I know that much of what I write isn't cohesive, the verbiage a little
mangled and scattered about, but thank you for reading, in spite of my
shortcomings. Mentally, I am what I describe and then some. I feel like I go from here to there and here and over there and
back here, over and over. I am, in the same minute, determined to find a
purpose and acceptance and sobbing in disbelief, wondering how it is
that this is my life. My brain is so focused on survival that in my
head I often sound incoherent, mostly because I forget in one second
what I was just thinking about the second before. According to
one of my books, the short term memory will be gone for awhile, as the
body/brain uses its energy to deal with the trauma. I can be thinking
about doing something, when my eye will see something that my brain
interprets as a Brandon memory, so my brain wanders off before I even
realize that I've now forgotten what I was just thinking. I will be
watching tv and realize that I'm crying because my brain just
remembered that I forgot to take a picture of Brandon in his casket
without his hat on, why didn't I take a picture of his beautiful hair? I
have pictures....tons of pictures...that show Brandon's hair, but all
of a sudden it becomes unbelievable that I didn't photograph that.
Little moments like this are what my day is comprised of. They are
exhausting. I am not quite sure if I'm exhausted from trying to run
from my thoughts or exhausted from thinking so much. Probably both.
Matthew 12:34 says that...'the mouth speaks what the heart is full
of' or some variation on that theme (like out of the abundance of the
heart the mouth speaks), depending on what translation you are reading.
I have always felt intense conviction from that scripture because of
all my fleshly foibles (ok fine, gargantuan sins), this is one I have
battled the most. I have had some mighty battles and been victorious,
but the whole taming the tongue thing just doesn't stick. I know it is
because I have a heart issue.
Today, that really hit
me, but in a new way. Almost everything out of my mouth has to do with
Brandon. My thoughts are about Brandon, my tears are for him, I
physically long to touch him, to hear his voice. I have only once in
the last five weeks been angry and yelled out loud and that little burst
of temper came from nowhere, completely irrational (b/c yes, all of my
other temper issues are rational) and out of control, but I knew it had
to do with my helplessness over Brandon dying. My heart is so full of
grief and trying to make sense of things, that the only words I do have
are with regard to this walk. I also know it's why I keep having random
praise songs flow from my lips. My heart has room for few things
outside of the immediate trauma, but it reassures me that there is hope
for me yet, with what is flowing out of my mouth right now. As a side note, please don't hold it against me if you see me mad and letting the wrong things spew out tomorrow...I'm the mother of all works in progress...be gracious, please.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Thursday, June 20, 2013
low;
all day long I go about mourning.
My back is filled with searing pain;
there is no health in my body.
I am feeble and utterly crushed;
I groan in anguish of heart.
All my longings lie open before you,
O Lord;
my sighing is not hidden from
you.
My heart pounds, my strength
fails me;
even the light has gone from my
eyes......
I wait for you, O Lord;
you will answer, O Lord my God.....
For I am about to fall,
and my pain is ever with me.....
O LORD, do not forsake me,
be not far from me, O my God.
Come quickly to help me,
O Lord my Savior.
(Psalm 38:6-22)
That particular section of the Psalms, written by my favorite historical figure, King David, pretty much sums up what I feel most days. I didn't include every verse in that passage, as it is written with regard to David's enemies, but what he says is all me right now. I so get him. He seems to so get me. One day, we will rejoice together that all of our earthly failings are no more.
The picture above is my go to position when I am in severe agony. It is ironic that I took that same position, crumpled up in pain, when I was in labor with Brandon, but waiting to bring a beautiful, new life into this world, and when I found out that same beautiful life had left this world. When I got to the hospital, I was already in hard labor, dilated to 8cm and in pain that left me unable to form many words, just simply scream out, O God, and cover my face. I remember the nurses, literally, having to pry my fingers away from my face, in an attempt to get me to focus. I don't remember most of what I said, in the moments after I found out my son had died, but I remember saying, "OH MY GOD," and unable to do anything, at one point, but assume my position and sob. I have covered my face like that every one of the last 33 days, the agony just as David describes. I can almost feel God calling me to pry the fingers away, to lean into Him and not try to rely on myself. It is so hard. Right now I have trouble talking to him, I mean really talking to him. He is gracious and lets me bring the fingers back to my face a little while longer.
