There was no Cory here tonight to pass out silly hats and noisemakers from the dollar store. We didn't pile onto the couch to watch the ball drop in Times Square on tv. I avoid my living room like the plague...still. New Year's Eve has lost any marginal appeal it once had because now starting each new year means entering another year without my Cory Girl.
Or does it?
I made breakfast for dinner for the boys tonight and after we ate, we sat down to play board games for a bit. Jake's job was to get the game ready as I finished up the dishes and Tim saw to the puppy. Jake handed me some used score sheets he found inside the box from years gone by, a couple of which were in Cory's handwriting, and made my heart skip a beat: Team J & C (Jacob and Cory) versus Team M & D (Mom and Dad).
It is complete and utter joy to find this sort of proof that she was here, that she was real. I suspect every bereaved parent out there knows just what I mean. I ran my fingers over her writing, and sat the sheets aside to tape into my journal.
When we switched out games a bit later, Tim came up from the basement with a bit longer face than when he headed down to choose another game. When asked, he said, "Well, I saw the Candyland game down there with the others and all I could think about was all the times me and Cory played that when she was little, and how she always had to be Queen Frostine. Every time. Queen Frostine."
I couldn't even look at him. Once I saw his eyes were full of tears, I had to put my head down. Sometimes I forget how much he is hurting, too. You see, he wasn't there for every moment, and I give him a lot of grief for the four years we were separated that he chose not to take Cory on the weekends...a LOT of grief, but...
Queen Frostine. I think I'll shut up now. He may have missed what he missed, but there is no other man out there who played CandyLand with my girl.
Thursday, December 31, 2015
Those Who Can't...
So...
I will try to see the beauty, as well as honor my pain.
I saw some baby bump pics the other day of one of Cory's best friends since kindergarten. The joy for her was genuine, but I did think about how Cory will never sport a baby bump and it nearly swallowed me whole.
This morning, I had this thought: when you can't do something, the expression is often, "I'll live vicariously through you." How lucky am I to be close enough to Cory's childhood friends to be able to witness their life's milestones? It is better to be able to watch these young ladies grow older than bury myself in bitterness. And the thing about Cory was that although she was sometimes jealous of the normalcy of others' lives, she was kind enough and strong enough to still be happy for them. I so much want to be like her. She was such an incredible person.
I will try to see the beauty, as well as honor my pain.
I saw some baby bump pics the other day of one of Cory's best friends since kindergarten. The joy for her was genuine, but I did think about how Cory will never sport a baby bump and it nearly swallowed me whole.
This morning, I had this thought: when you can't do something, the expression is often, "I'll live vicariously through you." How lucky am I to be close enough to Cory's childhood friends to be able to witness their life's milestones? It is better to be able to watch these young ladies grow older than bury myself in bitterness. And the thing about Cory was that although she was sometimes jealous of the normalcy of others' lives, she was kind enough and strong enough to still be happy for them. I so much want to be like her. She was such an incredible person.
Monday, December 28, 2015
Better Now
I left the house yesterday, and I immediately felt a little better. Last night, Jake and I made a mad dash for supplies for the upcoming ice storm, and I was able to stop thinking about Cory long enough to enjoy the quiet sarcasm and quick wit he offers only to the people who make him feel safe. Ever the thirteen-nearly-fourteen year old boy, he surreptitiously left his coat in the car and thrust his chin in the air just the slightest when I called him on it. "Are you being defiant, Mr. Mansfield?" I giggled.
"Maybe." he grinned.
"Oh God, and so it begins." I replied.
And so it has. I cannot- CANNOT- miss his adolescence because of my grief. I have to enjoy every moment because even if he lives, as Cory did not, he will be gone from under my wing all too soon.
Once inside Family Fare, he silently began to fill the cart with every type of donut he could locate...just to be safe, in case we get snowed in. I would silently put the junk food back on the shelf, turn around to grab some veggies, and the chocolate covered donettes would be back in the cart, carefully hidden under the fruit tray.
He makes me smile. Every day.
Pop has been outlawed. I will allow it for occasional treats, such as eating out, but have refused to supply it in the home. Jacob raised an eyebrow to this blustering of parental authority, and said, "Dad will supply me." with a tiny grin.
Oh dear.
So the thing to recognize here is that this year, I made it (albeit medicated) to the family Christmas dinner: a new frontier. And although the day after Christmas was hellish in nature, my body full of all the aches and pains of finally releasing the muscles that had held their tension since around November 1st in anticipation of the blasted holiday season, today is a lot better. My recovery time from these "difficult times of the year" is improving, isn't it?
I do feel better. I feel it in my bones, the way Cory wrote in her journal during her first hospitalization: "I'm better now. I can feel it in my bones." I was able to get this piece of her handwriting made into a necklace and it is the most treasured of all my memorial jewelry. Words mean everything to me. Handwriting is a person's mark on the world. Her bravery is inspiring.
If she can muster some optimism with all she faced, surely I can make an effort.
I have to live without her. She had to live with monsters I'll never fully understand.
She was a brave girl. And one thing I know for sure is that she'd want to see me be brave, too.
"Maybe." he grinned.
"Oh God, and so it begins." I replied.
And so it has. I cannot- CANNOT- miss his adolescence because of my grief. I have to enjoy every moment because even if he lives, as Cory did not, he will be gone from under my wing all too soon.
Once inside Family Fare, he silently began to fill the cart with every type of donut he could locate...just to be safe, in case we get snowed in. I would silently put the junk food back on the shelf, turn around to grab some veggies, and the chocolate covered donettes would be back in the cart, carefully hidden under the fruit tray.
He makes me smile. Every day.
Pop has been outlawed. I will allow it for occasional treats, such as eating out, but have refused to supply it in the home. Jacob raised an eyebrow to this blustering of parental authority, and said, "Dad will supply me." with a tiny grin.
Oh dear.
So the thing to recognize here is that this year, I made it (albeit medicated) to the family Christmas dinner: a new frontier. And although the day after Christmas was hellish in nature, my body full of all the aches and pains of finally releasing the muscles that had held their tension since around November 1st in anticipation of the blasted holiday season, today is a lot better. My recovery time from these "difficult times of the year" is improving, isn't it?
I do feel better. I feel it in my bones, the way Cory wrote in her journal during her first hospitalization: "I'm better now. I can feel it in my bones." I was able to get this piece of her handwriting made into a necklace and it is the most treasured of all my memorial jewelry. Words mean everything to me. Handwriting is a person's mark on the world. Her bravery is inspiring.
If she can muster some optimism with all she faced, surely I can make an effort.
I have to live without her. She had to live with monsters I'll never fully understand.
She was a brave girl. And one thing I know for sure is that she'd want to see me be brave, too.
