It's funny, I have an entire list of unpublished entries, mostly just started so I wouldn't forget the subject I wanted to cover (and there are quite a few... and seems to grow by the day), but somehow I forgot one of the biggies- triggers. And man, is this world full of them.
Some of them I've seen coming (whether that actually helps... eh... ). Like the anniversaries and holidays;
One month was weird. Just a week prior was the Celebration of Life, we were all still in shock, and honestly I had zero sense of time. Actually, still kind of working on that. While the calendar says second week of June, I think I'm still stuck somewhere in May.
Month two and three weren't as big. The day came, and while I was aware of its presence, it didn't cause much more than "how can it already be two months?" as a response. The gut punch fell between those dates- Mother's Day.
If only we all observed it the way the creator intended- learn more about it HERE
Although that may make me seem a curmudgeon, I honestly used to really enjoy the day. Thanks to Facebook (sometimes it has things of worth to offer other than trolls and political posts shrinking friends lists daily), I was sent an "on this day" reminder of the last Mother's Day in Kansas City before we moved. It was a beautiful and perfect day. And of course upon reminiscing, I cried. But at least this time they were happy tears.
I have a feeling I'll subconsciously keep the trend of acknowledging the month markers (being aware as they near, thinking "I can't believe it's already been x months, wash, rinse, repeat). But the holiday season is going to be a doozy. I'm already trying to figure out how to skip November and December entirely.
In those two months live not only the obvious holidays, but my parent's anniversary, and both their birthdays. As someone who is pretty bad at remembering special dates, I used to love the fact my mom and dad were both born on Christmas- so many birds with one stone! But now, it's going to be a really weird mix. Actually, the word I'm looking for is suck. It's going to really suck.
And then, of course, shortly after December comes February of the new year, which will bring along with it the one year anniversary. Which, well, it's a while away, so we'll see what that brings.
While those are/have been/will be hard, there is some sort of anticipation/preparation for those that make them a little easier to manage. They can be seen a mile away on the calendar. Or via commercials that start three months before the holiday (I'm looking at you Christmas ads in September). But the ones that tear the rug out from under you are the ones that you would never see coming. Like a picture frame.
Yes, a picture frame. Specifically, the picture frame hanging on the wall in my bedroom. I bought it a long while along. Long enough ago that I have completely forgotten the picture I intended to put in it, and have grown accustomed to the filler picture still happily residing within the four black sides. Bought it at Dollar Tree, along with a handful of others, all still housing their original stock photos, to make one of those gallery walls.
There is nothing special about these frames. But, while lying in bed, enjoying the sound of the wind blowing in the trees, the wonderful spring air coming in the windows, I teared up. Because the dollar store frame somehow took my brain down memory lane of trying to find the right frame to hold a sign at the Celebration of Life memorial for my mom.
I don't remember where I ended up getting the frame I used. There wasn't anything necessarily special about the frame I chose other than I liked it, it felt like a good fit for the decor of the space, and it had a stand on the back. I do remember searching for the right one though. And standing in the aisle of at least two stores fighting back tears*, dreading the moment some salesperson approached me to be helpful. And wishing I were back on the coast where there was no risk of said helpful salesperson approaching me.
Never would I have thought that months later I'd remember that moment while lying at home, staring at a completely insignificant picture frame hanging on my wall. But I did.
These triggers are the hardest. Sometimes you kind of know they're coming (ex: when I went to see Parade with a friend and I just knew Act II was going to hit hard. BTW, I underestimated the hit by a long shot, but thankfully everyone else was crying too, so... yay?), and therefore you can kind of guard yourself (I use that "kind of" with a huuuuuuuuuuge grain of salt. More like kosher, or that fancy schmancy rock stuff you have to put in a grinder. Zero judgement there, that's what's currently residing on my counter). But mostly it's the stuff that comes out of left field when you're not even playing baseball. Something on a television show. Someone standing in line at a store. A car. A song. A smell. Seriously, those not so friendly reminders are effing EVERYWHERE.