Grief is such a personal experience that I find myself surprised when I see one of my own quotes, said by someone else. In a book I'm reading about a pastor and his wife who lost their 18 year old son, he says, "We were not suicidal, but we did not want to live." He states it so succinctly and I think I used those exact words in grief group. It is the strangest place to be. To be caught in the middle of I do not want to live and I cannot take my own life, I have to live, is agonizing.
My sweet daughter voiced the feelings that I think all three of us (my husband, included) share. She said, "I don't want to go anywhere, do anything, be anywhere, talk to anyone, hug anyone." She aches in a way that none of her friends can understand. Her world...our world...is so different, so new and so profoundly sad, we don't get how to live in it. It's so hard just to see how other people look at us now. We are different, our lives are ridiculously wrong, people hurt for us and it hurts to have to be those people.
In my head, I know there is much to live for, life is out there for the living, surely there are many enjoyable things in life, but my broken heart cannot even begin to understand how that could be possible, how it could ever be all right to do such a thing. I still just cannot believe that there is life going on around me that does not have my boy in it. I want him back so badly and I
Monday, June 17, 2013
What Day is It?
That is a question I frequently ask. Time has little meaning to me, nowadays, except in relation to when I lost my precious boy. Today, my daughter came home during her lunch break at school to get a paper signed by me. As I went to fill in the date, I asked her what day it is. She said, "The 17th." I asked if it was 5-17 and she had to tell me no, it's June. At that precise moment, it hit me that it was such a duh question, because were it May 17th, Brandon would still be alive. What a wave of grief that started, as I immediately felt a deep longing for it to be May 17th, again.
What I would give to have May 17th back. I try not to dwell in the what-ifs, but they are inevitable in this season. I wonder what I could have done differently to change what happened on the 18th (even though I won't even know what happened on May 18th for a couple more months). In spite of my faith, I am absolutely certain that had I done something different, said something else on the 16th or the 17th, not given in to my stubbornness and selfishness, done just about anything other than what I'd done, my son would be alive. In my longing to go back and wave some divine wand over everything, I am not consoled (today) by our last conversations, which both ended with I love you. I know how much he loved me. My love for him was unequivocal and he knew it. None of that gives me a chance to, as my sweet daughter says, hit the rewind button.
I am what I call a practical, positive, pessimist. I can get sucked into negativity, but my hopeful nature refuses to give in to the negativity completely, so I compromise and become practical, logical. I can apply that here, by reminding myself that maybe if I hadn't stuck to my guns at other times, Brandon would've died at an even younger age or maybe if he'd had a long, very hard life, not as many lives would've been touched and I definitely do not want my kids to suffer, just to save me from grief. Of course, I don't really have any idea about what might've been different, but I have never in my life wanted something so badly as to turn back the calendar to May 17th. Tomorrow, the one month mark, is what I thought would really get me. No, today really got me.
I cried and cried. Then, I decided to take a nap, before hauling myself to grief group. I haven't yet talked about the dreams I had of Brandon, starting five or six days after he left this earth, but they made me not want to dream of him because I'm afraid of the extra grief. As I napped today, I was dreaming that I walked into the house. I was doing something out of view of the front door, but I heard it open and close. In my dream I knew it was Brandon walking in behind me, but my non-dream state mind knew that I could not bear to see him. At that moment, right before I turned around, I told myself it was time to wake up now and my eyes shot open. It was almost like what I imagine being hypnotized would be like. I am amazed (and thankful) that my awake and asleep mind were communicating in such a way, that it was like being between two worlds at the same time. The two worlds I want to be in, though, are not happening. As strong as my mind is, it cannot wish the clock backward for me or let me into Heaven to visit with Brandon. And, so I wait.
What I would give to have May 17th back. I try not to dwell in the what-ifs, but they are inevitable in this season. I wonder what I could have done differently to change what happened on the 18th (even though I won't even know what happened on May 18th for a couple more months). In spite of my faith, I am absolutely certain that had I done something different, said something else on the 16th or the 17th, not given in to my stubbornness and selfishness, done just about anything other than what I'd done, my son would be alive. In my longing to go back and wave some divine wand over everything, I am not consoled (today) by our last conversations, which both ended with I love you. I know how much he loved me. My love for him was unequivocal and he knew it. None of that gives me a chance to, as my sweet daughter says, hit the rewind button.