Saturday, December 26, 2015
Day After
It's the day after Christmas, and again this year, like a fool, I thought I'd feel better if the day was just over. But I don't feel better. She's still dead. I'm still here.
I barely left my bed today, and never got dressed at all. The tree will be a snap to put away since it had almost no decorations on it, so there's that. Still, I struggled to fold and put away a basket of clean clothes. I alternate between feeling like I'm going to throw up and wanting to throw the nearest thing at hand.
When I feel particularly low, the way I do today, I can't stand the sound of my own voice. It makes me hate myself even more than I already do, so don't take it personally if I don't pick up the phone or if I cut our conversation short. I'll text, but it's an effort.
All the therapy, all the meds, all the talks with friends and family...and I'll tell you a secret if you promise not to get mad at me:
I still feel responsible. I'm beginning to suspect I always will.
Thursday, December 24, 2015
Shoulda
No one understands the seething anger. My husband thinks it's about him. Sometimes I get confused and think it's about my job. Some people think I'm just being a big baby and should learn to accept what can't be changed and go make sandwiches like normal people, you know, smiling all the time, and shit. Fuck those people.
Nope. It's none of those things. It's that she got hurt, badly, horribly, disjointedly hurt and taken on my watch. On my watch.
All these stupid holiday grab fests offer bitter reminders of what I had and what I'll never have again. She'll never show up with her hair in a messy bun and mismatched socks looking like an angel. We will never be side by side at the counter with flour on our faces rolling out homemade pie crust like a commercial or burping babies on our shoulders after the big meal. That is all gone. I can see it, like those pictures I've never seen before that keep popping up, but I'll never touch those daydreams.
Other people get to survive. Other people get second chances. They get babies. They get lives.
She rests in a long, dark hole, with her broken bones arranged just so.
I should have died with her.
Nope. It's none of those things. It's that she got hurt, badly, horribly, disjointedly hurt and taken on my watch. On my watch.
All these stupid holiday grab fests offer bitter reminders of what I had and what I'll never have again. She'll never show up with her hair in a messy bun and mismatched socks looking like an angel. We will never be side by side at the counter with flour on our faces rolling out homemade pie crust like a commercial or burping babies on our shoulders after the big meal. That is all gone. I can see it, like those pictures I've never seen before that keep popping up, but I'll never touch those daydreams.
Other people get to survive. Other people get second chances. They get babies. They get lives.
She rests in a long, dark hole, with her broken bones arranged just so.
I should have died with her.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
Too Many Sirens
The flashbacks bring back the horror of what I saw, but they also bring back that out of control, helpless feeling. There is no worse feeling than being unable to help your child, except maybe the realization that the people who know how to help her aren't helping her, either. She laid there, facedown, twisted and slumped while they walked around. It seemed like an hour went by before they finally turned her over, two of them working together at the task, so slowly, so carefully, maybe even reverently, revealing her face an inch at a time, and when I saw her lips were blue, my mind just failed. That moment. I've been living it all weekend.
"Paddles! Get the paddles!" I wanted to scream. I wanted to direct. I wanted to boss them around. I wanted to get them in motion, for God's sake, someone had to, but I couldn't seem to speak. I could hear someone screaming and it took the longest time to realize that was me.
Back then, on the scene, I didn't understand why they weren't doing anything and my confusion slowly, over a period of months, developed into fury. Now, I know- intellectually, at least- that nothing could be done. Somehow, the fury remains.
The man told me the six words no mother ever wants to hear, and then I fell down- to my knees, then to my face. In every movie I've watched, the mother screams up at the sky so you'd think there has to be someone in charge up there who could do something in such a situation, but sadly, no.
Thank goodness for smartphones because fine motor truly does go out the window during trauma and I couldn't dial my mother's number for anything. Or even remember it. Someone else took care of that.
My parents were there within minutes and once I saw my horror reflected on my dear mother's face, it began to be true. I didn't wake up. No one woke me up. They still haven't. Maybe that makes me angry, too. What good is anyone who claims to love you if they can't wake you from a nightmare?
Time marched on. All the way to three years, five months, and nine days. Some people say I'm not doing very well, haven't made much progress. To that, I say, I'm alive. I don't really want to be. But I am, and that's way more than I thought I'd be able to accomplish that day after he told me she was gone. I just wanted to die, too.
"Paddles! Get the paddles!" I wanted to scream. I wanted to direct. I wanted to boss them around. I wanted to get them in motion, for God's sake, someone had to, but I couldn't seem to speak. I could hear someone screaming and it took the longest time to realize that was me.
Back then, on the scene, I didn't understand why they weren't doing anything and my confusion slowly, over a period of months, developed into fury. Now, I know- intellectually, at least- that nothing could be done. Somehow, the fury remains.
The man told me the six words no mother ever wants to hear, and then I fell down- to my knees, then to my face. In every movie I've watched, the mother screams up at the sky so you'd think there has to be someone in charge up there who could do something in such a situation, but sadly, no.
Thank goodness for smartphones because fine motor truly does go out the window during trauma and I couldn't dial my mother's number for anything. Or even remember it. Someone else took care of that.
My parents were there within minutes and once I saw my horror reflected on my dear mother's face, it began to be true. I didn't wake up. No one woke me up. They still haven't. Maybe that makes me angry, too. What good is anyone who claims to love you if they can't wake you from a nightmare?
Time marched on. All the way to three years, five months, and nine days. Some people say I'm not doing very well, haven't made much progress. To that, I say, I'm alive. I don't really want to be. But I am, and that's way more than I thought I'd be able to accomplish that day after he told me she was gone. I just wanted to die, too.
Getting to Know Post Traumatic Stress Disorder
Web MD's suggestions to cope with rage and anger from PTSD are:
- Talk with someone you trust.
- Write down your feelings. It may help to make a list of things that are bothering you. Decide which things you can change, and how you can change them.
- Exercise, draw, paint, or listen to music to release the anger.
I cannot remember the last time I was so full of rage. I feel like that girl on Firestarter by Stephen King- if I don't hurry up and order this shit to "Back off! Back off!", it's just going to burn me up right where I stand. On the other hand, there's a thought...
I've tried to talking to a few people, and I'm sure those are super pleasant conversations for the receivers of my discontent.
Writing I can do. I do it everyday. Making a list of things that bother me? Well, that's pretty short. And being asked what's wrong is something that sets that hair across my ass just right and plumffff! the inferno goes up with the drop of that particular match. What's wrong? Are you fucking kidding me?
She's dead. She's still dead. And she's always going to be dead.
Does anything else even matter????????????????? Isn't that enough?
