It is this conversation:
"Jake, do you want to go trick or treating this year?"
"No, thanks."
"Why not?" I asked.
"It's no fun without Cory. I tried it last year, and it just wasn't worth it."
It's this one, too, a forty year old daughter texting with her I phone savvy seventy five year old mother:
me: Jake is passing out candy to the trick or treaters.
mom: Good, he's having fun. Bless his little heart. He probably likes that. That child is growing up on us.
me <pause of indecision here...do I say what I feel?>
me: He grew up July 5, 2012.
mom: I know, honey... I think we all grew older starting then.
It's the way I look forward to the wind blowing because I might catch the tinkling, silvery notes of her windchimes, which somehow manage to marry sadness with joy. I asked Jake once if he thought those sounds were just the wind or his sister. "Both", he replied with confidence. "How does that work?" I asked him. He responded, "I don't know. It just is."
It's coming across the slick Ziploc bag in your dresser drawer while getting ready for work in the morning. Inside is a shirt with her scent that you must protect at all costs. Moments go by unnoticed as you struggle to decide if opening it to smell her will help or hurt.
It's hearing someone mention bbq porkchops in conversation, which takes you back to Cory,7, Cory, 8, Cory,9, who loved Timber's grilled bbq porkchops with extra sauce more than anything, and would gorge her tiny body till she nearly burst.
It's her fluffy bathrobe still up in the bathroom. It's reaching for a towel without looking, and getting the hot pink one that she claimed as hers only, using others only when it was not clean, and with such disdain.
It's the stifling guilt that you should have given her more, until you read the quote that says, "Children will not value the things you give them as much as the feeling of being cherished." Then you breathe again, because that you did do, and you did it well.
It's opening the silverware drawer to get out utensils for the take-out - really, who around here cooks anymore- and passing over her "special" fork, which used to worry you, thinking she'd taken on autistic traits on top of everything else for Pete's sake, what with her rigidity to use anything else, but eventually realized a simple fork brought an everyday predictability to her unpredictable illness.
It's walking through the building at work and hearing a snatch of "Home" on someone's desk radio, which brings two memories home with alarming speed. You may miss a step but you keep walking as you remember the slideshow a teenage Cory with high hopes of reconciliation and a nuclear family with her father included had made, and how she'd showed it to her father, hoping to make him smile. You remember how she'd play it just to see our faces all together in the frame, and dream of a better day. You take a moment to mourn for her hopes and that family, which you had wanted with all your heart since you were sixteen years old. Then the other side crashes in, the footage of the slideshow at the visitations and her service. Heavy steps, heavier, heaviest.
It is closing your eyes in bed at night to writhe away from the casket.
It's dreaming about her, and waking up to her laugh still ringing in your ears.
It's coming so many steps to go backwards at a moment's notice, one hand over your face, blocking your eyes, but never the one inside...never that one. It's taking both small hands and scrubbing your face, trying to clear the terrible knowledge, but it refuses to budge, and sits on your contenance like a newborn's caul...sadly, no good luck to be had from it, only pain and misery.
It is daydreaming about just not coming home from work one day. Checking in at some hotel, pulling out the crappy stationary, and writing your goodbyes one by one. Going to sleep and never waking up again.
Cory would understand. She knew misery.
It is not easier the second year.
It is not honest to pretend you're ok when you're not.
It is not being an attention seeking drama queen to document this trip into hell without artifice.
Tell the truth. Tell the truth. Tell the truth.
I'm falling to pieces.
Thursday, October 31, 2013
Yet Another Trip
Last night:
Sizzling hot pavement. Blinding sun. Slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap...my feet hitting the road..."What was she wearing?" thrown desperately over my shoulder to the boy. Slap-slap, slap-slap. The answer, "short shorts and a t-shirt" floating over the dead air to me, my head already turned back to straight ahead. Arms pumping, legs eating up the steps between us. It can't be far now, it can't be far now. Bending over, winded in the heat, at the stop sign, looking, looking, desperately scanning the area. Nothing, nothing...oh! A body. A body and people moving around trying to shield it from the passers-by....trying to hide the mess... locked knees, then running over, being held back by arms, by hands, who may have belonged to no one, they were just there, hanging in the air, it seemed. They reached for me, grasped hold, held tight as I took in hair, shirt, shorts, legs. Facedown. Facedown.
Oh my God, that's Cory.
Sizzling hot pavement. Blinding sun. Slap-slap, slap-slap, slap-slap...my feet hitting the road..."What was she wearing?" thrown desperately over my shoulder to the boy. Slap-slap, slap-slap. The answer, "short shorts and a t-shirt" floating over the dead air to me, my head already turned back to straight ahead. Arms pumping, legs eating up the steps between us. It can't be far now, it can't be far now. Bending over, winded in the heat, at the stop sign, looking, looking, desperately scanning the area. Nothing, nothing...oh! A body. A body and people moving around trying to shield it from the passers-by....trying to hide the mess... locked knees, then running over, being held back by arms, by hands, who may have belonged to no one, they were just there, hanging in the air, it seemed. They reached for me, grasped hold, held tight as I took in hair, shirt, shorts, legs. Facedown. Facedown.
Oh my God, that's Cory.
Monday, October 28, 2013
Bedroom Half Empty or Half Full?
Okay, folks, I'm quite certain you never would've guessed this about me, but I am indeed a pessimist. Shocker, right? My pessimism is steadily fed by my constant low-grade anxiety, and has been reinforced for years by situations that turned out to be just horrible as they wanted to be.
Today, I was an optimist for nearly 5 minutes. I know, I know. What caused this out of character behavior? None other than my Cory Girl.
Here's what happened:
I had asked Tim to bring some of Cory's paintings down from her room this weekend so I could take them to my new little digs at work, that boasts one lovely burgundy wall. (Or if you are super into fashion, you might say ox-blood, right, Miss Angie?)
I have been in her room a handful of times, always to recover some treasure, and end up laid out for the better part of the day. Once I realized this, I began to avoid her room like the plague, and tried to delegate this torturous errand to anyone else who would take it. Ditto with the dusting, vacuuming, and clearing of the spider webs that began to multiply once they realized they were the sole remaining occupants of the place.
When I asked Tim for help, and he merely rolled over in his bed, sleep mask still on, muttering thickly about "not feeling real good", I had a surge of bravery. I kicked off the high heel ankle boots I'd just put on to leave the house, and went for it. I needed to be sure I could do anything that needed being done by myself, since I was practically by myself as it was.
I hear footsteps all the time from overhead. Have I told you that?
I shook my head back and forth, as if to clear it, and began trudging up the steep steps. The air still smells like her. It's a little stale, yes, but her scent lingers. I ducked my head under the slanted ceiling, and walked the narrow landing. The first thing I saw was the blanket and pillow fort the kids had made for their slumber parties. Jacob, then 9, and Cory, then 19, had been having movie nights on summer break.
They had called me up just a few days before the accident to see their stuffed animals lined up in careful rows, evoking a movie theater feel. I grinned a little shamefaced to see they were watching a movie on Netflix pulled up on Cory's IPad. It was propped up against a pile of DVDs, and was certainly the smallest movie screen I had ever seen.
The next morning, they were squealing with delight to see a tv and dvd player being carried into Cory's room.
So today, I glanced down at the fort that Jake had insisted remain just as it was, cleaning to happen if it had to, but those stuffed animals and pillows to be placed back just so. Normally, one look at that scene and I am done. It is then a huge rush to get what I needed and get the hell out before I have some sort of breakdown.
Today, I lingered. I couldn't help myself. I could smell her. I could feel her presence. I began to look at things a little differently. Instead of seeing how Cory and Jake would never have another movie or giggle together, I saw how their pillows had been placed head to head. That's how close they were. I saw that Jacob not wanting anything moved meant he treasured those last memories with her, and had made a solid decision to keep them fresh, whatever it took.