And yes, the recent losses of Kate Spade and Anthony Bourdain have shone a giant, blinding, spotlight on mental health and suicide, and has started a desperately needed public conversation (I only hope it doesn't fade), but it's also turned the world into one giant trigger.
It's slowly becoming easier to handle. Of course I say that, but this morning when they were teasing into a spot on the "suicide epidemic" on the Today show I grabbed the remote, exclaimed "NOPE," and switched it to the safety of The Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt.** So... maybe I'm still working through it. And that's ok.
One of the last conversations I had with my mom actually included discussing this very topic. She suffered from severe anxiety, and triggers for her were everywhere. It kills me I didn't fully know everything she was going through, but, as is true for most people who have loved ones facing anxiety and/or depression, none of us really can ever know the depths because that is not something one can truly empathize with unless they've experienced it themselves. And while I've had my moments of anxiety (and no, I don't mean the severe butterflies in the stomach of being "anxious," I mean debilitating anxiety), I only now can sort of begin to understand what her world was like the last year or so.
And let me tell you, it fucking sucks.
Never knowing what is going to set you off. And not necessarily knowing if you'll be able to make it better on your own. Wanting to just stay curled up in the safety of your bedroom. Under the covers, with three very cuddly animals ready to stay in bed with you, only to realize that the unassuming picture frame hanging on the wall can you send you spiraling.
*Holding back tears while shopping was the norm while prepping for the memorial party. Thank goodness I always have at least one handkerchief on me.
**Tina Fey, as if I needed another reason to say this, I am thankful you are in this world. And you looked smashing at the Tony Awards.
Tuesday, June 12, 2018
Monday, June 11, 2018
Someone Was Always, Always Here
My sister-in-law's mother shared this with me a few days after learning of my mother's passing. It perfectly conveys so much in such a beautiful way.
Die—you can’t do that to a cat.
Since what can a cat do
in an empty apartment?
Climb the walls?
Rub up against the furniture?
Nothing seems different here
but nothing is the same.
Nothing’s been moved
but there’s more space.
And at nighttime no lamps are lit.
Footsteps on the staircase,
but they’re new ones.
The hand that puts fish on the saucer
has changed, too.
Something doesn’t start
at its usual time.
Something doesn’t happen
as it should.
Someone was always, always here,
then suddenly disappeared
and stubbornly stays disappeared.
Every closet’s been examined.
Every shelf has been explored.
Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.
A commandment was even broken:
papers scattered everywhere.
What remains to be done.
Just sleep and wait.
Just wait till he turns up,
just let him show his face.
Will he ever get a lesson
on what not to do to a cat.
Sidle toward him
as if unwilling
and ever so slow
on visibly offended paws,
and no leaps or squeals at least to start.
Cat in an Empty Apartment
Wisława Szymborska, translated from the Polish by Stanisław Barańczak and Clare Cavanagh
Die—you can’t do that to a cat.
Since what can a cat do
in an empty apartment?
Climb the walls?
Rub up against the furniture?
Nothing seems different here
but nothing is the same.
Nothing’s been moved
but there’s more space.
And at nighttime no lamps are lit.
Footsteps on the staircase,
but they’re new ones.
The hand that puts fish on the saucer
has changed, too.
Something doesn’t start
at its usual time.
Something doesn’t happen
as it should.
Someone was always, always here,
then suddenly disappeared
and stubbornly stays disappeared.
Every closet’s been examined.
Every shelf has been explored.
Excavations under the carpet turned up nothing.
A commandment was even broken:
papers scattered everywhere.
What remains to be done.
Just sleep and wait.
Just wait till he turns up,
just let him show his face.
Will he ever get a lesson
on what not to do to a cat.
Sidle toward him
as if unwilling
and ever so slow
on visibly offended paws,
and no leaps or squeals at least to start.
Saturday, June 9, 2018
Then, We Went to the Beach
Hey, look, another disclaimer. I guess I should just put a blanket one out there, but then again, not every post will have something worthy of it. But this post is a bit of a doozy. It's about the day I found out about my mom's passing. There's a lot. So... yeah. And it's long. Funny, for not being able to remember most of the day there's quite a bit here.