Can I change it? No. So here I am, painting and listening to music and feeling no less like running into the streets screaming at strangers. Rage? Show me the driver. Show me her father. Show me anyone who slighted her in any way.
Show me the mirror. I haven't looked in one all weekend cause I know what will happen if I do.
She's dead. She's still dead. And she's always going to be dead.
Does anything else even matter????????????????? Isn't that enough?
Can I change it? No. So here I am, painting and listening to music and feeling no less like running into the streets screaming at strangers. Rage? Show me the driver. Show me her father. Show me anyone who slighted her in any way.
Show me the mirror. I haven't looked in one all weekend cause I know what will happen if I do.
Saturday, December 12, 2015
Unstable
At Buffalo Wild Wings with the boys the other day and that Pink song came on about being perfect. I began sobbing at the table and had to be prompted by Tim to take my hysterics to the bathroom where people weren't trying to eat.
Tonight, I rambled through my kitchen cupboards hunting for a plate I could break and wouldn't miss. The rage is relentless. I wanted so badly to destroy..to wreck...to break something that was once whole and functioning... to hear the plate break against the ceremic tile, to see the pieces scatter...big pieces, jagged pieces, small pieces, shards too thin to even pick up properly.
There, people who think they know just what they'd do, glue that shit back together. Tell me how long it takes you and tell me if it's a plate you wanna eat off after your done.
Tonight, I rambled through my kitchen cupboards hunting for a plate I could break and wouldn't miss. The rage is relentless. I wanted so badly to destroy..to wreck...to break something that was once whole and functioning... to hear the plate break against the ceremic tile, to see the pieces scatter...big pieces, jagged pieces, small pieces, shards too thin to even pick up properly.
There, people who think they know just what they'd do, glue that shit back together. Tell me how long it takes you and tell me if it's a plate you wanna eat off after your done.
Tuesday, December 8, 2015
Half-Empty?
Pissed off all day. Wanted to scream and break stuff. It started when I opened my eyes- anxious because Tim had slept past his alarm again, but the anxiety never stopped or even slowed over the course of the day. It just got worse. By noon, I had the urge to jump in my car and take a drive so I could scream without anyone hearing me. I felt like I could knock down walls. Hurt people. At least one. Maybe two.
What was I so angry about? Anything. Everything. But really just the same one thing. She's dead.
It's not fair what happened to her! I hate it. I hate what I saw. I hate what she surely felt, even if it was only for one searing, white-hot, confusing instant. I hate that I wasn't there, that she was ALONE.
I hate that I can't muster even a shred of excitement for the stupid holidays. Ruined. Everything is ruined. Her chair will always be empty. Why do I have the feeling the holiday season will always be something to get through, never to enjoy? Am I a pessimist or am I a realist?
Pessimism? Pshaw! You say the glass is half-full. I don't say it's half-empty. I say, "what fucking glass?"
What was I so angry about? Anything. Everything. But really just the same one thing. She's dead.
It's not fair what happened to her! I hate it. I hate what I saw. I hate what she surely felt, even if it was only for one searing, white-hot, confusing instant. I hate that I wasn't there, that she was ALONE.
I hate that I can't muster even a shred of excitement for the stupid holidays. Ruined. Everything is ruined. Her chair will always be empty. Why do I have the feeling the holiday season will always be something to get through, never to enjoy? Am I a pessimist or am I a realist?
Pessimism? Pshaw! You say the glass is half-full. I don't say it's half-empty. I say, "what fucking glass?"
Saturday, December 5, 2015
It's the Little Things
When it first happens, you are overwhelmed and all the experiences you are being cheated out of having with your child come in large scale form: their graduation(s), their wedding, the birth of their child(ren), their loving face looming over yours on your death bed. That is the way it was supposed to go after all.
When the shock passes, and especially if you've already missed some milestones with your child due to chronic mental illness, the stepping stones you have also missed come to mind: watching your child learn to drive, seeing your child get their first part-time job, holding your child against your chest as they nurse their first adult broken heart.
And then once years have gone by, there can be confusion on just what to feel, like this:
feeling strangely guilty when asked how long its been since your child has died. Saying, or what feels like admitting, it's been nearly three and a half years is sometimes hard to reconcile with your lack of ability to function. Shouldn't you be doing a little bit better by now? That's what it feels like when you register that look of surprise on someone's face who must've thought it had happened a few months ago...why else would this girl be such a fricking wreck?
feeling pulled back into the abyss when running into someone in the community who didn't know your child had died and asked casually after your "kids". Explaining with a dry face and no details of the accident may feel like you've cut a cord with your child, but trust me when I say you won't make it more than two hours inside your house before becoming a complete and sobbing mess.
In the thick of acceptance, the little moments plague your heart the most. Will you really never watch another movie with her? Touch her hand? Ever?
When the shock passes, and especially if you've already missed some milestones with your child due to chronic mental illness, the stepping stones you have also missed come to mind: watching your child learn to drive, seeing your child get their first part-time job, holding your child against your chest as they nurse their first adult broken heart.
And then once years have gone by, there can be confusion on just what to feel, like this:
feeling strangely guilty when asked how long its been since your child has died. Saying, or what feels like admitting, it's been nearly three and a half years is sometimes hard to reconcile with your lack of ability to function. Shouldn't you be doing a little bit better by now? That's what it feels like when you register that look of surprise on someone's face who must've thought it had happened a few months ago...why else would this girl be such a fricking wreck?
feeling pulled back into the abyss when running into someone in the community who didn't know your child had died and asked casually after your "kids". Explaining with a dry face and no details of the accident may feel like you've cut a cord with your child, but trust me when I say you won't make it more than two hours inside your house before becoming a complete and sobbing mess.
In the thick of acceptance, the little moments plague your heart the most. Will you really never watch another movie with her? Touch her hand? Ever?
Wednesday, December 2, 2015
Visual Cues
Maybe these are more for me than anyone else who may read them, but I still thought I'd share where my head is tonight or rather where I'd like it to be:
Accident:
an unplanned and unfortunate event that results in damage, injury, or upset of some kind.
the way things happen without any planning, apparent cause, or deliberate intent.
What happened to Cory was an accident.
My thought: I shouldn't have let Cory walk to the store.
Fact: It was a reasonable decision.
My thought: I was selfish to allow Cory to go to the store that day.
Fact: Cory was getting exercise, self-esteem, socialization, and independence out of this simple errand.
My thought (ALL THE TIME): I made a bad decision on July 5th, 2012. Nothing else I did matters.
Fact: It was a sound decision. I made many other good decisions for Cory that helped her and kept her safe.
Guilt:
a feeling of worry or unhappiness that one has because one has done something wrong, such as causing harm to another person.
Fact: I did not harm Cory.