I started going through her paintings, setting the ones I meant to take on her bed, which I wandered over to and sat on, touching her stuffed animal fox with one hand, my heart full. Her bed was made. After all the times, she had not been able to keep her environment orderly, she had died with her bed made, and her stuffed sleeping companions in a tidy row. I drifted over to her dresser. More lines. All her little trinkets and treasures placed just so. She even had a little needlepoint Kleenex box cover with a full box of Kleenex in it.
All these lines showed how she was creating order where once there had been miserable chaos. She was thinking and planning ahead, even down to the Kleenex. Clothes were put away in their drawers. Presentation mattered.
I saw her self image had grown healthier, her Little League trophy and Carson Scholar medallion on prominent display. She had turned one low but super long wall into a mini art gallery with her favorite pieces. She was proud of her work, and they brought her joy. She had learned the skill of surrounding herself with positive things, something lots of us never quite master. She was such a smart girl, so precocious.
While I was still feeling good and full of love, I grabbed up what I had came for, and started down the steps. This is all a feel good story right up until the point I lost the top two paintings off the top of the pile in my arms and proceeded to trip over my own feet, falling the rest of the way down the stairs. I think I combined Tim's name with some pretty colorful language, and made the three trips out to the car, resentfully, without his assistance. Not even hearing the crash or perhaps deciding nothing was worth getting out of bed for, he slept on.
Without a look back, I took my daughter to work. She is still my constant. Love you, Cory-Girl, always, always, always. There really isn't anything we can't do together.
Today, I was an optimist for nearly 5 minutes. I know, I know. What caused this out of character behavior? None other than my Cory Girl.
Here's what happened:
I had asked Tim to bring some of Cory's paintings down from her room this weekend so I could take them to my new little digs at work, that boasts one lovely burgundy wall. (Or if you are super into fashion, you might say ox-blood, right, Miss Angie?)
I have been in her room a handful of times, always to recover some treasure, and end up laid out for the better part of the day. Once I realized this, I began to avoid her room like the plague, and tried to delegate this torturous errand to anyone else who would take it. Ditto with the dusting, vacuuming, and clearing of the spider webs that began to multiply once they realized they were the sole remaining occupants of the place.
When I asked Tim for help, and he merely rolled over in his bed, sleep mask still on, muttering thickly about "not feeling real good", I had a surge of bravery. I kicked off the high heel ankle boots I'd just put on to leave the house, and went for it. I needed to be sure I could do anything that needed being done by myself, since I was practically by myself as it was.
I hear footsteps all the time from overhead. Have I told you that?
I shook my head back and forth, as if to clear it, and began trudging up the steep steps. The air still smells like her. It's a little stale, yes, but her scent lingers. I ducked my head under the slanted ceiling, and walked the narrow landing. The first thing I saw was the blanket and pillow fort the kids had made for their slumber parties. Jacob, then 9, and Cory, then 19, had been having movie nights on summer break.
They had called me up just a few days before the accident to see their stuffed animals lined up in careful rows, evoking a movie theater feel. I grinned a little shamefaced to see they were watching a movie on Netflix pulled up on Cory's IPad. It was propped up against a pile of DVDs, and was certainly the smallest movie screen I had ever seen.
The next morning, they were squealing with delight to see a tv and dvd player being carried into Cory's room.
So today, I glanced down at the fort that Jake had insisted remain just as it was, cleaning to happen if it had to, but those stuffed animals and pillows to be placed back just so. Normally, one look at that scene and I am done. It is then a huge rush to get what I needed and get the hell out before I have some sort of breakdown.
Today, I lingered. I couldn't help myself. I could smell her. I could feel her presence. I began to look at things a little differently. Instead of seeing how Cory and Jake would never have another movie or giggle together, I saw how their pillows had been placed head to head. That's how close they were. I saw that Jacob not wanting anything moved meant he treasured those last memories with her, and had made a solid decision to keep them fresh, whatever it took.
I started going through her paintings, setting the ones I meant to take on her bed, which I wandered over to and sat on, touching her stuffed animal fox with one hand, my heart full. Her bed was made. After all the times, she had not been able to keep her environment orderly, she had died with her bed made, and her stuffed sleeping companions in a tidy row. I drifted over to her dresser. More lines. All her little trinkets and treasures placed just so. She even had a little needlepoint Kleenex box cover with a full box of Kleenex in it.
All these lines showed how she was creating order where once there had been miserable chaos. She was thinking and planning ahead, even down to the Kleenex. Clothes were put away in their drawers. Presentation mattered.
I saw her self image had grown healthier, her Little League trophy and Carson Scholar medallion on prominent display. She had turned one low but super long wall into a mini art gallery with her favorite pieces. She was proud of her work, and they brought her joy. She had learned the skill of surrounding herself with positive things, something lots of us never quite master. She was such a smart girl, so precocious.
While I was still feeling good and full of love, I grabbed up what I had came for, and started down the steps. This is all a feel good story right up until the point I lost the top two paintings off the top of the pile in my arms and proceeded to trip over my own feet, falling the rest of the way down the stairs. I think I combined Tim's name with some pretty colorful language, and made the three trips out to the car, resentfully, without his assistance. Not even hearing the crash or perhaps deciding nothing was worth getting out of bed for, he slept on.
Without a look back, I took my daughter to work. She is still my constant. Love you, Cory-Girl, always, always, always. There really isn't anything we can't do together.
Saturday, October 26, 2013
Re-working It
I made a truly horrendous painting tonight. I'm not sure when I will just accept the fact that I cannot paint a decent landscape, not even at gunpoint. Let's face it, nature and I have never really been one. I have, since childhood, strongly believed it's safer indoors.
So this painting, which halfway through I recognized as hideous and tried to turn into an abstact- the effort being a dismal failure- was so embarrassingly awful that I didn't post it on facebook. This speaks volumes since a few of my shares should never have seen the light of day.
I sat there for a few minutes, and decided to give it one last try. Paint is such a wondrous thing. It forgives your lack of skill or simple mistakes every single time. I grabbed the masking tape and started covering any tiny little bit that I actually thought had some potential. When you paint over something, you cover up anything you value.
We'll see how this sad little painting fares, and I will take the larger lesson. Things aren't so hot for me right now. It's time to mask and re-work.
So this painting, which halfway through I recognized as hideous and tried to turn into an abstact- the effort being a dismal failure- was so embarrassingly awful that I didn't post it on facebook. This speaks volumes since a few of my shares should never have seen the light of day.
I sat there for a few minutes, and decided to give it one last try. Paint is such a wondrous thing. It forgives your lack of skill or simple mistakes every single time. I grabbed the masking tape and started covering any tiny little bit that I actually thought had some potential. When you paint over something, you cover up anything you value.
We'll see how this sad little painting fares, and I will take the larger lesson. Things aren't so hot for me right now. It's time to mask and re-work.
Love you, bye
I surprisingly did not want Cory's service to end. I had gone from complete freak out mood at home while getting ready to go to sitting up tall and proud, sending out waves of love while I listened to people speak.
I had planned her service down to the smallest detail, making it look, sound, and feel like Cory. This was not to be a sermon based church event. This was to be her day. Hers. She thought no one liked her. She thought she wasn't important. I wanted her to finally see the truth now that the voices had been silenced forever, and I wanted her life, her suffering and pain, to show others how strong she was, and how beautiful- inside and out.
I never saw the pews packed and the chairs that were brought out to fill the aisles, but I heard later there were tons of people whose lives she had touched behind me as I got through it the only way I could- singing her songs under my breath, blowing kisses to the screen, and holding a reverent silence. We could do anything together. Even this.
The anxiety and foreboding that literally stilled my limbs at home while I tried to carry through with getting dressed and brushing my hair- inconceivable tasks that required physical assistance to accomplish- started up about two thirds of the way through. I had the order of the service in my head, and when it was down to the last song- a recording of Cory with a friend and her cousin singing a hymn at church for the congregation, I felt the first flutterings of a panic that would soon rival anything I had ever experienced. Never see her again? Never?