I am what I call a practical, positive, pessimist. I can get sucked into negativity, but my hopeful nature refuses to give in to the negativity completely, so I compromise and become practical, logical. I can apply that here, by reminding myself that maybe if I hadn't stuck to my guns at other times, Brandon would've died at an even younger age or maybe if he'd had a long, very hard life, not as many lives would've been touched and I definitely do not want my kids to suffer, just to save me from grief. Of course, I don't really have any idea about what might've been different, but I have never in my life wanted something so badly as to turn back the calendar to May 17th. Tomorrow, the one month mark, is what I thought would really get me. No, today really got me.
I cried and cried. Then, I decided to take a nap, before hauling myself to grief group. I haven't yet talked about the dreams I had of Brandon, starting five or six days after he left this earth, but they made me not want to dream of him because I'm afraid of the extra grief. As I napped today, I was dreaming that I walked into the house. I was doing something out of view of the front door, but I heard it open and close. In my dream I knew it was Brandon walking in behind me, but my non-dream state mind knew that I could not bear to see him. At that moment, right before I turned around, I told myself it was time to wake up now and my eyes shot open. It was almost like what I imagine being hypnotized would be like. I am amazed (and thankful) that my awake and asleep mind were communicating in such a way, that it was like being between two worlds at the same time. The two worlds I want to be in, though, are not happening. As strong as my mind is, it cannot wish the clock backward for me or let me into Heaven to visit with Brandon. And, so I wait.
The UN-Life
A question was posted in a group I'm in, essentially, asking how we are doing. I said I didn't really need to elaborate, but that my life felt like an "UN". There are many I could list, but I guess that'd just become a pity party and I'm trying like hell to not have a pity party every day, much as I feel I have the right to indulge. Unfair, unreal, unlucky, unbelievably sad, unnavigable, unsettling, undone. I think unreal and unfair are the ones I say the most. I really hate unfair because, as every mom in history has ever said, "Life isn't fair." I do know this isn't about fairness because it's not fair for anyone to lose a child, no matter who you are...which ends up leading me to the other thing I keep saying, "Most people don't lose their kid," why do we have to be part of the club no one wants to belong to....it's unreal. It's way past surreal, it's just so not possible. How can it be?
Today has been 30 days since Brandon went to his permanent home. There are people who struggle with living so much that they can't stay sober for that long and yet the half of my heart that is left has actually kept beating for thirty long days after a phone call from the medical examiner changed my life forever.
I try not to cry constantly because I actually end up upsetting myself further at the sound of my own sobbing. It seems to make it more real...like I'm crying, so my son must really not be coming back. And, still the tears come. They don't wait for permission from me to fall from my eyes. It doesn't matter where I'm at, out of nowhere, my vision becomes blurry and my cheeks wet. It's a new, completely dumbfounding, unreal reality. How can it be?
I'm going to end this post with some lyrics from a song by my favorite artist ever, Chris Tomlin. It's from the song "Whom Shall I Fear" and I really felt convicted to declare the truth in those words. I know these things to my core, within every fiber of my being, but knowing and living something aren't always the same (more often than I care to admit in my world), especially when every fiber of your being is fighting, every single day, just to find the desire to want to live.
I know who goes before me
I know who stands behind
The God of angel armies
Is always by my side
The one who reigns forever
He is a friend of mine
Today has been 30 days since Brandon went to his permanent home. There are people who struggle with living so much that they can't stay sober for that long and yet the half of my heart that is left has actually kept beating for thirty long days after a phone call from the medical examiner changed my life forever.
I try not to cry constantly because I actually end up upsetting myself further at the sound of my own sobbing. It seems to make it more real...like I'm crying, so my son must really not be coming back. And, still the tears come. They don't wait for permission from me to fall from my eyes. It doesn't matter where I'm at, out of nowhere, my vision becomes blurry and my cheeks wet. It's a new, completely dumbfounding, unreal reality. How can it be?