Putting these babies in my bag and taking them with me tomorrow. I won't have time to read them at work, but I will know they are there when my brain "starts being unkind" to me, as my Miss Angie would say.
Accident:
an unplanned and unfortunate event that results in damage, injury, or upset of some kind.
the way things happen without any planning, apparent cause, or deliberate intent.
What happened to Cory was an accident.
My thought: I shouldn't have let Cory walk to the store.
Fact: It was a reasonable decision.
My thought: I was selfish to allow Cory to go to the store that day.
Fact: Cory was getting exercise, self-esteem, socialization, and independence out of this simple errand.
My thought (ALL THE TIME): I made a bad decision on July 5th, 2012. Nothing else I did matters.
Fact: It was a sound decision. I made many other good decisions for Cory that helped her and kept her safe.
Guilt:
a feeling of worry or unhappiness that one has because one has done something wrong, such as causing harm to another person.
Fact: I did not harm Cory.
Putting these babies in my bag and taking them with me tomorrow. I won't have time to read them at work, but I will know they are there when my brain "starts being unkind" to me, as my Miss Angie would say.
Tuesday, December 1, 2015
Driving Mr. Winston
Jake and I took Winston for a quick car ride today. Jake turned his eyes to mine as we pulled in the drive, and said, "Man, Mom, I think he likes you better than me. He always wants to ride in your lap."
"No, I don't think so. I think he just wants to be with the driver. I know, let's trade seats and see if he wants to sit with you if you're in the driver's seat."
"Okay!" he smiled, willing to indulge my little social experiment.
We switched seats and I passed Winston over, paying less attention to him in Jake's lap than the fact that Jake actually seemed to sort of fit in that driver's seat, and surely that couldn't be right? He noticed this, too, throwing his little shoulders back a little and sitting up tall in his seat. He gripped the wheel and said, "Hey, this doesn't feel too bad!" My heart skipped a beat to picture him driving, then skipped another because Cory never got to. She never got to, and now she wasn't here to see her little brother getting ready for his turn to drive, to grow up, to just be.
I pretended not to notice as Winston stealthily made his way back to my lap.
"See, Mom!" he said, grinning, but obviously disappointed.
"He loves us both." I said.
"Yeah, he does." he agreed.
The three of us sat in the car for a moment, silent. I couldn't help but wonder why Cory couldn't be with us to share it.
"No, I don't think so. I think he just wants to be with the driver. I know, let's trade seats and see if he wants to sit with you if you're in the driver's seat."
"Okay!" he smiled, willing to indulge my little social experiment.
We switched seats and I passed Winston over, paying less attention to him in Jake's lap than the fact that Jake actually seemed to sort of fit in that driver's seat, and surely that couldn't be right? He noticed this, too, throwing his little shoulders back a little and sitting up tall in his seat. He gripped the wheel and said, "Hey, this doesn't feel too bad!" My heart skipped a beat to picture him driving, then skipped another because Cory never got to. She never got to, and now she wasn't here to see her little brother getting ready for his turn to drive, to grow up, to just be.
I pretended not to notice as Winston stealthily made his way back to my lap.
"See, Mom!" he said, grinning, but obviously disappointed.
"He loves us both." I said.
"Yeah, he does." he agreed.
The three of us sat in the car for a moment, silent. I couldn't help but wonder why Cory couldn't be with us to share it.
Sunday, November 29, 2015
An Open Letter to Whom It May Concern
I loved you once, and I love you still, same as I do your boy. I understand how scared and confused you must've been those many years ago when trying to decide to stay in that abusive marriage or leave. I know the abuse continued even after the kids grew up. I remember you going to S.A.F.E. place after Thanksgiving one year, but you soon returned. You slipped me some literature on what to pack and how to get away safely- your silent acknowledgment that you knew what I was going through in my little apartment with the apple of your eye.
I wish you'd been strong enough to leave when your kids were young before they soaked up all those experiences, and formed those hard-wired pathways in their growing brains. They were fed; they were clothed; they had a roof over their heads, but what had they begun to consider normal?
You never deserved that abuse. People would've helped you. When you were lucky enough to have professionals to come to you when your boy was eight and tell you he needed mental health services, it may have drastically changed his life course if you'd ignored your fear, ignored the stigma, and accepted the help- the kind of help I wouldn't be offered until my baby girl was fifteen. I can only look back and wish I'd known what to look for in Cory's behavior or what it meant. To get her help before she ended puberty would've changed everything- so much time and productivity saved.
If I prayed, I'd pray for you laying your head down on your pillow at night, knowing all the horrors you've seen and experienced. I have so much empathy for you. But there is also anger, because I remember you telling me sometimes two people, no matter how much they love each other, just can't be together in that way; it's not safe. You loved him madly, didn't you? You must have loved him the way I loved your boy. He was the air I breathed. Part of you still must.. You loved him so madly that you put the mental and physical health of your children at risk in order to stay.
You forgave. You rationalized. You set boundaries that he laughed off- drunk, and throwing take-out over the canal.
"I'm sorry my son is a monster." you told me once.
He's not a monster. He has an untreated mental illness. He has a good heart. He's wildly intelligent. He loves helping people.
And even though his touch sent shivers down my spine, I will pass. My kids deserve that.
By the way, Cory's illness, her mental illness, was called Schizoaffective Disorder. It wasn't a chess move from Satan. It wasn't caused by medications. It is a brain disorder that is highly hereditary. And it's treatable. Even though you unknowingly or knowingly set your son up to have some major challenges in life, I'll never understand how you wrote her off the moment you realized what was wrong with her. You told me the enemy was working for her soul. You told me I should go to church more. You told me to beware of those pharmaceutical companies. Never did you acknowledge that there is a prevalence of mental illness in your family history or in your husbands.
All those little hello cards filled with trinkets sent to Cory when your son and I were making a go of it had stopped long ago, of course. Apparently, she stopped being your grandchild, the moment I stopped being Bob's significant other and subsequent caregiver.
But after? After you knew what she was going through? Three hospitalizations- one of which lasted 11 days. A struggle to get an Individualized Education Plan to secure her high school diploma. Not one card? Flowers? Nothing? That I just can't get my head around. She deserved some encouragement for doing something you yourself couldn't do for her father- fight the stigma, get the help, and get healthy without hurting anyone else to do it. She was freaking amazing.
That is all.
I wish you'd been strong enough to leave when your kids were young before they soaked up all those experiences, and formed those hard-wired pathways in their growing brains. They were fed; they were clothed; they had a roof over their heads, but what had they begun to consider normal?