I watched, still not crying, still not making a sound, as people were walked past her casket and down the aisle. Time was so short. I can't do this...I can't do this...Oh my God, please don't make me do this. How do you willingly say goodbye to your heart? And yes, Nicole Conklin, that's just what she was- the "central and innermost part" of my self, my ambitions, my life- and had been for nearly twenty years.
I knew that as compassionate and kind our funeral director, Mark, had been, there was one request he would not be able to accommodate. My biggest concern had been being rushed at the end. I've been to the funerals where the survivors are hurried along, where people have thrown themselves over the casket, where out of their mind distraught people have to be pulled away from the corpse. That just wasn't how I wanted to say good-bye, and I thought somehow if I had some extra time...if I could say good-bye properly, I'd be able to take those unthinkable steps away, with the same strength Cory had showed, soldiering along day after day.
After everyone was gone, I went up with my mom to stand at Cory's side. Time stood still, as I just looked down at my baby girl, unable to believe how beautiful she was. It took my breath away. I smoothed her hair, and kissed her- cheek, mouth, hand. The cuts and scrapes, lumps and swelling stopped short, like a blown circuit as I refused to acknowledge them. In my eyes, she was whole, the only part that gave me pause being the rigidity of her flesh. I fought the urge to pick up her arm, or even her hand- perhaps illogically or perhaps logically- afraid if handled too much, she would simply fall apart before my eyes. It was nearly impossible to reconcile my memories of her laid out on the road with the carefully reconstructed body that laid in that casket.
The kind woman in charge of switching out our necklaces approached, and with shaky hands, I fumbled off my dragonfly pendant, and watched, my stomach dropping as they only placed it around her neck, not fastening it, just placing it carefully to give the illusion of her wearing it. What was that about? Would her head fall off? Is it only "placed" above her neck to give the illusion it is attached? Horrible, soul wrenching thoughts that ran rampant. I had to turn my back, and began shaking all over as I saw them lift her arm to remove one of her bracelets- her arm looking like a piece of wood or a mannequin's limb. I began to feel faint, and allowed my mom to walk me back to the first pew to sit, as the tears started to come against my will. This can't be happening...can't be...can't be...can't be...
Verbal nudging from the attendants. "It's time."
Legs feeling like they would fold any second, I went back to my girl. Touched her, kissed her, spoke into her ear. The attendants stood respectfully at the end, watching me and waiting. Time spun out, and I refused to budge an inch. Finally Mark, whom I did not really know but nonetheless came to love with all of my heart in the last few days, spoke up gently, "Nicole, it's time, dear."
I tried. I spoke earnestly down into her still face. I kissed her a half a dozen times and stumbled away, feeling faint. "I just need a minute. I gotta sit down."
Back to the pew, rocking and covering my face with my hands. Someone sat beside me- my mom, Tim? I don't really know. "They have to go now. People are outside waiting to go to the cemetery."
Furious, I spat out, "FINE!! FINE!! Just do it, I'm never gonna walk away on my own."
"Okay."
As I looked up, they began to shut the lid, and I screamed desperately, "WAIT!! WAIT!! Just one more minute!"
The attendants measured my face, "Then we have to go."
"Okay, okay."
I ran to her, looking on her face that one last time, speaking her name, kissing her cold lips. How do you say goodbye to your child, your best friend, your constant? The same way you did the last time you spoke.
Mustering a cheery tone that surely didn't match the worst mental agony I have ever experienced, I trilled, "Love you, bye!"
I saw the lid lowered, full darkness obliterating her degree by degree, and my heart following suit, closing up tight bit by bit, becoming as black as the inside of Cory's casket. I stumbled away, wanting to run, wanting to hide. But we were on to the cemetery. This nightmare would never end.
I had planned her service down to the smallest detail, making it look, sound, and feel like Cory. This was not to be a sermon based church event. This was to be her day. Hers. She thought no one liked her. She thought she wasn't important. I wanted her to finally see the truth now that the voices had been silenced forever, and I wanted her life, her suffering and pain, to show others how strong she was, and how beautiful- inside and out.
I never saw the pews packed and the chairs that were brought out to fill the aisles, but I heard later there were tons of people whose lives she had touched behind me as I got through it the only way I could- singing her songs under my breath, blowing kisses to the screen, and holding a reverent silence. We could do anything together. Even this.
The anxiety and foreboding that literally stilled my limbs at home while I tried to carry through with getting dressed and brushing my hair- inconceivable tasks that required physical assistance to accomplish- started up about two thirds of the way through. I had the order of the service in my head, and when it was down to the last song- a recording of Cory with a friend and her cousin singing a hymn at church for the congregation, I felt the first flutterings of a panic that would soon rival anything I had ever experienced. Never see her again? Never?
I watched, still not crying, still not making a sound, as people were walked past her casket and down the aisle. Time was so short. I can't do this...I can't do this...Oh my God, please don't make me do this. How do you willingly say goodbye to your heart? And yes, Nicole Conklin, that's just what she was- the "central and innermost part" of my self, my ambitions, my life- and had been for nearly twenty years.
I knew that as compassionate and kind our funeral director, Mark, had been, there was one request he would not be able to accommodate. My biggest concern had been being rushed at the end. I've been to the funerals where the survivors are hurried along, where people have thrown themselves over the casket, where out of their mind distraught people have to be pulled away from the corpse. That just wasn't how I wanted to say good-bye, and I thought somehow if I had some extra time...if I could say good-bye properly, I'd be able to take those unthinkable steps away, with the same strength Cory had showed, soldiering along day after day.
After everyone was gone, I went up with my mom to stand at Cory's side. Time stood still, as I just looked down at my baby girl, unable to believe how beautiful she was. It took my breath away. I smoothed her hair, and kissed her- cheek, mouth, hand. The cuts and scrapes, lumps and swelling stopped short, like a blown circuit as I refused to acknowledge them. In my eyes, she was whole, the only part that gave me pause being the rigidity of her flesh. I fought the urge to pick up her arm, or even her hand- perhaps illogically or perhaps logically- afraid if handled too much, she would simply fall apart before my eyes. It was nearly impossible to reconcile my memories of her laid out on the road with the carefully reconstructed body that laid in that casket.
The kind woman in charge of switching out our necklaces approached, and with shaky hands, I fumbled off my dragonfly pendant, and watched, my stomach dropping as they only placed it around her neck, not fastening it, just placing it carefully to give the illusion of her wearing it. What was that about? Would her head fall off? Is it only "placed" above her neck to give the illusion it is attached? Horrible, soul wrenching thoughts that ran rampant. I had to turn my back, and began shaking all over as I saw them lift her arm to remove one of her bracelets- her arm looking like a piece of wood or a mannequin's limb. I began to feel faint, and allowed my mom to walk me back to the first pew to sit, as the tears started to come against my will. This can't be happening...can't be...can't be...can't be...
Verbal nudging from the attendants. "It's time."
Legs feeling like they would fold any second, I went back to my girl. Touched her, kissed her, spoke into her ear. The attendants stood respectfully at the end, watching me and waiting. Time spun out, and I refused to budge an inch. Finally Mark, whom I did not really know but nonetheless came to love with all of my heart in the last few days, spoke up gently, "Nicole, it's time, dear."
I tried. I spoke earnestly down into her still face. I kissed her a half a dozen times and stumbled away, feeling faint. "I just need a minute. I gotta sit down."
Back to the pew, rocking and covering my face with my hands. Someone sat beside me- my mom, Tim? I don't really know. "They have to go now. People are outside waiting to go to the cemetery."
Furious, I spat out, "FINE!! FINE!! Just do it, I'm never gonna walk away on my own."
"Okay."