I'm going to end this post with some lyrics from a song by my favorite artist ever, Chris Tomlin. It's from the song "Whom Shall I Fear" and I really felt convicted to declare the truth in those words. I know these things to my core, within every fiber of my being, but knowing and living something aren't always the same (more often than I care to admit in my world), especially when every fiber of your being is fighting, every single day, just to find the desire to want to live.
I know who goes before me
I know who stands behind
The God of angel armies
Is always by my side
The one who reigns forever
He is a friend of mine
Wednesday, June 12, 2013
Blessed Assurance
That's an old hymn that I grew up singing in my (very) conservative Southern Baptist church. As a kid in a conservative church, I never understood much about the Holy Spirit and, in fact, I still think I'm probably pretty clueless. I didn't understand a lot of the scriptures nor did I understand or particularly care for some of the "weighty" hymns we sang or the messages given by our Pastor. I sang them anyway and I read the Bible, anyway. Like most kids who go to Sunday school, I memorized verses, regardless of how much they spoke to my soul.
As I grew up and matured, songs stuck with me, scriptures started having light shed on them and I cannot remember the last time I was at church (any church) with a message that didn't hit me in some way. I devour all of it, in almost a greedy, gluttonous way. And, I only say gluttonous because we're here to love other people and I think if you're struggling so much that you can only take, how can you be giving, right?
I'm going to be completely transparent here because those that know me will know if I try to sugarcoat things: I can totally be a Sunday Christian. I get caught up in the real world with my real struggles, my lack of discipline and my wounds from real life. I have always said that if I could just live life at church, I'd be so good. In reality, my true self, the one who yells and swears like a sailor and judges people and....I'll stop there because the picture only gets uglier....that part of me would eventually insist on being dealt with, one way or another. Sin is no respecter of the building you are standing in. I love more, yell less, judge less, you get the idea, than I did 10 years ago, but I am still a huge work in process...one that, as it would appear, is painstakingly slow.
So, where does Blessed Assurance fit in? I'll tell you. Since I lost my son, I have found zero comfort in my praise and worship music. I have never had that happen to me, since really sort of "discovering" it, about ten years ago. It was more of a conviction thing, not that I'd never heard of it, but that's another long story. Anyway, no matter what I've been walking through, I've been able to fall back on the songs I know and love to comfort me and praise God, even some of the old hymns, since I hear them differently than when I was a kid. Right now, though, they almost make me mad. I feel betrayed, deserted, totally and completely alone and trying to muster up worship, at best, makes me sort of resentful.
My spirit, though, knows better, which is why I had to blog today, even though I'd planned to take a break. For the last 10-14 days, I've just been randomly having a couple lines from different songs pop into my head. I can't get them out. I sing or hum them out loud. The same lines, over and over, until I run to a computer to remember what song I'm singing. (My memory has been very fuzzy the last few weeks, so I rely on Google for a lot)
First, it was, "Nothing can take me away from you" followed by humming because I'd forgotten the next words and then, "Your love will never let me go." Then, a couple of days ago, I started singing "I love I love, I love your presence." I could remember nothing else except the words and the tune.. Turns out there aren't many words, they just aren't necessary. Here are the words:
In the glory of Your presence
I find rest for my soul
In the depths of Your love
I find peace
Makes me whole
I love, I love, I love Your presence
I love, I love, I love Your presence
I love, I love, I love You Jesus
I love, I love, I love Your presence
I am having trouble articulating what I want to say, but I know it's important because I know I'll need this later when, yet again, I forget what being comforted feels like and break down in despair. I know someone needs it now. I know I was supposed to come do this, but my brain is going so fast, my fingers cannot keep up. If you look at the words to that song and put in a couple of lines from Blessed Assurance,
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
O what a foretaste of glory divine!
And you add in nothing can take me away from me, your love will never let me go....do you see the picture? It's like all these different parts of these different songs go together. Those words are to me for me. While I do not have a song, I cannot find comfort, the Holy Spirit longs to comfort me and put words on my lips that my soul desperately needs to remember. It's as if I'm being sung to and the revelation of that blew me away. All those days, I missed it. I went along with it, but I missed what was really happening and when the light was shining brightly on it, I sat there stunned. I am still so blown away. It is in the presence of that very thing, but SO.MUCH.BIGGER. that my sweet son now sits.