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
There was absolutely nothing spectacular about the day. It was pretty much a typical Tuesday. I had had some SP* work the day before, and had training for another case later in the week. Being a little over a week out from opening night of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor-could the title of this musical BE any longer-Dreamcoat, I was tired from rehearsing, but also exhilarated. I was finally getting to play a dream role I've wanted to play since I was 14. And of course, Tuesday is when I teach my after school drama class with a group of young ladies I've been teaching for the past two years. Just a typical Tuesday.
Then, Wednesday happened.
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
The day started off with me waking up and not being able to fall back asleep after my husband's alarm went off. Not unusual, but not exactly my favorite thing, seeing as his (first) alarm goes off sometime before 6am. So, since I was some sort of awake, I got up and slowly started the day. This was easy-ish since I knew I had the ability to go back to bed that morning when/if I did happen to get tired again, which was also not unusual.
What was unusual was when I picked up my phone and looked at it. I saw I had already missed a call from my dad. Or that he was calling at that moment. Honestly, I can't remember. I just remember immediately thinking that if he was calling me/had called me before 7am my time (6am his) that something had to be wrong.
Over the past few years my mom had had a variety of health issues/scares/concerns, that had sometimes sent her to the hospital. After the first few times of finding out this information well after she had been released and sent home, I made it as clear as I possibly could that I didn't care what time of day or what it was, if someone was in the hospital I wanted and needed to know. Even more since we moved to Boston and I was no longer a twenty minute car ride away.
When I saw he was calling, of course I was concerned, but I also took for granted that I probably could guess what was wrong. Maybe something with the cancer came back. Maybe she was back in a mental health facility. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
I picked up the phone and hit answer. Or called him back. I just can't remember. I do remember that when I had my phone in my hand and was speaking to him I was pacing the space in our apartment connecting the living room to the bedroom.
And I remember the tone in his voice. I remember him saying "she's gone," and "hung herself," and then just various sentences conveying the overall disbelief of the situation, and how he was so sorry. He said he was sorry. So. Many. Times.
And I remember the moment he said she was gone, I was standing in the doorway between the two rooms. I was standing in the same exact place I was when my mom called me to tell me she had pancreatic cancer.
That. Fucking. Doorway.
The phone call didn't last terribly long. Just long enough to get very basic information of when it happened (Tuesday afternoon), sort of how it happened (how he found her hanging in the living room at their house, and all the police and interviews and everything he had to face the day before I found out), and that we were both sorry.
All of this happened in the short window of time where my husband was still in the process of getting ready to leave for work (my dad later told me he was hoping he'd catch us before either of us had gone anywhere so we could be safe at home versus on a train/driving/etc. I don't say it nearly enough, but man, my dad is the best, even in the shittiest situations). I hung up with my dad, and, in a state of whothefuckknowsmyworldhasshattered, told my husband what had happened.
To say the least, after the phone call, there was nothing usual about that day.
My husband called his work and let them know he was working from home that day. And I sat down and attempted to contact everyone I could think of that I would need to regarding not being able to work as, though I didn't know the specifics, I knew I was going to Kansas City in the very, very near future, and I didn't know how long I'd be there.
I composed a few different emails. Depending upon how well I knew the person the reason for my being gone varied from "family emergency" to "my mom committed suicide."^ None of which were easy to write, but I am and will forever be grateful for the compassionate replies I got for each.
Then, we went to the beach.
Ya'll, I can't even begin to adequately express how much that beach has meant to me over the past few years. It is my place of peace. When nothing makes sense- go to the beach. When things are wonderful- go to the beach. When I want to just disappear- go to the beach. Plus- Piping Plovers. Don't know what they are? HERE. And you're welcome :)
Whether it be walking alongside my husband and dog, or just me by myself, something about the sounds and smells just helps whenever everything feels like it's crumbling away.
But of course, we can't live on the beach. Well, I can't. Not this beach at least. The Atlantic Ocean is freakin' freezing.
