was a simple comment from Ray that really resonated and started my steps along a stronger path. We’ve planned a vacation for March, and I casually commented that it’s a good time and that it gives me something to look forward to. I stated, “I’ve survived Thanksgiving. I’ll survive Christmas and New Year’s. Then I’ll survive Nolan’s birthday. Then right after I’ll get my toes in the sand and take a break from Grief.” Ray sat quietly for a minute and responded. “You know, someday I hope you’ll be able to do more than just survive. I hope you’ll be able to feel some joy around the holidays. I don’t want Nason to grow up associating the holidays with sadness.”

I felt a lump in my throat. A hollow feeling in the pit of my stomach. The absolute truth in what he said hit me like a ton of bricks. He’s right. I’ll probably never live down uttering those words, but it’s true. He is right. I can survive. I have survived and will continue to survive. For Nason’s sake, I need to find joy. It’s necessary. Necessary Joy.

Last year I refused to put up the Christmas tree or decorate. This year we did. It was20151129_153003n’t easy. Meri came over and helped take my place. It was always my job to pass out the ornaments to the kids and reflect on how they were at the age they made them. I couldn’t do it this year. I took Eli to play and Meri took over for me. She’s the strongest person I’ve ever met. Nason commented to me later about how I didn’t do my job. It bothered him. I was simply honest and reminded him that last year I could12348070_10153820289199640_3965445487099618801_nn’t even put a tree up. Next year maybe I’ll be strong enough to face each ornament, each memory.

Passing the tree each day is a struggle. Some days I avoid looking at it. Nolan has made more of the ornaments than anybody else. Sometimes it makes the emptiness so vast. Other times, I am able to take an ornament in my hand and remember him at that age and smile. I cry, always, but sometimes I smile too. Like when I found this written on the back of an ornament. I don’t remember noticing that Nolan had signed it before. Maybe it’s a message from him for all of us. Even at 11 years old, Nolan understood what was really important.

I’ve given Nolan his own tree. It’s a work in progress and we will continue with the tradition of adding an ornament each year. Nason helped me decorate it this year. We were able to talk about Nolan and think of what kinds of ornaments we would put on it without tears. We laughed at some memories, and it was exactly what we both needed.

12356659_10153820252509640_1182650541732059618_o

12265740_10153795725759640_6830897179575669667_o

 

I’m still struggling each day with each breath, but I’m getting stronger. I have to find honest Joy in my life. For Nason, for Eli, for Ray, for Meri, for Heather, for Nik…for Nolan, and for me. Nolan and I shared this zest for life, this spark for experiences. We shared a passion for nature, for laughter, for music, for love. If I don’t find a way to allow that back into my life, I’ve lost yet another connection to my precious boy. Nason also shares that same zest. It connects us with Nolan. I don’t want Nason growing up seeing nothing but sadness during the “happiest time of the year.” He’s my touchstone, and I refuse to allow his childhood to be miserable because of this tragedy. He deserves better, and so does Nolan.

For both of my boys, I choose Joy. I choose Life. Until I can feel it wholeheartedly, I will take the little bits that come as progress. Sometimes I forget how strong I am. On the days I can’t feel it, I look at Nason, and he reminds me. Joy is absolutely necessary.

IMG_20151129_143257

Blank Pages

blank pagesRock Bottom is a scary place to be. It’s a dark abyss with seemingly nothing but pain and hopelessness surrounding you. Funny thing about Rock Bottom is that if you search way deep into the darkest depths, you can find a tiny spark hidden in the shadows. This spark is so very small and fragile, and if you’re not vigilant, you might miss it. I’m convinced it’s always there – for everybody.

I’ve been extremely vigilant these last few weeks. I’ve searched high and low in the dark and in the shadows. I’ve found that infant spark. I’m standing careful watch over that spark and encouraging it into a flame. Make no mistake, this is not an easy task. The winds blow hard and fast here in the dark. I need to be watchful; protective.