You never deserved that abuse. People would've helped you. When you were lucky enough to have professionals to come to you when your boy was eight and tell you he needed mental health services, it may have drastically changed his life course if you'd ignored your fear, ignored the stigma, and accepted the help- the kind of help I wouldn't be offered until my baby girl was fifteen. I can only look back and wish I'd known what to look for in Cory's behavior or what it meant. To get her help before she ended puberty would've changed everything- so much time and productivity saved.
If I prayed, I'd pray for you laying your head down on your pillow at night, knowing all the horrors you've seen and experienced. I have so much empathy for you. But there is also anger, because I remember you telling me sometimes two people, no matter how much they love each other, just can't be together in that way; it's not safe. You loved him madly, didn't you? You must have loved him the way I loved your boy. He was the air I breathed. Part of you still must.. You loved him so madly that you put the mental and physical health of your children at risk in order to stay.
You forgave. You rationalized. You set boundaries that he laughed off- drunk, and throwing take-out over the canal.
"I'm sorry my son is a monster." you told me once.
He's not a monster. He has an untreated mental illness. He has a good heart. He's wildly intelligent. He loves helping people.
And even though his touch sent shivers down my spine, I will pass. My kids deserve that.
By the way, Cory's illness, her mental illness, was called Schizoaffective Disorder. It wasn't a chess move from Satan. It wasn't caused by medications. It is a brain disorder that is highly hereditary. And it's treatable. Even though you unknowingly or knowingly set your son up to have some major challenges in life, I'll never understand how you wrote her off the moment you realized what was wrong with her. You told me the enemy was working for her soul. You told me I should go to church more. You told me to beware of those pharmaceutical companies. Never did you acknowledge that there is a prevalence of mental illness in your family history or in your husbands.
All those little hello cards filled with trinkets sent to Cory when your son and I were making a go of it had stopped long ago, of course. Apparently, she stopped being your grandchild, the moment I stopped being Bob's significant other and subsequent caregiver.
But after? After you knew what she was going through? Three hospitalizations- one of which lasted 11 days. A struggle to get an Individualized Education Plan to secure her high school diploma. Not one card? Flowers? Nothing? That I just can't get my head around. She deserved some encouragement for doing something you yourself couldn't do for her father- fight the stigma, get the help, and get healthy without hurting anyone else to do it. She was freaking amazing.
That is all.
Saturday, November 28, 2015
The Turkey Is Done
Thanksgiving sucked, and I will be sitting Christmas out.
I had to threaten Tim within an inch of a divorce decree to get him to come with me, and he only caved under the pressure of these heavy reminders: he refused to go with me to the police station to get Cory's affects, he refused to go to the first wedding I attended after her death, he was not present when Jake and I put the fifteen year old family dog to sleep, and if I am going to to continue to do these sort of things alone, we don't have to live under the same roof to do so. I can do it alone. I did for four years. Remember?
He was thrilled. So at my sister's house it was a caravan of faces, some old and well-loved and others still changing under the planes of time. All of them were happy. There was teasing and silliness, and my soul just froze shut. There would be no goofy coming from my direction. I sat silently and waited for a reasonable time to leave, at which time, I made a bee line for the door.
Later that night, Tim yelled at me for being hateful. He says I hate the kids who are alive, I hate the parents whose children are alive, I hate the young couple just starting at on paths Cory will never set a precious foot on. He demanded that I turn all that hatred to the driver instead- blame the person at fault.
I don't hate everyone. I am more jealous that I could ever convey in a million years. I feel cheated. I feel punished. These feelings sit in my mouth and make it hard to have light hearted chatter. In fact, at times such as Thursday in the light of all that gratitude, there's not a word I can think of to say.
Tim is wrong you know. The hate comes right to me. I was her legal guardian. And if anywhere else, maybe to God, if there is such an all-knowing being who rescues certain people's children from the brink of death, but leaves mine to bleed out on the street.
For two days, all I've done is take more and more pills and decide dubiously that if I don't believe in God, who cares if I go to hell. I already feel like I'm being burned alive every day. Every single Cory-less day.
I had to threaten Tim within an inch of a divorce decree to get him to come with me, and he only caved under the pressure of these heavy reminders: he refused to go with me to the police station to get Cory's affects, he refused to go to the first wedding I attended after her death, he was not present when Jake and I put the fifteen year old family dog to sleep, and if I am going to to continue to do these sort of things alone, we don't have to live under the same roof to do so. I can do it alone. I did for four years. Remember?
He was thrilled. So at my sister's house it was a caravan of faces, some old and well-loved and others still changing under the planes of time. All of them were happy. There was teasing and silliness, and my soul just froze shut. There would be no goofy coming from my direction. I sat silently and waited for a reasonable time to leave, at which time, I made a bee line for the door.
Later that night, Tim yelled at me for being hateful. He says I hate the kids who are alive, I hate the parents whose children are alive, I hate the young couple just starting at on paths Cory will never set a precious foot on. He demanded that I turn all that hatred to the driver instead- blame the person at fault.
I don't hate everyone. I am more jealous that I could ever convey in a million years. I feel cheated. I feel punished. These feelings sit in my mouth and make it hard to have light hearted chatter. In fact, at times such as Thursday in the light of all that gratitude, there's not a word I can think of to say.
Tim is wrong you know. The hate comes right to me. I was her legal guardian. And if anywhere else, maybe to God, if there is such an all-knowing being who rescues certain people's children from the brink of death, but leaves mine to bleed out on the street.
For two days, all I've done is take more and more pills and decide dubiously that if I don't believe in God, who cares if I go to hell. I already feel like I'm being burned alive every day. Every single Cory-less day.
Wednesday, November 25, 2015
My Big Voice
I'm not afraid anymore. Did you know that?
After your worst fear in your life has been realized, some things just don't seem to matter as much anymore. One of them is what people think of you.
One thing I've gained out of surviving the horrific loss of a child who meant absolutely everything in this world to me is my voice. I can be heard now. I can share art- scribbles though they may be- ,this blog, and my experiences to put a face on mental illness, and to let others know they are not alone. I can speak up as a survivor of domestic violence. What's Bob going to do about it? Walk across town and call me names in the street? Stop paying my cellphone bill? No, at most he will tell me I fried Cory's brain with shock therapy and experimental meds and she was never the same after.
Really? You get to criticize the way I got your daughter the very best care available? The way I kept her ALIVE? The nights I spent awake with her when the voices were tormenting her, the way I locked up the sharps every single night to protect her from what the voices told her to do, the endless doctor appointments and lab visits...all as a single parent. Where were you? Where WERE YOU? No, you don't get a say. Or actually, say it all you want. No one who matters cares.
I can say with pride that she never put her hands on other person in anger after she was medicated. I can say with pride she never took street drugs or drank alcohol to self-medicate. I only wish someone had been smart enough and brave enough to do the same for you and change the course of your life for the better. I bet once and awhile, your mom does, too.