So, after some very, very deep breaths (see? I told you, deep breathing is a big part of this), a phone call with my director telling her I was still going to do the show, and making plans to drive to Kansas City the next day, we headed home.
Some other things happened that day. I was in search of a cat sitter, my husband prepped the car for the 3,000 mile round trip we were about to take (and ended up driving through two, count 'em TWO Nor'easters), I called my dad to update him on the plans.
Oh, and made the obligatory post to Facebook. No, I didn't do this because I'm a "millennial" and that's the bullshit we do. I did it because I wanted to let people know, and that is the 2018 version of an email/phone chain. Also, selfishly, if I could put it out there once and cover a lot of ground I wouldn't have to tell the story over. And over. And over.
But before the Facebook post the phone calls had been made my dad, and I started receiving messages.
Fuck. I forgot, that's what people do when they hear someone died. They reach out. A completely normal thing, but man, I was not ready for that. Facebook messages, text messages, emails, carrier pigeons, I swear, from every possible means of communication I started to hear from people. I had only had this information for a matter of hours. I had barely formed the ability to talk, let alone be polite and gracious.
Now, please, don't take this as I didn't appreciate it. I did. More than you know. Unless you've been in my shoes, then you do know. And I'm sorry you know. But for those who have only been on the sending end, please know, if you didn't receive a thank you/any reply in a "timely manner," or hell, at all, don't take it personally. The way society gathers around those who are grieving is like a whirlwind on top of a cyclone. The person you care for and want to help is so unbelievably overwhelmed, and that was BEFORE the condolences started rolling in. They're grateful. They just can't breathe at the moment. So please, grant them some grace. Besides, this isn't about you. Please, remember, when you are consoling someone, whatever you do, don't make it about you. That's your PSA on grief for the day.
So, yes, all day my phone was lighting up or buzzing or whatevering. I wanted to turn it off, but I was worried if I did, my dad wouldn't be able to get a hold of me. Thankfully, unlike me, my husband was able to function cognitively, and sent my dad a message saying if he needed me, to call him. And with that, my phone was off.
For a while. I'm only human. A girl needs her Instagram cute animal fix. And if there is a better time than when you're in emotional shock, I don't know what it would be.
Other things happened. Again, as you've probably noticed the trend of this story, I don't remember much, except a snapshot here and there. I don't remember what or how or why, but my husband and I were out running an errand in preparation for leaving the next evening and he pointed out that we had not eaten. It was probably around 2:30ish. And for two people who had been up since about 6am, food was needed. I couldn't have cared less. Yes, logically I was aware of the need of food. But was I hungry? Eh.
But, thankfully the logical half of this equation (my husband) made the decision. We pulled into Sonic and I stared blankly at the menu. Absolutely nothing was intriguing. I didn't want a burger. I really didn't want a slush or soda or shake. But damn, the siren call of a corn dog apparently can be heard through any haze of sadness.
In case you were wondering, the kids meal with the corn dog, juice box, and tater tots is pretty damn tasty when you're not hungry. And it came with a toy- a Batman mask. I balanced the small, ill-fitting piece of plastic on my nose, did my best (terrible, truly, truly terrible) Batman voice, and smiled and laughed for the first time that day.
That night, I went to rehearsal. On my way, my wonderful therapist (one of the people I emailed, one of the people who go the completely honest info), called. She and I talked, as one generally does with a therapist. Like most of the day, I don't remember specifics of the conversation other than when I first answered and she asked where I was and I said going to rehearsal she was "you're going to a REHEARSAL?" and her telling me not to be afraid of using something to help me sleep (which was very helpful because up until that I point I had completely forgotten about the concept of needing to sleep that night). Btw, Benedryl worked well when melatonin failed. Wine worked as well on occasion.
Once at rehearsal, I don't remember what happened other than getting some well needed hugs, singing some songs, trying not to cry, trying not to think, trying not to cry while singing some songs, and then returning home.