As I looked up, they began to shut the lid, and I screamed desperately, "WAIT!! WAIT!! Just one more minute!"
The attendants measured my face, "Then we have to go."
"Okay, okay."
I ran to her, looking on her face that one last time, speaking her name, kissing her cold lips. How do you say goodbye to your child, your best friend, your constant? The same way you did the last time you spoke.
Mustering a cheery tone that surely didn't match the worst mental agony I have ever experienced, I trilled, "Love you, bye!"
I saw the lid lowered, full darkness obliterating her degree by degree, and my heart following suit, closing up tight bit by bit, becoming as black as the inside of Cory's casket. I stumbled away, wanting to run, wanting to hide. But we were on to the cemetery. This nightmare would never end.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Stand Stills
They call them flashbacks, maybe because they come on so suddenly and take you back in time. I would also say if you can't wish them away, you wish them to be mercifully brief. Sometimes you get your wish, and sometimes you don't.
These other moments in time that come on suddenly and take you back in time need a different sort of name because you wish you could hit pause and stay in that moment for as long as you need.
Here's two stand-stills I had today during an average work day:
Driving out of town for a meeting, I was struck with the image and sensation of sitting around after a Sunday dinner, just talking and laughing with my extended family. I could see Cory crystal clear, dressed in a pair of faded jeans, hiphuggers just barely showing when she sat, a grey thermal top over a bright-colored cami, her hair up in a tiny pony, and her bright green eyes carrying a smile that hadn't yet passed her lips. Just listening for the most part, she plopped her little hiny down in my lap, comfortable and content. Like as not, I would grab her hand and we'd have a giggle over her freakishly small thumbs. As we enjoyed some relaxed conversation with everyone, I could afford to get lost in a story or give her only my divided attention...you see, she was better now. She was so much better, and I couldn't believe we'd made it through after so many miserable days and nights.
I could joke and get my sisters to laugh, as I hadn't for quite awhile, because I knew I had done my job well, and could afford to relax. She was right there, healthy and happy, chiming in when she wanted, and giggling right along with everyone else. She was right there, all I needed was her weight settling into my bony knee to know we had made it, and she was just fine.
That was my flashback on the road today, so real I could see the highlights in her hair, the curl of her lashes that framed those beautiful eyes, and actually feel the weight of her body pressing against my knee. I wished I could stay there all afternoon.
That's a stand still, not a flashback.
Here's another:
The last time I was in the coffeeshop, the uber talented artist who had his work on display during the Art Walk came in to take things down. I watched his sure, easy gait, and thought of my father. This similarly aged man had bright eyes, an easy smile, and charmed me with his outfit: a pair of faded blue jeans speckled all over with bright paint, and a pair of croc-like loafers that were so splattered with drips, drabs, and splats that the background color of the shoes was no longer visible.
I complimented him, to which he responded, "Oh, these? These are my 'studio' shoes. I've been covered with paint in one way or another since the age of four." He smiled and turned back to taking things down.
I put my head down, and had a stand still: Cory, in her raggiest t-shirt, with a paintbrush clamped between her teeth, standing in front of her easel, pulling a pair of her grandpa's dockers up over her jeans. I could see her face, alive and filled with the unparalleled excitement that said she had an idea, and she couldn't wait to capture it before it got away. I thought of the many times I'd hounded her to wash her brushes out, and how cute she looked with a smudge of orange square in the middle of her chin.
When I raised my head to meet my friend's eyes, my face was shaking. Did you know your face could shake? I swear I have no control over my emotions these days. To my friend, I whispered this, "She would have made so much more. She just didn't have enough time."
On the way home, I thought about going into her bedroom and finding those Dockers or even a pair of her old jeans. I want her with me when I paint. She inspires me to give it my all. She always has.
These other moments in time that come on suddenly and take you back in time need a different sort of name because you wish you could hit pause and stay in that moment for as long as you need.
Here's two stand-stills I had today during an average work day:
Driving out of town for a meeting, I was struck with the image and sensation of sitting around after a Sunday dinner, just talking and laughing with my extended family. I could see Cory crystal clear, dressed in a pair of faded jeans, hiphuggers just barely showing when she sat, a grey thermal top over a bright-colored cami, her hair up in a tiny pony, and her bright green eyes carrying a smile that hadn't yet passed her lips. Just listening for the most part, she plopped her little hiny down in my lap, comfortable and content. Like as not, I would grab her hand and we'd have a giggle over her freakishly small thumbs. As we enjoyed some relaxed conversation with everyone, I could afford to get lost in a story or give her only my divided attention...you see, she was better now. She was so much better, and I couldn't believe we'd made it through after so many miserable days and nights.
I could joke and get my sisters to laugh, as I hadn't for quite awhile, because I knew I had done my job well, and could afford to relax. She was right there, healthy and happy, chiming in when she wanted, and giggling right along with everyone else. She was right there, all I needed was her weight settling into my bony knee to know we had made it, and she was just fine.
That was my flashback on the road today, so real I could see the highlights in her hair, the curl of her lashes that framed those beautiful eyes, and actually feel the weight of her body pressing against my knee. I wished I could stay there all afternoon.
That's a stand still, not a flashback.
Here's another:
The last time I was in the coffeeshop, the uber talented artist who had his work on display during the Art Walk came in to take things down. I watched his sure, easy gait, and thought of my father. This similarly aged man had bright eyes, an easy smile, and charmed me with his outfit: a pair of faded blue jeans speckled all over with bright paint, and a pair of croc-like loafers that were so splattered with drips, drabs, and splats that the background color of the shoes was no longer visible.
I complimented him, to which he responded, "Oh, these? These are my 'studio' shoes. I've been covered with paint in one way or another since the age of four." He smiled and turned back to taking things down.
I put my head down, and had a stand still: Cory, in her raggiest t-shirt, with a paintbrush clamped between her teeth, standing in front of her easel, pulling a pair of her grandpa's dockers up over her jeans. I could see her face, alive and filled with the unparalleled excitement that said she had an idea, and she couldn't wait to capture it before it got away. I thought of the many times I'd hounded her to wash her brushes out, and how cute she looked with a smudge of orange square in the middle of her chin.
When I raised my head to meet my friend's eyes, my face was shaking. Did you know your face could shake? I swear I have no control over my emotions these days. To my friend, I whispered this, "She would have made so much more. She just didn't have enough time."
On the way home, I thought about going into her bedroom and finding those Dockers or even a pair of her old jeans. I want her with me when I paint. She inspires me to give it my all. She always has.
Tuesday, October 22, 2013
Progress Report
You know how it is when you move, even if it's just from one office to another right down the hall- you do some purging. I went through all my "stuff" in my desk the other day between moves. I had a few personal things crammed in with the rest- a Mother's day card Jake made in first grade, a picture here or there, and in with my TB card, I stumbled on one of Cory's progress reports.
Ever since Cory started school, she made excellent grades, and didn't even have to work up a sweat to do it. She had a beautiful mind to match her beautiful smile, and was one of those students that had their poor mother in tears at their conference...not over academic struggles or behavior, but just due to the swelling pride that had to leak out somewhere or you would bust open right on the spot.
The semester she (I'm not sure what you call it) had her psychotic break, her grades went from straight A's to failing every subject with terrifying speed. When meeting with school officials to try to get her evaluated as we discovered what was going on- you could look at her school record and pinpoint when the subtle symptoms that could be confused with the rollercoaster of adolescence threw their masks to the side, one after another, and stood still long enough to be recognized for what they really were.
That was the point my girl had to try harder than she ever had in her life to learn, to produce, to keep up, and earn her grades.
The rug had been pulled out from under her with no warning, and you could see the terror in her eyes as she lost that "student" part of her identity. It just slipped away, covered up with voices, delusions, fear, and anxiety. You cannot learn if you don't feel safe. That is a fact. Here's another: Cory felt safe only intermittently for three years. Who cares about algebra when you think someone is hunting you down to do you harm?