As I grew up and matured, songs stuck with me, scriptures started having light shed on them and I cannot remember the last time I was at church (any church) with a message that didn't hit me in some way. I devour all of it, in almost a greedy, gluttonous way. And, I only say gluttonous because we're here to love other people and I think if you're struggling so much that you can only take, how can you be giving, right?
I'm going to be completely transparent here because those that know me will know if I try to sugarcoat things: I can totally be a Sunday Christian. I get caught up in the real world with my real struggles, my lack of discipline and my wounds from real life. I have always said that if I could just live life at church, I'd be so good. In reality, my true self, the one who yells and swears like a sailor and judges people and....I'll stop there because the picture only gets uglier....that part of me would eventually insist on being dealt with, one way or another. Sin is no respecter of the building you are standing in. I love more, yell less, judge less, you get the idea, than I did 10 years ago, but I am still a huge work in process...one that, as it would appear, is painstakingly slow.
So, where does Blessed Assurance fit in? I'll tell you. Since I lost my son, I have found zero comfort in my praise and worship music. I have never had that happen to me, since really sort of "discovering" it, about ten years ago. It was more of a conviction thing, not that I'd never heard of it, but that's another long story. Anyway, no matter what I've been walking through, I've been able to fall back on the songs I know and love to comfort me and praise God, even some of the old hymns, since I hear them differently than when I was a kid. Right now, though, they almost make me mad. I feel betrayed, deserted, totally and completely alone and trying to muster up worship, at best, makes me sort of resentful.
My spirit, though, knows better, which is why I had to blog today, even though I'd planned to take a break. For the last 10-14 days, I've just been randomly having a couple lines from different songs pop into my head. I can't get them out. I sing or hum them out loud. The same lines, over and over, until I run to a computer to remember what song I'm singing. (My memory has been very fuzzy the last few weeks, so I rely on Google for a lot)
First, it was, "Nothing can take me away from you" followed by humming because I'd forgotten the next words and then, "Your love will never let me go." Then, a couple of days ago, I started singing "I love I love, I love your presence." I could remember nothing else except the words and the tune.. Turns out there aren't many words, they just aren't necessary. Here are the words:
In the glory of Your presence
I find rest for my soul
In the depths of Your love
I find peace
Makes me whole
I love, I love, I love Your presence
I love, I love, I love Your presence
I love, I love, I love You Jesus
I love, I love, I love Your presence
I am having trouble articulating what I want to say, but I know it's important because I know I'll need this later when, yet again, I forget what being comforted feels like and break down in despair. I know someone needs it now. I know I was supposed to come do this, but my brain is going so fast, my fingers cannot keep up. If you look at the words to that song and put in a couple of lines from Blessed Assurance,
Blessed assurance, Jesus is mine!
O what a foretaste of glory divine!
And you add in nothing can take me away from me, your love will never let me go....do you see the picture? It's like all these different parts of these different songs go together. Those words are to me for me. While I do not have a song, I cannot find comfort, the Holy Spirit longs to comfort me and put words on my lips that my soul desperately needs to remember. It's as if I'm being sung to and the revelation of that blew me away. All those days, I missed it. I went along with it, but I missed what was really happening and when the light was shining brightly on it, I sat there stunned. I am still so blown away. It is in the presence of that very thing, but SO.MUCH.BIGGER. that my sweet son now sits.
Tuesday, June 11, 2013
Joy Cometh
Two of my favorite words in the Bible. I am clinging to Psalm 30:5 that says....weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning. I haven't seen that morning in over three weeks, but despite the picture of the last eight years, I know that for everything there's a season and this season will just have to end, eventually. In the meantime, I'm still struggling just to exist, just to simply be, while I try to figure out what my place is in this world.
Today, I had to take care of another thing that required a death certificate. It is already hard for me to drive the car because it was the last place I saw my boy alive. To drive down the road with a death certificate in the spot that my boy always sat is just so very wrong. It is surreal. I've taken to driving like a normal person because I'm so aware that I am actually not aware, not really present in my surroundings, that I want to take extra precautions so I don't hurt anyone. It was because of that very thing that a bicyclist got to keep his body intact the other day. It was totally his fault and he is very fortunate that I didn't go when I could've, but hitting him would've undone me.