I'm sure there was more crying. Some catching up on reading messages. Attempting to reply to said messages, and giving up on replying to them. It had only been 16 hours since I found out. People could wait for their thank yous until after the Benedryl had done it's job.
*SP- Standardized Patient. Remember that Seinfeld episode? Yeah, sorta like that. Just less yellow makeup, and more terror in the students eyes.
^Ok, so I am painfully aware of the huge debate about using the term "committed suicide." It's what I chose to use, and still choose to on occasion. I do not in any way believe it was a crime. Committed doesn't immediately mean it was a criminal act. If you want to pick that fight, please, do it elsewhere. Seriously, given the subject, that is the last thing we should be arguing about. *steps down from soapbox and tips my hat to you*
Tuesday, February 27, 2018
There was absolutely nothing spectacular about the day. It was pretty much a typical Tuesday. I had had some SP* work the day before, and had training for another case later in the week. Being a little over a week out from opening night of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor-could the title of this musical BE any longer-Dreamcoat, I was tired from rehearsing, but also exhilarated. I was finally getting to play a dream role I've wanted to play since I was 14. And of course, Tuesday is when I teach my after school drama class with a group of young ladies I've been teaching for the past two years. Just a typical Tuesday.
Then, Wednesday happened.
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
The day started off with me waking up and not being able to fall back asleep after my husband's alarm went off. Not unusual, but not exactly my favorite thing, seeing as his (first) alarm goes off sometime before 6am. So, since I was some sort of awake, I got up and slowly started the day. This was easy-ish since I knew I had the ability to go back to bed that morning when/if I did happen to get tired again, which was also not unusual.
What was unusual was when I picked up my phone and looked at it. I saw I had already missed a call from my dad. Or that he was calling at that moment. Honestly, I can't remember. I just remember immediately thinking that if he was calling me/had called me before 7am my time (6am his) that something had to be wrong.
Over the past few years my mom had had a variety of health issues/scares/concerns, that had sometimes sent her to the hospital. After the first few times of finding out this information well after she had been released and sent home, I made it as clear as I possibly could that I didn't care what time of day or what it was, if someone was in the hospital I wanted and needed to know. Even more since we moved to Boston and I was no longer a twenty minute car ride away.
When I saw he was calling, of course I was concerned, but I also took for granted that I probably could guess what was wrong. Maybe something with the cancer came back. Maybe she was back in a mental health facility. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe.
I picked up the phone and hit answer. Or called him back. I just can't remember. I do remember that when I had my phone in my hand and was speaking to him I was pacing the space in our apartment connecting the living room to the bedroom.
And I remember the tone in his voice. I remember him saying "she's gone," and "hung herself," and then just various sentences conveying the overall disbelief of the situation, and how he was so sorry. He said he was sorry. So. Many. Times.
And I remember the moment he said she was gone, I was standing in the doorway between the two rooms. I was standing in the same exact place I was when my mom called me to tell me she had pancreatic cancer.
That. Fucking. Doorway.
The phone call didn't last terribly long. Just long enough to get very basic information of when it happened (Tuesday afternoon), sort of how it happened (how he found her hanging in the living room at their house, and all the police and interviews and everything he had to face the day before I found out), and that we were both sorry.
All of this happened in the short window of time where my husband was still in the process of getting ready to leave for work (my dad later told me he was hoping he'd catch us before either of us had gone anywhere so we could be safe at home versus on a train/driving/etc. I don't say it nearly enough, but man, my dad is the best, even in the shittiest situations). I hung up with my dad, and, in a state of whothefuckknowsmyworldhasshattered, told my husband what had happened.
To say the least, after the phone call, there was nothing usual about that day.
My husband called his work and let them know he was working from home that day. And I sat down and attempted to contact everyone I could think of that I would need to regarding not being able to work as, though I didn't know the specifics, I knew I was going to Kansas City in the very, very near future, and I didn't know how long I'd be there.
I composed a few different emails. Depending upon how well I knew the person the reason for my being gone varied from "family emergency" to "my mom committed suicide."^ None of which were easy to write, but I am and will forever be grateful for the compassionate replies I got for each.