So, her progress report? Yeah, it wasn't from Battle Creek Public Schools. No, she was dealing with much bigger things by that point. This progress report was called "Levels of Recovery From Psychotic Illnesses". When her illness was at its worst, I had highlighted where she was in yellow. After the ECT treatment, I went back through and highlighted in pink. She had hills and valleys, still, but by the time of the accident she had jumped two columns in most areas, going from "severely impaired" to "normalized activity".
Normalized activity...such beautiful, beautiful words for my girl. She did that.
We did that. Together. I have never been prouder. I think I might frame it and hang it up with some of her art. It was an accomplishment some people never have to make, and others cannot make, even over their whole lives, a lot of which last longer than a mere nineteen years.
Ever since Cory started school, she made excellent grades, and didn't even have to work up a sweat to do it. She had a beautiful mind to match her beautiful smile, and was one of those students that had their poor mother in tears at their conference...not over academic struggles or behavior, but just due to the swelling pride that had to leak out somewhere or you would bust open right on the spot.
The semester she (I'm not sure what you call it) had her psychotic break, her grades went from straight A's to failing every subject with terrifying speed. When meeting with school officials to try to get her evaluated as we discovered what was going on- you could look at her school record and pinpoint when the subtle symptoms that could be confused with the rollercoaster of adolescence threw their masks to the side, one after another, and stood still long enough to be recognized for what they really were.
That was the point my girl had to try harder than she ever had in her life to learn, to produce, to keep up, and earn her grades.
The rug had been pulled out from under her with no warning, and you could see the terror in her eyes as she lost that "student" part of her identity. It just slipped away, covered up with voices, delusions, fear, and anxiety. You cannot learn if you don't feel safe. That is a fact. Here's another: Cory felt safe only intermittently for three years. Who cares about algebra when you think someone is hunting you down to do you harm?
So, her progress report? Yeah, it wasn't from Battle Creek Public Schools. No, she was dealing with much bigger things by that point. This progress report was called "Levels of Recovery From Psychotic Illnesses". When her illness was at its worst, I had highlighted where she was in yellow. After the ECT treatment, I went back through and highlighted in pink. She had hills and valleys, still, but by the time of the accident she had jumped two columns in most areas, going from "severely impaired" to "normalized activity".
Normalized activity...such beautiful, beautiful words for my girl. She did that.
We did that. Together. I have never been prouder. I think I might frame it and hang it up with some of her art. It was an accomplishment some people never have to make, and others cannot make, even over their whole lives, a lot of which last longer than a mere nineteen years.
Monday, October 21, 2013
The American Girl doll company: a crazy rant from an unwell woman
So the American Girl company has been up to their bitchery yet again. This time? The Christmas catalog, people! The actual festive happy joy joy Christmas catalog! A smiling bright-eyed assumedly mentally stable young girl cradles her new doll with the crushed velvet red dress and matching hair ribbons. I ask, is this really necessary?
Why not just bring a bunch of closely resembled mothers and daughters to parade up and down my kitchen floor, dancing, and cooking broccoli cheddar soup together? Maybe throw in some inside jokes and laughter, a cat named Church, and the plotting of tomorrow's outfits and the weekend's plans? What movie will we see next? What book shall we discuss? We have all the time in the world, since we're just so alive and healthy, and take it all for granted!
Gosh, that felt good. Fine, I'm done. If the American Girl company is a sadist, than I am no better for continuing to allow them into my home. I STILL- 15 months counting- have not called or e-mailed them to get off their mailing list. And yes, I do realize that I wouldn't have to tell them exactly why I wish to be removed.
Still, I won't call. Why, asks someone out there far more logical and far more mentally intact than I? Because as much as I hate to look at the cover and remember what I've lost, I also love to look at the cover and remember Cory in her lounge pants, curled up on the sofa, "gettin muh girls' hair did" while we watched Gossip Girl. See the dilemma?
These feelings of bitterness and sweet are butted right up to each other, without a crack of light between them. This is where I live and breathe.
To get one, you have to take the other, like it or not...and that is the best explanation for coming to terms with the sudden death of your child that I can give.
And if you're not there yet, you're just not. You will be like me with my unopened cardboard package from none other than the mothereffing American Girl Company that has sat at the end of my dresser since the third day past the burial of my child. Inside waits a shiny new Josefina doll, just like the one I gave to Cory on her eighth birthday, although being brand spanky new, it is slightly different than the well- maintained but undeniably well-loved original than sleeps beside her under the ground.
I put it where she could reach it... not registering the fact that she couldn't reach it or hold it or seek comfort from it any more, as she had for years. I didn't think of how the moisture would eventually work its way in, seal be damned, and began to wreak havoc on all the precious contents of that pretty pink box. I also completely missed the point that Cory no longer needed said comfort any more than she needed the light of the ladybug nightlight I pressed in beside her still, rigid form, my trembling hand smoothing over the flowers of her dress- the prettiest shade of blue-, and lovingly running along her impossibly small waist encased in a belt that gave her a shape that made her smile and walk a little straighter.
She didn't need the light, and all batteries run out eventuallys...but my mind was far too broken to consider such logic. I was being her mother, which is all I've known since I can remember- my childhood and motherhood again butting up together without a pause between, but it was so, so sweet.
The idea of having my own Josefina to hug on the nights when I couldn't bare being without her seemed so right and so logical at the time. Funny how once it got to the house, I couldn't imagine looking on that doll's smiling face, knowing where the original rested. I couldn't even open the box. It may be that I even give it a wide berth when I pass by.
See how that works? You want the comfort, yet you push it away. You want to feel better, and you also want to be left alone to scream and keen for your girl.
Leave me to die.
Hold me.
They are equally felt and equally logical statements in my experience.
Why is grief not listed in the DSM-V?
Oh yes, Dr. Z, I've recovered quite nicely. Let's go have coffee sometime off the clock and really chat, why don't we?
Why not just bring a bunch of closely resembled mothers and daughters to parade up and down my kitchen floor, dancing, and cooking broccoli cheddar soup together? Maybe throw in some inside jokes and laughter, a cat named Church, and the plotting of tomorrow's outfits and the weekend's plans? What movie will we see next? What book shall we discuss? We have all the time in the world, since we're just so alive and healthy, and take it all for granted!
Gosh, that felt good. Fine, I'm done. If the American Girl company is a sadist, than I am no better for continuing to allow them into my home. I STILL- 15 months counting- have not called or e-mailed them to get off their mailing list. And yes, I do realize that I wouldn't have to tell them exactly why I wish to be removed.
Still, I won't call. Why, asks someone out there far more logical and far more mentally intact than I? Because as much as I hate to look at the cover and remember what I've lost, I also love to look at the cover and remember Cory in her lounge pants, curled up on the sofa, "gettin muh girls' hair did" while we watched Gossip Girl. See the dilemma?
These feelings of bitterness and sweet are butted right up to each other, without a crack of light between them. This is where I live and breathe.
To get one, you have to take the other, like it or not...and that is the best explanation for coming to terms with the sudden death of your child that I can give.
And if you're not there yet, you're just not. You will be like me with my unopened cardboard package from none other than the mothereffing American Girl Company that has sat at the end of my dresser since the third day past the burial of my child. Inside waits a shiny new Josefina doll, just like the one I gave to Cory on her eighth birthday, although being brand spanky new, it is slightly different than the well- maintained but undeniably well-loved original than sleeps beside her under the ground.
I put it where she could reach it... not registering the fact that she couldn't reach it or hold it or seek comfort from it any more, as she had for years. I didn't think of how the moisture would eventually work its way in, seal be damned, and began to wreak havoc on all the precious contents of that pretty pink box. I also completely missed the point that Cory no longer needed said comfort any more than she needed the light of the ladybug nightlight I pressed in beside her still, rigid form, my trembling hand smoothing over the flowers of her dress- the prettiest shade of blue-, and lovingly running along her impossibly small waist encased in a belt that gave her a shape that made her smile and walk a little straighter.