When I wrote last about 16-yr old Me, I focused on my downfalls. What I forgot – or couldn’t see – was how strong that version of Me is. Yes, she nearly destroyed me, but she also saved me. She saved me all those years ago, and I believe she saved me now too. I am working to acclimate her into my current Self. She’s chaos, but she’s also a lot of fun! More than anything, she is strong. I’m working to take those qualities and hold them close while I navigate these stormy seas. It’s working. I think.

I’ve been at my new job for a couple weeks now, spending a solid 8 hours a day outside my comfort zone. I’m learning about things I never thought I would ever need to know. Geek Speak – it’s a real language, and I’m learning it! (slowly, but still.) Someday I might even understand half of what Ray says! I really enjoy the people I’m spending my day with. It’s an eclectic group which makes for some really interesting discussions and banter. We laugh a lot. Being away from Nason is difficult. It’s an adjustment for both of us, and I think he’s handling it better than I am. The Grief I battle daily is still present, but I don’t have time to face it during the day. My hope of being distracted and busy to get through the hours has turned out well. Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that Grief compounds itself. What I push down all day rears it’s ugly head even harder on the drive home at night. I cry most of the way – all those tears I bottled up during the day. Sometimes a discussion during the day hits me hard, and I feel like I’ve been kicked in the stomach. I can’t run away like I could at school. I have to suck it up and keep trucking. Surprisingly, I’m able to do that.

Night time is harder than ever. The panic attacks are really bad. One night this past week, Ray came home again to find me on the floor, not breathing. He didn’t know how long I’d been there before he walked in. He was able to rouse me, but then I did it again, and again, and again, and again. Five times I stopped breathing that night, and he was getting ready to call 9-1-1 when I finally started to come around. Thankfully, Nason wasn’t home. He suffered through one with me the night before and was still raw from that. The nature of the panic has changed slightly. Twice I’ve had the cessation of breath without the hysterical crying beforehand. I’m not sure if this means things are getting better or worse. It’s a horrible feeling – almost like having the hiccups but instead of that little gasp, my lungs or diaphragm seize up. I’m literally physically unable to draw the air into my lungs. If I can fight past that to catch a breath, my lungs seize again and don’t allow the air out. It’s a terrible feeling, knowing that I’m going to pass out and unable to stop myself. This morning I was able to stop the process on my own, but it wasn’t easy. I should probably do some research about how panic attacks can manifest, but honestly, I’m afraid to find out. What if this means it’s getting worse?

Getting up and going to work after these nights is difficult. But I’m able to do it. I’m starting to feel the ground under my feet again. I’m starting to feel like I can walk again. I’ve taken ownership of my faults, actions, and choices. I am working to not take on the faults of others. I’m working to allow myself to be vulnerable instead of angry. I hate that part the most! I’m working on voicing my feelings and taking care of them myself. God love him, Ray is challenging me greatly in this area. We truly are a Yin-Yang. For years I’ve been his catalyst for growth, and now he is mine. Damn it.

I have come to see that there are nothing but blank pages in front of me. My life is a story in progress, and it’s not over yet. It’s tumultuous. It’s scary. It’s painful. It’s also humorous and filled with love. I get to choose the story I write. I choose to paint these blank pages with color. Every moment of every day is a choice, and I am choosing better. In the words of one of my favorite people,

This is the story of my life
And I write it everyday
I know it isn’t black and white
And it’s anything but gray
I know that no, I’m not alright
But I’ll be OK ’cause
Anything can, everything can happen
That’s the story of my life
Yes, I did just quote Jon Bon Jovi. Deal with it.

Rock Bottom

rock bottom

Sometimes after you think you’ve hit rock bottom, you realize that you were wrong. There is so much further you can fall. That’s happened to me. I thought I had passed the worst. I actually wrote, “The draw of Death has released it’s iron grip on me. A little. I still think about it, but I know I made it through the worst.” How naive I was. How blind. Shortly after writing that, I learned the bottom can still drop out of rock bottom. You fall deeper into an abyss you didn’t see coming. You should have seen it , but you’ve become such an adept liar that you lie to yourself as much as everyone else. That’s me. The most adept liar I’ve ever met (and I’ve met some doozies!!)