Then, we went to the beach.
Ya'll, I can't even begin to adequately express how much that beach has meant to me over the past few years. It is my place of peace. When nothing makes sense- go to the beach. When things are wonderful- go to the beach. When I want to just disappear- go to the beach. Plus- Piping Plovers. Don't know what they are? HERE. And you're welcome :)
Whether it be walking alongside my husband and dog, or just me by myself, something about the sounds and smells just helps whenever everything feels like it's crumbling away.
But of course, we can't live on the beach. Well, I can't. Not this beach at least. The Atlantic Ocean is freakin' freezing.
So, after some very, very deep breaths (see? I told you, deep breathing is a big part of this), a phone call with my director telling her I was still going to do the show, and making plans to drive to Kansas City the next day, we headed home.
Some other things happened that day. I was in search of a cat sitter, my husband prepped the car for the 3,000 mile round trip we were about to take (and ended up driving through two, count 'em TWO Nor'easters), I called my dad to update him on the plans.
Oh, and made the obligatory post to Facebook. No, I didn't do this because I'm a "millennial" and that's the bullshit we do. I did it because I wanted to let people know, and that is the 2018 version of an email/phone chain. Also, selfishly, if I could put it out there once and cover a lot of ground I wouldn't have to tell the story over. And over. And over.
But before the Facebook post the phone calls had been made my dad, and I started receiving messages.
Fuck. I forgot, that's what people do when they hear someone died. They reach out. A completely normal thing, but man, I was not ready for that. Facebook messages, text messages, emails, carrier pigeons, I swear, from every possible means of communication I started to hear from people. I had only had this information for a matter of hours. I had barely formed the ability to talk, let alone be polite and gracious.
Now, please, don't take this as I didn't appreciate it. I did. More than you know. Unless you've been in my shoes, then you do know. And I'm sorry you know. But for those who have only been on the sending end, please know, if you didn't receive a thank you/any reply in a "timely manner," or hell, at all, don't take it personally. The way society gathers around those who are grieving is like a whirlwind on top of a cyclone. The person you care for and want to help is so unbelievably overwhelmed, and that was BEFORE the condolences started rolling in. They're grateful. They just can't breathe at the moment. So please, grant them some grace. Besides, this isn't about you. Please, remember, when you are consoling someone, whatever you do, don't make it about you. That's your PSA on grief for the day.
So, yes, all day my phone was lighting up or buzzing or whatevering. I wanted to turn it off, but I was worried if I did, my dad wouldn't be able to get a hold of me. Thankfully, unlike me, my husband was able to function cognitively, and sent my dad a message saying if he needed me, to call him. And with that, my phone was off.
For a while. I'm only human. A girl needs her Instagram cute animal fix. And if there is a better time than when you're in emotional shock, I don't know what it would be.
Other things happened. Again, as you've probably noticed the trend of this story, I don't remember much, except a snapshot here and there. I don't remember what or how or why, but my husband and I were out running an errand in preparation for leaving the next evening and he pointed out that we had not eaten. It was probably around 2:30ish. And for two people who had been up since about 6am, food was needed. I couldn't have cared less. Yes, logically I was aware of the need of food. But was I hungry? Eh.
But, thankfully the logical half of this equation (my husband) made the decision. We pulled into Sonic and I stared blankly at the menu. Absolutely nothing was intriguing. I didn't want a burger. I really didn't want a slush or soda or shake. But damn, the siren call of a corn dog apparently can be heard through any haze of sadness.
In case you were wondering, the kids meal with the corn dog, juice box, and tater tots is pretty damn tasty when you're not hungry. And it came with a toy- a Batman mask. I balanced the small, ill-fitting piece of plastic on my nose, did my best (terrible, truly, truly terrible) Batman voice, and smiled and laughed for the first time that day.