She didn't need the light, and all batteries run out eventuallys...but my mind was far too broken to consider such logic. I was being her mother, which is all I've known since I can remember- my childhood and motherhood again butting up together without a pause between, but it was so, so sweet.
The idea of having my own Josefina to hug on the nights when I couldn't bare being without her seemed so right and so logical at the time. Funny how once it got to the house, I couldn't imagine looking on that doll's smiling face, knowing where the original rested. I couldn't even open the box. It may be that I even give it a wide berth when I pass by.
See how that works? You want the comfort, yet you push it away. You want to feel better, and you also want to be left alone to scream and keen for your girl.
Leave me to die.
Hold me.
They are equally felt and equally logical statements in my experience.
Why is grief not listed in the DSM-V?
Oh yes, Dr. Z, I've recovered quite nicely. Let's go have coffee sometime off the clock and really chat, why don't we?
Saturday, October 19, 2013
I'm Still Here
Still here. I've been sick, and suffering from the worst of ailments: writer's block. I have again reached that point where I really don't know what else to say.
In a way, I hate to be the person who begins to repeat themselves- that's a hint, babe, just stop already. But realistically, I have to put it out there: that is the hell of this thing. It never stops. If grief were some wretched creature like the girl from The Ring 2, you could describe it this way, "She never sleeps."
Grief is watchful, and will not be ignored. Sometimes I feel like it is vengeful, because just when you have ten minutes pass feeling like maybe you can do this, your thoughts running along this vein, "I loved her with my soul, she knew it, and she loved me the same. I can do this.", you are hit with a sense of despair so great, you literally lose your breath. Anything can bring this: the smell of restaurant potato soup shared over so many Mommy/Cory days, a movie trailer that she would've loved but will never get to see, a funny moment no one else will understand- and so sits dormant in your heart- so much wasted joy.
Today, I am going to see the remake of Carrie with my mom. She is my new movie buddy. Spending the day with her is fun, and always comforting. It is hilarious to realize that I got my love of scary movies from my mother, which I passed down to Cory. When Cory's illness began, I tried to cut down on them, but she would say quite reasonably, "Really, Mom, if you think about it, there's nothing on those screens that could worse than what I already deal with every day. Can I just have some fun being scared for a change?"
So today, I am excited to see this remake, holding high hopes for it, but at the same time, angry as always, that Cory won't get to be there, sitting at my right side.
The first time I went to a movie after her death, I took her hoodie with me, and sort of propped it up against the seat next to me. Crazy? Morbid? I don't know. I don't do that anymore, but I do try to keep that seat open if possible, setting my jacket and purse there for her to hold. And no matter how into the movie I get, I find myself turning to that empty space during the moving bits. Cory was my favorite person in the world to watch a movie with- seeing her reaction, or sharing our reactions was the best part of the whole business. I miss it still, and always will. My neck is permanently trained to turn to the right and search for the expression on her face. Muscle memory is a bitch.
Repetition is a given. My heart, brain, and body are full of her memories. They come up without even being called. With them comes the pain of her absence, and sometimes a smile or a giggle. Dr. Z said on my last visit that the goal is to concentrate less on the pain of her absence and more on the precious memories. I guess I'm not there yet, because for now, they still come hand in hand, a set of conjoined twins who couldn't imagine life without each other, yet yearn for some autonomy.
To separate them will be to push a part of her away, and I'm just not ready to do that yet. For now, I will suffer if it means I can hold on just a little longer.
In a way, I hate to be the person who begins to repeat themselves- that's a hint, babe, just stop already. But realistically, I have to put it out there: that is the hell of this thing. It never stops. If grief were some wretched creature like the girl from The Ring 2, you could describe it this way, "She never sleeps."
Grief is watchful, and will not be ignored. Sometimes I feel like it is vengeful, because just when you have ten minutes pass feeling like maybe you can do this, your thoughts running along this vein, "I loved her with my soul, she knew it, and she loved me the same. I can do this.", you are hit with a sense of despair so great, you literally lose your breath. Anything can bring this: the smell of restaurant potato soup shared over so many Mommy/Cory days, a movie trailer that she would've loved but will never get to see, a funny moment no one else will understand- and so sits dormant in your heart- so much wasted joy.
Today, I am going to see the remake of Carrie with my mom. She is my new movie buddy. Spending the day with her is fun, and always comforting. It is hilarious to realize that I got my love of scary movies from my mother, which I passed down to Cory. When Cory's illness began, I tried to cut down on them, but she would say quite reasonably, "Really, Mom, if you think about it, there's nothing on those screens that could worse than what I already deal with every day. Can I just have some fun being scared for a change?"
So today, I am excited to see this remake, holding high hopes for it, but at the same time, angry as always, that Cory won't get to be there, sitting at my right side.
The first time I went to a movie after her death, I took her hoodie with me, and sort of propped it up against the seat next to me. Crazy? Morbid? I don't know. I don't do that anymore, but I do try to keep that seat open if possible, setting my jacket and purse there for her to hold. And no matter how into the movie I get, I find myself turning to that empty space during the moving bits. Cory was my favorite person in the world to watch a movie with- seeing her reaction, or sharing our reactions was the best part of the whole business. I miss it still, and always will. My neck is permanently trained to turn to the right and search for the expression on her face. Muscle memory is a bitch.
Repetition is a given. My heart, brain, and body are full of her memories. They come up without even being called. With them comes the pain of her absence, and sometimes a smile or a giggle. Dr. Z said on my last visit that the goal is to concentrate less on the pain of her absence and more on the precious memories. I guess I'm not there yet, because for now, they still come hand in hand, a set of conjoined twins who couldn't imagine life without each other, yet yearn for some autonomy.
To separate them will be to push a part of her away, and I'm just not ready to do that yet. For now, I will suffer if it means I can hold on just a little longer.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Panic at the Studio (not at the disco)
I have been sick as a dog today, as my mom would say. My throat hurts too much to eat or talk very much. I've been achey and can't get warm. Oh, and my bones hurt. I took a ridiculously long nap after work, and ate some chicken noodle soup. As I lay with my leaky nose and gook-clogged throat, I thought about how there are all different kinds of suffering. My mom lives with pain every day that would make most grown men cry. Tim is in a place with his illness where he had most bad days than good.
This led me to wonder if grief, which can lower your immune system, left me wide open for the happy little bug going around. Depression wise, I'd been doing fair this week. Something about being surrounded by 15 three and four years olds just makes me smile. I also discovered that I said Cory's name more this week than I can remember in months. I always wear her picture made into bracelets and necklaces; naturally the kids wanted to know who she was. One little lady told me most sincerely that my Cory-heart tattoo on my hand was "real cute", which touched me deeply and made me giggle at the same time.
I was busy; I was helping; I was maintaining.
Sick or not, I dragged my butt out to the studio to paint a little. Completely into my piece, I jumped at the sound of sirens, and then sat on my stool, muscles locked, waiting for them to stop. But they didn't; instead they got louder and closer by the minute. I heard someone moaning, and realized it was me. As the sirens were joined by the blat of a fire truck, I began to scream and cover my ears, simultaneously tucking my head into my lap. It wasn't far to the floor, so I slithered right out of stool into a boneless heap on the floor.
It felt like that day again, but this time I knew no matter how much noise they made getting here, they wouldn't make it in time. Tim couldn't make me stop screaming, and watched from a prudent distance as I did the only thing I could think of- turned on some super loud music to drown the sirens out. Hands shaking, I cranked the volume, nearly knocking everything off my desk in the process. Eventually Tim approached me. I couldn't see him because my eyes were clenched shut, but I felt him begin to pat my shoulder as I wailed on, filling the room with my terror. It was a chaotic sound track made up of ambulance sirens, fire truck horns, Fall Out Boy, and my panic attack.