The ECT brought her relief. The voices returned, but the delusions stayed away...and my friend that was a battle worth celebrating. She wasn't AFRAID anymore. Do you even understand how huge that was? If you've never spent months watching a loved one struggle in psychosis, you probably can't. She could walk around her house and the neighborhood without thinking she was being followed and that people wanted to kill her. The phone was just a phone again. The computer wasn't bugged. Her arm had a Mersa scar, not a tracking device. The only camera she was worried about was the one on her I-phone. Fried her brain? No, those treatments settled her brain. The fact that Bob thinks ECT fries people's brains just speaks to his ignorance on the topic. I have 5 books on the topic, Bob, if you'd like to borrow them.
I wish he had seen her in the last few months before the accident- saw her healthy and vibrant, silly and hopeful. I wish he'd seen her long-term memory was not "fried" and their her cognition was intact. Maybe then he would not make such unkind remarks. Maybe.
What I can say is this: she was not a drop-out, she was not an addict, she was not an abuser. She was kind; she was smart; she was a fighter. She was an artist, and she spoke out to others about mental illness-before her death and after. I could not be more proud of the life she lived and the strength she displayed daily.
I'm not afraid to say that I had EVERYTHING to do with that. And I'm not afraid to say Bob didn't.
After your worst fear in your life has been realized, some things just don't seem to matter as much anymore. One of them is what people think of you.
One thing I've gained out of surviving the horrific loss of a child who meant absolutely everything in this world to me is my voice. I can be heard now. I can share art- scribbles though they may be- ,this blog, and my experiences to put a face on mental illness, and to let others know they are not alone. I can speak up as a survivor of domestic violence. What's Bob going to do about it? Walk across town and call me names in the street? Stop paying my cellphone bill? No, at most he will tell me I fried Cory's brain with shock therapy and experimental meds and she was never the same after.
Really? You get to criticize the way I got your daughter the very best care available? The way I kept her ALIVE? The nights I spent awake with her when the voices were tormenting her, the way I locked up the sharps every single night to protect her from what the voices told her to do, the endless doctor appointments and lab visits...all as a single parent. Where were you? Where WERE YOU? No, you don't get a say. Or actually, say it all you want. No one who matters cares.
I can say with pride that she never put her hands on other person in anger after she was medicated. I can say with pride she never took street drugs or drank alcohol to self-medicate. I only wish someone had been smart enough and brave enough to do the same for you and change the course of your life for the better. I bet once and awhile, your mom does, too.
The ECT brought her relief. The voices returned, but the delusions stayed away...and my friend that was a battle worth celebrating. She wasn't AFRAID anymore. Do you even understand how huge that was? If you've never spent months watching a loved one struggle in psychosis, you probably can't. She could walk around her house and the neighborhood without thinking she was being followed and that people wanted to kill her. The phone was just a phone again. The computer wasn't bugged. Her arm had a Mersa scar, not a tracking device. The only camera she was worried about was the one on her I-phone. Fried her brain? No, those treatments settled her brain. The fact that Bob thinks ECT fries people's brains just speaks to his ignorance on the topic. I have 5 books on the topic, Bob, if you'd like to borrow them.
I wish he had seen her in the last few months before the accident- saw her healthy and vibrant, silly and hopeful. I wish he'd seen her long-term memory was not "fried" and their her cognition was intact. Maybe then he would not make such unkind remarks. Maybe.
What I can say is this: she was not a drop-out, she was not an addict, she was not an abuser. She was kind; she was smart; she was a fighter. She was an artist, and she spoke out to others about mental illness-before her death and after. I could not be more proud of the life she lived and the strength she displayed daily.
I'm not afraid to say that I had EVERYTHING to do with that. And I'm not afraid to say Bob didn't.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Push and Shove, Twenty Five Years Later
The domestic violence I went through with Bob when we were young seems like something that happened a life time ago. Most of the time, it could almost have happened to someone else. But then I'll see something on tv or hear someone talk about domestic violence, and I am taken right back to a different time, a different place, and being a different person.
Even now, one of the things that infuriates me most is that Bob won't own up to what he did. But then, expecting your abuser to label what he did as abuse is ridiculous. Of course he thinks it was okay. Of course he'll avoid the question with come-backs meant to push the blame back on you, "if it was so bad, why'd you stick around? why'd you always take me back?"
Sometimes I even forget just how bad it got. I was talking with a co-worker today about domestic violence and he shared what he'd gone through when he was a child. He asked me how bad things were for me. I told him about finally leaving Bob when Cory was 8 weeks old, and how he showed up about a month later, punching his way in through a window to unlock the door, cutting his arm, slinging blood all over my house, and proceeding to drag me out of the house by my hair. I stood there a moment in my dress and boots, safe and sane just outside of my office door at my place of work and relived the police coming, staring up into the branches of my pine tree where my phone dangled by its tangled cord. Nowadays, they call that interference and in some states, it's a felony. I just shook my head bitterly at this information. Tearing the phone out of the wall and blocking the exit were the first things he'd do. PTSD? I think I had that a long time ago. No wonder it's so hard to shake.
I stood there and thought about that girl. She was seventeen, eighteen, nineteen. I thought about how she'd been afraid to stay with him and afraid to leave, all at the same time. I thought about how much she loved him, how she loved him with her entire body, soul, and being. I thought about how the good in him always shone through brighter than the sun and it blinded her... how sometimes the good times seemed worth any cost. I thought about how she never wanted the relationship to end, she only wanted the behavior to stop. I thought about how she'd thought if she did everything right, if she kept him happy, he wouldn't lose his temper anymore. He had succeeded at making her think it was her fault.
I thought about how alone she was. I thought about how she was too ashamed to go to anyone in her family. And some of it was just too awful to explain to someone who had no idea what in the world you were talking about. It was like living on a different planet.
"Why don't you just leave?"
I thought about how discouraged people who meant to help her became when she did leave, but went right back. Over and over and over again.
It took me nearly twenty years, all told, to finally say I won't accept that treatment. The last go round never got physical, but the emotional abuse was still there. And he did, on one memorable occasion, threaten to come over and cut me into 86 pieces.
I finally had to say "I am not your mother." I won't be treated this way, and I won't let my kids see me treated that way.
The last thing I wanted was to perpetuate the cycle by raising a boy who thinks abuse is okay or a girl who thinks she deserves it. No Cory, you deserve so much better.
It doesn't matter one flying fuck how Bob views what took place between us. What matters is that I know I made the right decision. He doesn't think it was wrong? He doesn't think it was abuse?