That night, I went to rehearsal. On my way, my wonderful therapist (one of the people I emailed, one of the people who go the completely honest info), called. She and I talked, as one generally does with a therapist. Like most of the day, I don't remember specifics of the conversation other than when I first answered and she asked where I was and I said going to rehearsal she was "you're going to a REHEARSAL?" and her telling me not to be afraid of using something to help me sleep (which was very helpful because up until that I point I had completely forgotten about the concept of needing to sleep that night). Btw, Benedryl worked well when melatonin failed. Wine worked as well on occasion.
Once at rehearsal, I don't remember what happened other than getting some well needed hugs, singing some songs, trying not to cry, trying not to think, trying not to cry while singing some songs, and then returning home.
I'm sure there was more crying. Some catching up on reading messages. Attempting to reply to said messages, and giving up on replying to them. It had only been 16 hours since I found out. People could wait for their thank yous until after the Benedryl had done it's job.
*SP- Standardized Patient. Remember that Seinfeld episode? Yeah, sorta like that. Just less yellow makeup, and more terror in the students eyes.
^Ok, so I am painfully aware of the huge debate about using the term "committed suicide." It's what I chose to use, and still choose to on occasion. I do not in any way believe it was a crime. Committed doesn't immediately mean it was a criminal act. If you want to pick that fight, please, do it elsewhere. Seriously, given the subject, that is the last thing we should be arguing about. *steps down from soapbox and tips my hat to you*
Friday, June 8, 2018
I Didn't Sign Up for This
DISCLAIMER: Because, until recently, I never fully appreciated these, but damn, now they are the best thing to come around since the Starbucks app). This post talks about grief, death, suicide, mental illness, cancer... and I think those are the biggies. Just wanted to give you a heads up so you can either stop reading, mentally prepare, take a deep breath, or whatever else you may need when knowing those things are coming up.
Here we are, once again. The first entry of a shiny new blog. So many possibilities, so many words to come, so many #hashtags to create.
Yeah, that's not quite the point of this one. Sorry to disappoint. Or not. Only time will tell, I guess.
The reason I started this blog at this time is because I'm grieving. This is news for those of you who just happened upon this in some random search. For those of you who read the "about me" page, well, then it's just a friendly reminder.
Yup. I am eyebrow deep in the wonderful world that is grief. Fun stuff, right?
Yes, I've lost people in my life before now. By age 33, I've said goodbye to all my grandparents, a great aunt, a great uncle, friends, three cats, two gerbils, a turtle, and I don't know how many fish. Death isn't something new, or scary, or even something I dread. It's just part of life (cue the opening to The Lion King).
*For real though, whether you're a "member" or not, check out Kate Spencer's book, The Dead Moms Club. Again, not paid to say that, just honestly love the book. And if you are a card carrying member of the club, trust me, it's what you need.
Yeah, that's not quite the point of this one. Sorry to disappoint. Or not. Only time will tell, I guess.
The reason I started this blog at this time is because I'm grieving. This is news for those of you who just happened upon this in some random search. For those of you who read the "about me" page, well, then it's just a friendly reminder.
Yup. I am eyebrow deep in the wonderful world that is grief. Fun stuff, right?
Yes, I've lost people in my life before now. By age 33, I've said goodbye to all my grandparents, a great aunt, a great uncle, friends, three cats, two gerbils, a turtle, and I don't know how many fish. Death isn't something new, or scary, or even something I dread. It's just part of life (cue the opening to The Lion King).
But those were all very different than what's going on now. Maybe because I was younger. Maybe because I just wasn't necessarily that close to some of those who passed. But really, it's probably because, from what I've heard/read/was told by my therapist, this is one of, if not the hardest deaths to face.
On February 27, 2018 my mom killed herself.
It's alright. I needed to take a deep breath after that, too.
Even now, just a little over three months after the fact, that is still a very weird and difficult sentence to write. But there it is. And it's still true. And that fact will never change.
Ok, let's all take another deep breath together now, shall we?
By the way, deep breathing becomes a major thing during these situations. Mostly because there are plenty of times where one forgets to breathe. And sleep. And eat. And basically do anything else a living being needs.