"Someone's going to die." was my first coherent thought connected to the present, instead of the past.
I guess my faith in emergency responders isn't quite what it used to be. Don't feel bad, guys, I don't have faith in anyone else, either...so you're in good company.
Pat...pat...pat. Tentative and standoffish. Tim's a good guy, but he's not the man that's gonna gather you up in his arms, and let you cry all over his neck or take you onto his lap like a weird twist on Santa Claus. He's just not.
Instead, he told me to take my meds and go to bed.
Which I am doing right now, as soon as I finish this post.
I'll leave you with a question: is it that grief leaves you susceptible to illness or that physical illness leaves your brain even more vulnerable to triggers?
The chicken or the egg, folks? Think on that...it'll drive you nuts, so to speak.
This led me to wonder if grief, which can lower your immune system, left me wide open for the happy little bug going around. Depression wise, I'd been doing fair this week. Something about being surrounded by 15 three and four years olds just makes me smile. I also discovered that I said Cory's name more this week than I can remember in months. I always wear her picture made into bracelets and necklaces; naturally the kids wanted to know who she was. One little lady told me most sincerely that my Cory-heart tattoo on my hand was "real cute", which touched me deeply and made me giggle at the same time.
I was busy; I was helping; I was maintaining.
Sick or not, I dragged my butt out to the studio to paint a little. Completely into my piece, I jumped at the sound of sirens, and then sat on my stool, muscles locked, waiting for them to stop. But they didn't; instead they got louder and closer by the minute. I heard someone moaning, and realized it was me. As the sirens were joined by the blat of a fire truck, I began to scream and cover my ears, simultaneously tucking my head into my lap. It wasn't far to the floor, so I slithered right out of stool into a boneless heap on the floor.
It felt like that day again, but this time I knew no matter how much noise they made getting here, they wouldn't make it in time. Tim couldn't make me stop screaming, and watched from a prudent distance as I did the only thing I could think of- turned on some super loud music to drown the sirens out. Hands shaking, I cranked the volume, nearly knocking everything off my desk in the process. Eventually Tim approached me. I couldn't see him because my eyes were clenched shut, but I felt him begin to pat my shoulder as I wailed on, filling the room with my terror. It was a chaotic sound track made up of ambulance sirens, fire truck horns, Fall Out Boy, and my panic attack.
"Someone's going to die." was my first coherent thought connected to the present, instead of the past.
I guess my faith in emergency responders isn't quite what it used to be. Don't feel bad, guys, I don't have faith in anyone else, either...so you're in good company.
Pat...pat...pat. Tentative and standoffish. Tim's a good guy, but he's not the man that's gonna gather you up in his arms, and let you cry all over his neck or take you onto his lap like a weird twist on Santa Claus. He's just not.
Instead, he told me to take my meds and go to bed.
Which I am doing right now, as soon as I finish this post.
I'll leave you with a question: is it that grief leaves you susceptible to illness or that physical illness leaves your brain even more vulnerable to triggers?
The chicken or the egg, folks? Think on that...it'll drive you nuts, so to speak.
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Is It In His Kiss?
I gave Cory advice on a hundred different topics over our years together, anything from the fact that Steven Tyler could still be considered sexy based solely on his past sexiness to patting on your face powder instead of the rubbing it in, which clogs your pores. One piece of advice I borrowed from a one-time mother figure, changing it to make it mine...adding it my own mother's advice, as well as what I had learned so far in life.
Cory asked me how she would know when a guy was the one...how do you know when it's love and not just like, or more accurately- hormone driven infatuation?
The one-time mother figure had told me it was when the touch of his hand on yours was all the comfort you needed...when a touch, that wasn't in any way sexual, fulfilled you within your soul. For the touch part, I added what I knew to be true- for I am one those hopeless romantics who believe for each person, there is one other person out there who completes you- that when the guy was "the one", that touch would feel like home, everything else fading away until you knew only an overwhelming sense of safety, content to listen to their heartbeat with your head on their chest.
Considering my dealings with the men in my life, I amended this statement as soon as the words came out of my mouth. What did I add? Make sure you feel good about how he treats you, and make sure you are getting what you deserve. And I especially made sure she knew what she deserved and what is unacceptable.
Oh, and don't forget to go ahead and accept the fact that not everyone's "person" is ready for a life long relationship. As much as my family and friends may throw sticks and stones at me, I will say with my dying breath, that this does not mean your person doesn't love you. What it usually means is that they are lacking some skills...things like self-regulation, anger management, tolerating frustration, impulse control, seeing things from another person's perspective in the heat of the moment. Maybe they don't know how to show affection or talk about feelings. These things might have never been shown to them or maybe they have the skills mastered, but they fly out the window under a surge of brain chemistry. Aren't we all lacking something?
And my mother? She pretty much said, "marry a man like your father." Yep, Cory had decided by age 19, she was on the hunt for a guy like Grandpa, Uncle Bud, or her cousin Blakie. What do all those males have in common? They are willing to sacrifice for another person. They are givers. Their women are their queens, their princesses, their goddesses. They will do anything to protect them, comfort them, make them smile. Lucky women, huh?
My last little piece of real world advice to both my children has been this: do not ever feel bad about getting yourself out of a bad situation. I would be proud of either of them being brave enough to leave an unhealthy situation, even if meant getting a divorce. Staying in a bad relationship just because you believe in the concept of marriage doesn't make you smart in my book.
Okay, enough from my soapbox. I've got to get out of the coffee shop. The teenage couple that thinks they are discreet with the soul kissing and heavy petting amongst the careful stage dressing of textbooks and wire bound notebooks are making me feel a little old, a little sad, and a little dead inside- not just for me, but for my girl.
Public Displays of Affection aside, I so wanted to see Cory get what she deserves. I wanted to see her eyes light up when someone saw her for everything she was- inside and out. I wanted someone to crave her laugh. I wanted to see her feel safe and loved. I will never understand how some people get that- some so easily- while others just get killed by women driving home from work who never apologize to the surviving family.
What is this? I guess I'm a little bitter today. Oh well, everyday is an adventure.
Cory asked me how she would know when a guy was the one...how do you know when it's love and not just like, or more accurately- hormone driven infatuation?
The one-time mother figure had told me it was when the touch of his hand on yours was all the comfort you needed...when a touch, that wasn't in any way sexual, fulfilled you within your soul. For the touch part, I added what I knew to be true- for I am one those hopeless romantics who believe for each person, there is one other person out there who completes you- that when the guy was "the one", that touch would feel like home, everything else fading away until you knew only an overwhelming sense of safety, content to listen to their heartbeat with your head on their chest.
Considering my dealings with the men in my life, I amended this statement as soon as the words came out of my mouth. What did I add? Make sure you feel good about how he treats you, and make sure you are getting what you deserve. And I especially made sure she knew what she deserved and what is unacceptable.
Oh, and don't forget to go ahead and accept the fact that not everyone's "person" is ready for a life long relationship. As much as my family and friends may throw sticks and stones at me, I will say with my dying breath, that this does not mean your person doesn't love you. What it usually means is that they are lacking some skills...things like self-regulation, anger management, tolerating frustration, impulse control, seeing things from another person's perspective in the heat of the moment. Maybe they don't know how to show affection or talk about feelings. These things might have never been shown to them or maybe they have the skills mastered, but they fly out the window under a surge of brain chemistry. Aren't we all lacking something?
And my mother? She pretty much said, "marry a man like your father." Yep, Cory had decided by age 19, she was on the hunt for a guy like Grandpa, Uncle Bud, or her cousin Blakie. What do all those males have in common? They are willing to sacrifice for another person. They are givers. Their women are their queens, their princesses, their goddesses. They will do anything to protect them, comfort them, make them smile. Lucky women, huh?