Well, then, if I'd stayed, he'd still be doing it, wouldn't he?
I can wish him well from the safety of my home with my son who will never think it's okay to push a girl or call her a cunt. I can love the parts of him that I love and treasure the good memories from a distance. I can always wish things had turned out differently, but I won't gamble my emotional health or physical safety on that wish ever again.
I am not his mother. Turns out, I never was.
Thursday, November 19, 2015
All I Want Is You
Her wind chimes are playing again. The wind has picked up enough to move them often in the middle of the night, so I have some company when I'm missing her too much to sleep. The days haven't gotten easier, so much, but maybe...fuller. There is a puppy in the house now, so there is always someone who needs me, which makes the fact that Jake doesn't need me quite so much these days a little easier to take.
Work is busy; stressful. At times it is a little overwhelming, but the routine is a good thing for my brain. I recognize this now. The purpose is good for my soul. Helping others is the thing that helps me most. And if I get a little passionate about my children at work, well...I don't apologize.
The holidays have snuck up on me this year with a little less foreboding. Maybe I've just been too distracted. I guess we'll see how I'm feeling when the turkey actually hits the table. I remain cautiously optimistic, which is about forty steps ahead from last year.
But tonight, I want to take a moment to cave in and give over. My pain deserves a seat and a proper conversation. Grief may be put off if you can get yourself busy enough, but it is a stalker of singular purpose. You will be cornered at some point. You will be forced to see that face again. That old familiar pain will be back, and although it burns and strips and whips you to the bone, it also connects you to your child. Give that up? Give her up? Never.
Tie me to the post, but let me look at her face while I scream.
Work is busy; stressful. At times it is a little overwhelming, but the routine is a good thing for my brain. I recognize this now. The purpose is good for my soul. Helping others is the thing that helps me most. And if I get a little passionate about my children at work, well...I don't apologize.
The holidays have snuck up on me this year with a little less foreboding. Maybe I've just been too distracted. I guess we'll see how I'm feeling when the turkey actually hits the table. I remain cautiously optimistic, which is about forty steps ahead from last year.
But tonight, I want to take a moment to cave in and give over. My pain deserves a seat and a proper conversation. Grief may be put off if you can get yourself busy enough, but it is a stalker of singular purpose. You will be cornered at some point. You will be forced to see that face again. That old familiar pain will be back, and although it burns and strips and whips you to the bone, it also connects you to your child. Give that up? Give her up? Never.
Tie me to the post, but let me look at her face while I scream.
Monday, November 9, 2015
Winston
Tim seems less than happy that we got a puppy so soon after Gizmo died. I asked Jake how he felt about this, and his answer was short, but succinct, "It's a good distraction."
I agree. If not for a tiny new being to care for, I'd be sleeping round the clock. Instead, Jake and I have been making the rounds showing off Winston, busy with feeding and potty runs, crate training and play sessions.
Replace Gizmo? Are you kidding me? There is no way, nor would I want to. How could a tiny stranger infringe on what Gizmo meant to me? He can't.
For the very first time, I am trying to accept a death as a death, and move on with my life in a way that honors my loved one, giving my love to someone who is currently alive. It's sort of a big deal for me,
If you're not ok, that's fine. But damn, let me be ok if I can.
I agree. If not for a tiny new being to care for, I'd be sleeping round the clock. Instead, Jake and I have been making the rounds showing off Winston, busy with feeding and potty runs, crate training and play sessions.
Replace Gizmo? Are you kidding me? There is no way, nor would I want to. How could a tiny stranger infringe on what Gizmo meant to me? He can't.
For the very first time, I am trying to accept a death as a death, and move on with my life in a way that honors my loved one, giving my love to someone who is currently alive. It's sort of a big deal for me,
If you're not ok, that's fine. But damn, let me be ok if I can.
Sunday, October 25, 2015
Jacob and I
He is amazing, my boy. I lured him into watching The Walking Dead with me tonight...who can resist the zombie apocalypse? He kept wanting to fast forward through the commercials whenever possible, which I was beginning to bristle about, thinking he wanted to cut our time together as short as possible. He turned to me, putting a gentle hand on my arm, and said, "No, no, it's not that. It's just that I like to enjoy it- seamlessly."
Who is this child? He is mine, mine, mine. He may look like Tim but he talks like me. Small smile of triumph here.
And then, when the show became too emotionally harrowing for us both, we held hands for at least five minutes. That's who we are when we're together.
Truth Is...
If you are willing to reflect and be honest about it, you'll see things about yourself that make you cringe. You can acknowledge them and try to change. Here are mine from this weekend:
I am afraid to give my whole heart to my other child lest he die. I must not be a coward. He is deserving of every bit I can give him and shouldn't have to get less because I am scared of losing him. I have to focus on him right now- today and tomorrow, and every day he is alive. This doesn't mean I love Cory less or have forgotten her. She will not be jealous or upset with me in any way.
Tragedies happen to people every day. I am not special. I saw on the news about the drunk driver that drove into the crowd at the homecoming parade- four killed and dozens injured, and I felt small and ashamed. Everyone deals with loss.
Then I read about the woman who fought off two cops and went back into her burning house to rescue her three children. None of them made it out alive and they were found together: the infant in her arms and the older boys beside her. I looked at their pictures and felt so incredibly humbled.
My story is mine and it's important to me. But everyone has a story. And some are just as incredibly unfair as mine.
I may still be unable to get where people want me to be on the religion thing, but here is what I do have. I have so many people in my corner, my family, my friends, my co-workers, loved ones I treasure, even people I've never met in person who live across the world. With that amount of love and support, I have to find a way to be the person Cory called her mom and that Jake can look to as a positive role model. Who am I to waste all that goodwill?
Buck up, Nick. Never, ever, ever, ever give up.
I am afraid to give my whole heart to my other child lest he die. I must not be a coward. He is deserving of every bit I can give him and shouldn't have to get less because I am scared of losing him. I have to focus on him right now- today and tomorrow, and every day he is alive. This doesn't mean I love Cory less or have forgotten her. She will not be jealous or upset with me in any way.
Tragedies happen to people every day. I am not special. I saw on the news about the drunk driver that drove into the crowd at the homecoming parade- four killed and dozens injured, and I felt small and ashamed. Everyone deals with loss.
Then I read about the woman who fought off two cops and went back into her burning house to rescue her three children. None of them made it out alive and they were found together: the infant in her arms and the older boys beside her. I looked at their pictures and felt so incredibly humbled.
My story is mine and it's important to me. But everyone has a story. And some are just as incredibly unfair as mine.