Everything I do feels like an out of body experience. I'm functioning and, probably, pretty well, given the situation, but nothing feels right or good or normal or the same. Eating is one of those things. I have zero interest in doing it. Not one thing sounds good or tastes good. I eat merely to give my body some kind of fuel to function. My husband has been doing this for years, a byproduct of depression. I'm very picky. VERY. To care so little about what I eat that I'm not worried about my pickiness is almost worrisome. Some people can't deal with grief and they eat. I cannot deal with grief and I do not eat. When I went through that hard time in 2007, I lost 45 pounds in 10 weeks. It almost becomes a game for me. Food has a weird relationship with people who battle their weight. I'm an angry eater, odd because if you know me, you know I have no issue whatsoever with not keeping my anger bottled up. It's obviously not the healthy way to handle it, though, because looking at me will tell you how much of my life I've wasted on stuffing that anger back down. So, not eating for any reason other than to give me sustenance feels sorta out of this world. I've had exactly one time in the last 24 days that something sounded good to me and, oddly enough, it was the night after my boy's memorial. The prior six days I'd had exactly one meal and by meal I mean a piece of pizza. The rest of the time I survived on pieces of cheese.
Listening to music. The CD in the car is the one that was playing the last day I saw Brandon. I listen numbly. I even sing along. But, I will be sitting at a light and start crying. Brandon loved music so much, a love he got from me. Sound is my most precious, valued sense because I love music with my entire being, straight through to my soul. Not now, though, something else that doesn't feel right in my world.
Going to the movies, the laundry, the dishes, the recycle bin, I could go on. It's a huge list of things that don't seem to fit. I know it's normal. Brandon had a role in my life that has been replaced with a gigantic hole, until we all adjust and find a new normal. I don't want a new normal, I want my old normal. (You see my simultaneous acceptance and denial? It's a new theme) I don't want to feel like I don't belong anywhere, that I'm cut off from the world. I want to do something I did before Brandon died and enjoy doing it. I simply can't fathom that happening today. Tomorrow maybe. Maybe not. I hope I don't have to go find all new things to fill my life so that I don't cry over everything that was in my life before I lost my son. I don't think so, right? To me, that wouldn't be joy....or maybe it will be, I'm not sure....joy needs to quit being a slacker before I get permanently lost in this world.
Today, I had to take care of another thing that required a death certificate. It is already hard for me to drive the car because it was the last place I saw my boy alive. To drive down the road with a death certificate in the spot that my boy always sat is just so very wrong. It is surreal. I've taken to driving like a normal person because I'm so aware that I am actually not aware, not really present in my surroundings, that I want to take extra precautions so I don't hurt anyone. It was because of that very thing that a bicyclist got to keep his body intact the other day. It was totally his fault and he is very fortunate that I didn't go when I could've, but hitting him would've undone me.
Everything I do feels like an out of body experience. I'm functioning and, probably, pretty well, given the situation, but nothing feels right or good or normal or the same. Eating is one of those things. I have zero interest in doing it. Not one thing sounds good or tastes good. I eat merely to give my body some kind of fuel to function. My husband has been doing this for years, a byproduct of depression. I'm very picky. VERY. To care so little about what I eat that I'm not worried about my pickiness is almost worrisome. Some people can't deal with grief and they eat. I cannot deal with grief and I do not eat. When I went through that hard time in 2007, I lost 45 pounds in 10 weeks. It almost becomes a game for me. Food has a weird relationship with people who battle their weight. I'm an angry eater, odd because if you know me, you know I have no issue whatsoever with not keeping my anger bottled up. It's obviously not the healthy way to handle it, though, because looking at me will tell you how much of my life I've wasted on stuffing that anger back down. So, not eating for any reason other than to give me sustenance feels sorta out of this world. I've had exactly one time in the last 24 days that something sounded good to me and, oddly enough, it was the night after my boy's memorial. The prior six days I'd had exactly one meal and by meal I mean a piece of pizza. The rest of the time I survived on pieces of cheese.