My last little piece of real world advice to both my children has been this: do not ever feel bad about getting yourself out of a bad situation. I would be proud of either of them being brave enough to leave an unhealthy situation, even if meant getting a divorce. Staying in a bad relationship just because you believe in the concept of marriage doesn't make you smart in my book.
Okay, enough from my soapbox. I've got to get out of the coffee shop. The teenage couple that thinks they are discreet with the soul kissing and heavy petting amongst the careful stage dressing of textbooks and wire bound notebooks are making me feel a little old, a little sad, and a little dead inside- not just for me, but for my girl.
Public Displays of Affection aside, I so wanted to see Cory get what she deserves. I wanted to see her eyes light up when someone saw her for everything she was- inside and out. I wanted someone to crave her laugh. I wanted to see her feel safe and loved. I will never understand how some people get that- some so easily- while others just get killed by women driving home from work who never apologize to the surviving family.
What is this? I guess I'm a little bitter today. Oh well, everyday is an adventure.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Moving Forward
They say anger is actually strength coming back when you are depressed. Better to feel angry than to feel nothing, hopeless and immobile. So I thank the well-meaning person who pissed me off this morning enough to get me out of bed at 7 a.m., into my car with my laptop, and to the coffee shop to write this blog post, all in the pouring rain, no less.
I had spent my weekend so far mostly in bed, under the surface, coming up to feed Jacob and pet my dog. Being back to work has been good for me in many ways, but by the weekend, I am exhausted and want to put down the heavy weight of smiling and bantering, trying to look normal even when I'm not. When it is the worst, these weekend vacays from the real world are similar to the closing scene in Open Water (that movie about sharks)- I am done fighting, listless, hopeless, and close my eyes tightly before simply sinking into the dark depths. Screw the sharks. I'm done with this game.
So my typical sleeping pattern of waking up every hour or two led me to a rare positive post on facebook, something along the lines of "Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened" One of the comments was "enough with looking back". Said with the best intentions, I'm sure, but it just pissed me off, providing a surge of energy...so thanks for that.
And here I am.
I am not a stupid woman. I have long since figured out that I am not moving forward at a faster pace because letting go of my pain will feel like letting go of my last connection with my child.
But it's sort of like my paintings. Again, I'm not a stupid woman- I know how to use color without making mud. I know that colors opposite each other on the color wheel mixed make brown, such colors need to be done in layers with dry time in between. I know this, but put a brush in my hand and let me do what comes naturally and every painting comes out dark, muddy, some even what others call "scary". To me, they are just honest.
I think again of the little boy in the Sixth Sense who drew some disturbing pictures, leading to a meeting between school administrators and his distraught mother. After that, he stuck to rainbows, people smiling, etc. What did he say? "They don't have meetings about rainbows." Yeah, I could make a conscious effort to use color more vibrantly but it wouldn't represent my true feelings. Art is expression; so get down with my muddy, ugly renderings if you can- I have a feeling the pretty stuff is a long way off.
And in response to being told I need to "move forward"- buddy, I am doing the best I can. I am making a huge effort at work to kiss my girl on the forehead and check my grief at the door. My time at work belongs to the children and families I serve. My time at home belongs to me, to wade through my grief the best I can, stumbling often, and resting when I can't take another step.
I think what people may not realize is that not all of looking back is voluntary. The flashbacks, the nightmares, the intrusive thoughts come when they please. I deal with them the best I can. The best way to stop them in to jump into a cold shower, which isn't always available. Beyond that, I have learned I can pop a peppermint in my mouth, bite into a lemon (which sounds simply delightful and I can only imagine the faces of my colleagues if I pulled one out of my purse and popped it in my mouth at our next management meeting), or begin naming colors and pieces of furniture in my immediate surroundings. The idea with the shower, peppermint hard candy, and lemon is to overwhelm your senses and interrupt the nastiness your brain is up to at the moment. The naming of colors and furniture is called "grounding" and is meant to orient you to the present, so that the "real time" feel of your memory is challenged. Fun stuff.
What happened over a calendar year ago to other people, still feels like a couple weeks to my overwrought brain. Six months, twelve months- these ridiculous time markers when people start commenting to each other about how the person should get back to normal mean nothing. Nothing.
And since I'm just putting it all out there today, let me share with the person who told me I was "wallowing" in my grief that the definition of wallow is to "indulge in an unrestrained way in something that creates a pleasurable sensation". For the record, I'm not having a good time here- no pleasure going on. And come talk to me about wallowing when you've lost one of your children in a sudden and violent manner.
Anger is strength coming back. Think I'll go break some plates.
I had spent my weekend so far mostly in bed, under the surface, coming up to feed Jacob and pet my dog. Being back to work has been good for me in many ways, but by the weekend, I am exhausted and want to put down the heavy weight of smiling and bantering, trying to look normal even when I'm not. When it is the worst, these weekend vacays from the real world are similar to the closing scene in Open Water (that movie about sharks)- I am done fighting, listless, hopeless, and close my eyes tightly before simply sinking into the dark depths. Screw the sharks. I'm done with this game.
So my typical sleeping pattern of waking up every hour or two led me to a rare positive post on facebook, something along the lines of "Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened" One of the comments was "enough with looking back". Said with the best intentions, I'm sure, but it just pissed me off, providing a surge of energy...so thanks for that.
And here I am.
I am not a stupid woman. I have long since figured out that I am not moving forward at a faster pace because letting go of my pain will feel like letting go of my last connection with my child.
But it's sort of like my paintings. Again, I'm not a stupid woman- I know how to use color without making mud. I know that colors opposite each other on the color wheel mixed make brown, such colors need to be done in layers with dry time in between. I know this, but put a brush in my hand and let me do what comes naturally and every painting comes out dark, muddy, some even what others call "scary". To me, they are just honest.
I think again of the little boy in the Sixth Sense who drew some disturbing pictures, leading to a meeting between school administrators and his distraught mother. After that, he stuck to rainbows, people smiling, etc. What did he say? "They don't have meetings about rainbows." Yeah, I could make a conscious effort to use color more vibrantly but it wouldn't represent my true feelings. Art is expression; so get down with my muddy, ugly renderings if you can- I have a feeling the pretty stuff is a long way off.
And in response to being told I need to "move forward"- buddy, I am doing the best I can. I am making a huge effort at work to kiss my girl on the forehead and check my grief at the door. My time at work belongs to the children and families I serve. My time at home belongs to me, to wade through my grief the best I can, stumbling often, and resting when I can't take another step.
I think what people may not realize is that not all of looking back is voluntary. The flashbacks, the nightmares, the intrusive thoughts come when they please. I deal with them the best I can. The best way to stop them in to jump into a cold shower, which isn't always available. Beyond that, I have learned I can pop a peppermint in my mouth, bite into a lemon (which sounds simply delightful and I can only imagine the faces of my colleagues if I pulled one out of my purse and popped it in my mouth at our next management meeting), or begin naming colors and pieces of furniture in my immediate surroundings. The idea with the shower, peppermint hard candy, and lemon is to overwhelm your senses and interrupt the nastiness your brain is up to at the moment. The naming of colors and furniture is called "grounding" and is meant to orient you to the present, so that the "real time" feel of your memory is challenged. Fun stuff.
What happened over a calendar year ago to other people, still feels like a couple weeks to my overwrought brain. Six months, twelve months- these ridiculous time markers when people start commenting to each other about how the person should get back to normal mean nothing. Nothing.
And since I'm just putting it all out there today, let me share with the person who told me I was "wallowing" in my grief that the definition of wallow is to "indulge in an unrestrained way in something that creates a pleasurable sensation". For the record, I'm not having a good time here- no pleasure going on. And come talk to me about wallowing when you've lost one of your children in a sudden and violent manner.
Anger is strength coming back. Think I'll go break some plates.
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