Yes. My mom is dead. As the wonderful, brilliantly hilarious Kate Spencer (and no, she didn't pay me to write that. I don't even know her. Well, I mean, I follow her on Instagram and she may have responded to my post... where was I?) put it, I'm now "a member of one of the crappiest clubs in the world."* I definitely didn't sign up for it, and unfortunately there is no "unsubscribe" link floating in the air.
To say this has been a difficult past 101 days... well... difficult is definitely a word that could be used to describe it. So is exhausting. Weird. Interesting. Unreal. Surprising. There are a lot of words that are quite applicable to the situation. None better or worse than any other. Quite often the correct word choice changes by the day. Hell, by the minute. But that's all part of this. This grief thing.
So, the reason for the blog.
On February 27, 2018 my mom killed herself.
It's alright. I needed to take a deep breath after that, too.
Even now, just a little over three months after the fact, that is still a very weird and difficult sentence to write. But there it is. And it's still true. And that fact will never change.
Ok, let's all take another deep breath together now, shall we?
By the way, deep breathing becomes a major thing during these situations. Mostly because there are plenty of times where one forgets to breathe. And sleep. And eat. And basically do anything else a living being needs.
Yes. My mom is dead. As the wonderful, brilliantly hilarious Kate Spencer (and no, she didn't pay me to write that. I don't even know her. Well, I mean, I follow her on Instagram and she may have responded to my post... where was I?) put it, I'm now "a member of one of the crappiest clubs in the world."* I definitely didn't sign up for it, and unfortunately there is no "unsubscribe" link floating in the air.
To say this has been a difficult past 101 days... well... difficult is definitely a word that could be used to describe it. So is exhausting. Weird. Interesting. Unreal. Surprising. There are a lot of words that are quite applicable to the situation. None better or worse than any other. Quite often the correct word choice changes by the day. Hell, by the minute. But that's all part of this. This grief thing.
So, the reason for the blog.
I started a journal the day I found out because, well, as you may have guessed, your brain might just go into hyper-drive over something like this, and there are only so many people who will listen to you talk and for only so long. It was nice to get thoughts out, and I'll most likely still use it for some general things that don't need to make their way to the blogosphere, but I find myself wanting to be part of the bigger conversation.
Believe me, there will be a post about my feelings and thoughts on the mental health care of this country. My soapbox is sitting in the corner, just waiting to be dusted off and brought out in all its glory.
But that's not even why I felt compelled to bring this into a more public forum. As part of my way of trying to wrap my head around all of this, as I do with almost everything in my life, I turn to reading. And listening. And trying to learn from others experiences. I've stumbled upon some a-MAZ-ing things so far where I've shouted through tears "someone else gets it!" while driving in my car, or lying on my bed, terrifying my cat who had been comfortably sleeping next to me. And I will share those with you. But also, I want to share my story because if I can even make one other person feel like they aren't completely alone in facing a completely crazy situation, then maybe this all won't seem quite so bad.
So, welcome. This isn't going to be all sunshine and roses. Fuck, it probably won't even be partly cloudy and dandelions, but it will be honest.
Believe me, there will be a post about my feelings and thoughts on the mental health care of this country. My soapbox is sitting in the corner, just waiting to be dusted off and brought out in all its glory.
But that's not even why I felt compelled to bring this into a more public forum. As part of my way of trying to wrap my head around all of this, as I do with almost everything in my life, I turn to reading. And listening. And trying to learn from others experiences. I've stumbled upon some a-MAZ-ing things so far where I've shouted through tears "someone else gets it!" while driving in my car, or lying on my bed, terrifying my cat who had been comfortably sleeping next to me. And I will share those with you. But also, I want to share my story because if I can even make one other person feel like they aren't completely alone in facing a completely crazy situation, then maybe this all won't seem quite so bad.
So, welcome. This isn't going to be all sunshine and roses. Fuck, it probably won't even be partly cloudy and dandelions, but it will be honest.
*For real though, whether you're a "member" or not, check out Kate Spencer's book, The Dead Moms Club. Again, not paid to say that, just honestly love the book. And if you are a card carrying member of the club, trust me, it's what you need.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)