Listening to music. The CD in the car is the one that was playing the last day I saw Brandon. I listen numbly. I even sing along. But, I will be sitting at a light and start crying. Brandon loved music so much, a love he got from me. Sound is my most precious, valued sense because I love music with my entire being, straight through to my soul. Not now, though, something else that doesn't feel right in my world.
Going to the movies, the laundry, the dishes, the recycle bin, I could go on. It's a huge list of things that don't seem to fit. I know it's normal. Brandon had a role in my life that has been replaced with a gigantic hole, until we all adjust and find a new normal. I don't want a new normal, I want my old normal. (You see my simultaneous acceptance and denial? It's a new theme) I don't want to feel like I don't belong anywhere, that I'm cut off from the world. I want to do something I did before Brandon died and enjoy doing it. I simply can't fathom that happening today. Tomorrow maybe. Maybe not. I hope I don't have to go find all new things to fill my life so that I don't cry over everything that was in my life before I lost my son. I don't think so, right? To me, that wouldn't be joy....or maybe it will be, I'm not sure....joy needs to quit being a slacker before I get permanently lost in this world.
Stronger Than Yesterday....
Not really, sorry to mislead you. I stole it from a Britney Spears song, which has absolutely nothing to do with grieving and everything to do with avoidance. I realized, after reading one of my posts from yesterday, for about the fifth time, that something was missing. Ah, yes, Blogger ate 3/4 of the post I had saved. The part that it posted was originally written on the 5th. I forced myself to come down here and get to work on some of the writing, after managing to avoid sitting here for four days, and that's what happened. Eh, in the big scheme of things, who cares, but it is just so hard to do this. Words have rarely escaped me. Talking is not an issue. Writing is even less of an issue for me. I've written A+ term papers on books I've ready only the cover of because I have a gift of going on and on and on ad nauseam about mostly nothing. Sort of like that. And, now I'm avoiding the pain of writing, again, so I should just get on with it.
The whole 'you are strong' thing is intimidating. Few things intimidate me, but those that do, really get in my head and mess with me. I have always considered myself to be a very strong person. Physically, I'm much stronger than I look and anyone with whom I've ever had a war of words with knows that I'm not easily defeated. Stubborn, tenacious, strong...really, what's the difference, if you ask me? Partly, I do believe this to be a pride issue, but a lot of it has to do with my faith. I trust the one who calms the seas, even though I may be screaming to let me off the boat during the storm. When you have a reputation of being able to endure anything, though, it's as if 'anything' keeps finding your address and you have to continue to be strong because...well...you are strong.
However, eight freaking years of storms have made me seriously take pause. If this is what happens to strong people, no thank you. I do not want to be strong. I'm not kidding when I say eight years. This is the eighth year, which I already know to be the worst of them all. Really? Eight? In a ROW? Yes. In a row. I'm not superstitious, but I only ever remember breaking one mirror in my life. I'm talking monumental issues like death, separation, death, death, death and that should be plenty, but it's not all.
I remember a moment in 2007, not sure of the exact month and I can't remember my blog address for that one to go check, but I had something take me to my knees from the grief. I had been trusting God, much as I did with Brandon, and had it taken from me, through no choice of my own, exactly like Brandon and hell yes, I cried out to God all the questions that hit you.....WHY? How? Why? What will I do? How can the pain not split me open? And, I don't think I ever got an answer. That's not true, I got one answer, it was, "Wait." I'm not kidding. Totally inappropriate there, big daddy, but um ok. Are you sure? And, I heard correctly, something I am totally sure of because if I told you how many times that word showed up in how many places, you would be sure that I have God's number to His direct line. I do NOT, in case you're wondering.
As I was saying, I remember that grief. I will never forget those feelings. Truly, it scarred me. Grace prevented me from letting that wound dictate my life, but, like a scar, it is always there. It pales, though, in comparison to this grief. It's not even on the pain scale, comparatively. I have words for those days and for these I still do not. What I do know, is that it truly feels like I have lived with a tornado coming by my house every single year, sometimes more than once. Every year, I rebuild. I run back to God's arms and beg for help. I falter some when the building is slow, but I stay, sure that the same storm will not strike the same place, year after year. It has. And, THEN...to finish the place off, here comes Hurricane Katrina. Can you even imagine? Seven years of a tornado to your house and Hurricane Katrina in your eighth? In what world does that make sense and who is strong in the face of that? God. I do not get it.