I thought I was gaining ground, truly. I had found that adrenaline was a great escape from the Grief. I thought it was a healthy escape. It kept me active, engaged with my friends, enabled me to laugh, helped me feel the blood flowing through my veins again. Turns out the adrenaline was actually the dizzying affect of such a downward spiral that it turned me upside down, backwards, and inside out. I was in constant search of that rush. It was alluring and captivating. Incipient of the destruction to come. It began innocently enough, with a day filled with friends, laughter, and mayhem. A day unplanned. A day where the laughter flowed so freely and I felt like the Old Me again. It was the Old Me, but not the recently inhabited Old Me. red dress

This was 16 year old Amy come back from the recesses, from the darkest parts of my past, grabbing me in her arms and doing what she did best. Avoid feeling. 16 year old Amy is a nightmare wrapped in glitter and spKISSandex. She shines brightly, laughs boisterously, loves freely, engages easily, draws everyone in to her web. She’s hedonistic. She is the quintessential party girl. She’s a master manipulator, a liar, a deceiver. She has a selfish heart, and it’s only purpose is to avoid pain. She pays no attention to the misery left in her wake. I embraced her completely, not even realizing she was back. black dressThe psyche is a very clever entity. It creates all these self-defense mechanisms from trauma. 16 year old Amy is just that. She was created from years of trauma, mixed with a natural tendency towards mischief and needing to rebel against authority. She was born of internalized anger and rage. She was my Protectress. She is my restless spirit incarnate. She both saved me and nearly destroyed me when first she emerged. She did no different this time. 16 year old Amy has no business being anyone’s wife. She has no business being anyone’s mother.

When I found myself at the deepest, darkest bottom I have ever encountered, I had no choice but to look around at what I had done. With the depths of despair came the words from my Husband, “You need to leave.”  I hurt those that I was tasked with protecting. I hurt those that I love most in this world. I disappointed those who looked up to me. It was pretty sobering. Literally – as in it’s been 19 days since I’ve had a drink.

I reached out and begged for help – from the Universe, from Nolan, and from (finally) a grief counselor. Truthful truth is I had been crying out desperately for help for a long time. It’s not an easy thing to own up to your failures, but that’s what I’m trying to do. Being brutally honest with a counselor is so difficult. I don’t want to look in that mirror, but I have to. For as open as I’ve been about my Grief and this Journey, I hide 1000x more beneath the surface. The PTSD has been out of control for a long time. I’ve been self-medicating until a blackout blissfully removes all feeling from my heart. I’ve been told that my behaviors are a “Passive Suicide.” I can’t disagree with that.

I have failed utterly as a wife, as a mother, as a friend. I can’t take anything back. I know more than most that there are no magic time machines. No matter how desperately we want to go back, time moves in only one direction. It’s time I moved in that direction too. Forcing myself to face the feelings is something I battle every day. I want to avoid. I want to hide. I want to deny. I want 16 year old Amy to whisk me away to where the music is so loud you can’t hear yourself think. I want her to take away the pain. I can’t let her. I have to heal that part of myself as well. I’m learning that new trauma often brings up old forgotten traumas. Things you thought you had dealt with years ago resurface in a different light. <insert sarcasm font> It’s awesomely fun.

I’m taking baby steps forward. Tentative steps on broken glass. I know it will hurt, but I’m trying to tread gently. I took Nolan’s picture off the background of my phone and put Nason’s in its place. I’m hoping this will help keep my focus on him rather than my loss. I’ve given my notice at school and accepted a new full-time job. I have so many mixed feelings about this. I will miss the kids and the teachers so much, but school is fraught with triggers for me. I hear Nolan’s voice echo down the hall. I catch a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye, and it cuts me off at the knees every time. I need to spend my days in a place with no memories. I need to fill the hours. Home isn’t my safe place anymore.

I don’t know if I’ll be able to salvage the wreck I’ve made of my family. The only thing I can do is to take care of myself better so that I can take care of them. Please don’t tell me I’m strong, because right now I’m not. I’m broken. I’m bruised. I’m vulnerable. Maybe I will get strong. Maybe I won’t and this “passive suicide” thing will rear it’s ugly head once more. I don’t know what the future holds. I only know that right now, in this moment, I’m trying to be a better human being.