So, I am scared. I don't do scared. It makes me angry. I spent seven years somewhere between trusting that everything would be neatly wrapped up and waiting for the other shoe to drop. ALL the shoes dropped. The feet, the shoe rack, all the boxes OH.MY.GOD. All of it. Someone who has always said that it can always be worse, there is always something to be thankful for, is damn afraid of what is around the corner. My heart is racing as I type this because of all the what-ifs. I am rounding up grief books like they'll stop printing them and hoping that someone will feed me a lie. Tell me I won't be changed (I hate change btw), tell me I'll 'get over it' even though I know it won't be true, tell me the sun will come out and stay out and that I won't be overcome with grief over losing my boy, 20 years from now. So far, no one is trying to sell that in a grief book, so I buy them anyway, hoping that I can accept the truth and hoping that I'm as strong as I hear I am.
The whole 'you are strong' thing is intimidating. Few things intimidate me, but those that do, really get in my head and mess with me. I have always considered myself to be a very strong person. Physically, I'm much stronger than I look and anyone with whom I've ever had a war of words with knows that I'm not easily defeated. Stubborn, tenacious, strong...really, what's the difference, if you ask me? Partly, I do believe this to be a pride issue, but a lot of it has to do with my faith. I trust the one who calms the seas, even though I may be screaming to let me off the boat during the storm. When you have a reputation of being able to endure anything, though, it's as if 'anything' keeps finding your address and you have to continue to be strong because...well...you are strong.
However, eight freaking years of storms have made me seriously take pause. If this is what happens to strong people, no thank you. I do not want to be strong. I'm not kidding when I say eight years. This is the eighth year, which I already know to be the worst of them all. Really? Eight? In a ROW? Yes. In a row. I'm not superstitious, but I only ever remember breaking one mirror in my life. I'm talking monumental issues like death, separation, death, death, death and that should be plenty, but it's not all.
I remember a moment in 2007, not sure of the exact month and I can't remember my blog address for that one to go check, but I had something take me to my knees from the grief. I had been trusting God, much as I did with Brandon, and had it taken from me, through no choice of my own, exactly like Brandon and hell yes, I cried out to God all the questions that hit you.....WHY? How? Why? What will I do? How can the pain not split me open? And, I don't think I ever got an answer. That's not true, I got one answer, it was, "Wait." I'm not kidding. Totally inappropriate there, big daddy, but um ok. Are you sure? And, I heard correctly, something I am totally sure of because if I told you how many times that word showed up in how many places, you would be sure that I have God's number to His direct line. I do NOT, in case you're wondering.
As I was saying, I remember that grief. I will never forget those feelings. Truly, it scarred me. Grace prevented me from letting that wound dictate my life, but, like a scar, it is always there. It pales, though, in comparison to this grief. It's not even on the pain scale, comparatively. I have words for those days and for these I still do not. What I do know, is that it truly feels like I have lived with a tornado coming by my house every single year, sometimes more than once. Every year, I rebuild. I run back to God's arms and beg for help. I falter some when the building is slow, but I stay, sure that the same storm will not strike the same place, year after year. It has. And, THEN...to finish the place off, here comes Hurricane Katrina. Can you even imagine? Seven years of a tornado to your house and Hurricane Katrina in your eighth? In what world does that make sense and who is strong in the face of that? God. I do not get it.
So, I am scared. I don't do scared. It makes me angry. I spent seven years somewhere between trusting that everything would be neatly wrapped up and waiting for the other shoe to drop. ALL the shoes dropped. The feet, the shoe rack, all the boxes OH.MY.GOD. All of it. Someone who has always said that it can always be worse, there is always something to be thankful for, is damn afraid of what is around the corner. My heart is racing as I type this because of all the what-ifs. I am rounding up grief books like they'll stop printing them and hoping that someone will feed me a lie. Tell me I won't be changed (I hate change btw), tell me I'll 'get over it' even though I know it won't be true, tell me the sun will come out and stay out and that I won't be overcome with grief over losing my boy, 20 years from now. So far, no one is trying to sell that in a grief book, so I buy them anyway, hoping that I can accept the truth and hoping that I'm as strong as I hear I am.
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