I may still be unable to get where people want me to be on the religion thing, but here is what I do have. I have so many people in my corner, my family, my friends, my co-workers, loved ones I treasure, even people I've never met in person who live across the world. With that amount of love and support, I have to find a way to be the person Cory called her mom and that Jake can look to as a positive role model. Who am I to waste all that goodwill?
Buck up, Nick. Never, ever, ever, ever give up.
Saturday, October 24, 2015
She Was Honest, lol
I just turned 42. I can tell I'm getting old because I only want to listen to the music I liked in high school. My favorite all time band ever, ever, ever has always been Queensryche, and Cory tolerated this valiantly. One time while chopping up vegetables, I bent back suddenly at the waist and came up singing some crazy note with my neck tendons bulging. Cory nearly fell on the floor laughing. She may have clapped.
All was well until we watched the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall. The lead character was a kooky writer whose passion was writing a play for puppet vampires. Actually the play was a musical. He sang for the puppets and Cory uncomfortably noted the spooky resemblance of this sound with the theatrical stylings of Geoff Tate from Queensryche. That was it. It was just over for me. There was no denying it.
I just listened to one of my favorite Queensryche songs and had to laugh myself silly. Cory was right here making her goofy Dracula puppet voice for me. That child.
All was well until we watched the movie Forgetting Sarah Marshall. The lead character was a kooky writer whose passion was writing a play for puppet vampires. Actually the play was a musical. He sang for the puppets and Cory uncomfortably noted the spooky resemblance of this sound with the theatrical stylings of Geoff Tate from Queensryche. That was it. It was just over for me. There was no denying it.
I just listened to one of my favorite Queensryche songs and had to laugh myself silly. Cory was right here making her goofy Dracula puppet voice for me. That child.
Monday, October 19, 2015
All The Cool New Things
I'm failing. I couldn't keep her alive. I can't let her die.
This horrid new normal is determined to break me, or at least bend me to its will. You will live without a daughter. You will learn to like at least something about it. You will. Not fitting in, yet? Let's just cut off another chunk of your flesh and try again.
I don't want to embrace today. I do not trust tomorrow. My job is to preserve the world I used to love. It's all I have.
What is so bad about living in the past, before the sirens and all the gore? Will I really miss out on all the cool new things happening in my post-Cory world?
And really, looking to the future is for fools, is it not? Why make plans if someone might just die before you get to them? What is the point?
Will Jake really start high school next year, with the bus stop the very one Cory bopped to every morning? He might or he might not. He might die.
And so I cover him with kisses and beg him for hugs, treating him like the ten year old he was and not the nearly fourteen year old he is. I am needy, and I hate it, but I cannot stop myself. In exchange for his love and the magical way he is just alive every day when I get home, I try not to let him feel any pain or disappointment, other than the loss of his sister. Chores? As if.
You've heard of the breathing allowance? You don't have to do anything to collect the money but be there, drawing breath? It's sort of like that between us now, but with the additional expectations of not setting fires or killing anyone. I can't give him Cory back and so I give him a pass on most everything. Here, son, let me pick out your outfit to wear. Better yet, let me bring it to you like a live-in butler. It's an interesting choice of parenting style. Cory must be so pissed.
I can feel myself fucking up all over the place- failure at work, failure at home, failure as a parent, failure at relationships- but just keep steam rolling ahead. Finances? Fail. Moderate house-keeping? Fail. Closet organization? (Laughs politely.) I have two modes of personal appearance: aging super model (everything goes together and the makeup is on point) and clinically depressed (pillow creases on face and uncombed hair).
So is this success at grieving: being alive, drawing breath, but not really doing anything of value? Is making things worse for myself and everyone around me what is considered "coping" and learning to live with my "new normal"?
I'd rather sit back and share a Cory story with someone. Seeing her face clearly is the one thing I still get right. Sometimes I can even make other people see her, too.
This horrid new normal is determined to break me, or at least bend me to its will. You will live without a daughter. You will learn to like at least something about it. You will. Not fitting in, yet? Let's just cut off another chunk of your flesh and try again.
I don't want to embrace today. I do not trust tomorrow. My job is to preserve the world I used to love. It's all I have.
What is so bad about living in the past, before the sirens and all the gore? Will I really miss out on all the cool new things happening in my post-Cory world?
And really, looking to the future is for fools, is it not? Why make plans if someone might just die before you get to them? What is the point?
Will Jake really start high school next year, with the bus stop the very one Cory bopped to every morning? He might or he might not. He might die.
And so I cover him with kisses and beg him for hugs, treating him like the ten year old he was and not the nearly fourteen year old he is. I am needy, and I hate it, but I cannot stop myself. In exchange for his love and the magical way he is just alive every day when I get home, I try not to let him feel any pain or disappointment, other than the loss of his sister. Chores? As if.
You've heard of the breathing allowance? You don't have to do anything to collect the money but be there, drawing breath? It's sort of like that between us now, but with the additional expectations of not setting fires or killing anyone. I can't give him Cory back and so I give him a pass on most everything. Here, son, let me pick out your outfit to wear. Better yet, let me bring it to you like a live-in butler. It's an interesting choice of parenting style. Cory must be so pissed.
I can feel myself fucking up all over the place- failure at work, failure at home, failure as a parent, failure at relationships- but just keep steam rolling ahead. Finances? Fail. Moderate house-keeping? Fail. Closet organization? (Laughs politely.) I have two modes of personal appearance: aging super model (everything goes together and the makeup is on point) and clinically depressed (pillow creases on face and uncombed hair).
So is this success at grieving: being alive, drawing breath, but not really doing anything of value? Is making things worse for myself and everyone around me what is considered "coping" and learning to live with my "new normal"?
I'd rather sit back and share a Cory story with someone. Seeing her face clearly is the one thing I still get right. Sometimes I can even make other people see her, too.
Monday, October 12, 2015
Why Yes, Bono, I Too, Will Never Have My Heart's Desire
No sleep tonight.
So when you get time...if you want to have an idea of this pain of which I'll never be able to describe accurately. Go listen to U2's "All I Want Is You". Listen all the way to the end, and pay attention to the hoarse desperation in Bono's voice as he cries out the words towards the end of the song. That feeling. That feeling in which your heart is broken beyond repair is one I used to think I knew. And maybe I did. But it is made twofold by death and the inability to contact the other half of your heart, even if just to say you wish things were different.
So when you get time...if you want to have an idea of this pain of which I'll never be able to describe accurately. Go listen to U2's "All I Want Is You". Listen all the way to the end, and pay attention to the hoarse desperation in Bono's voice as he cries out the words towards the end of the song. That feeling. That feeling in which your heart is broken beyond repair is one I used to think I knew. And maybe I did. But it is made twofold by death and the inability to contact the other half of your heart, even if just to say you wish things were different.
My Girl,The Queen
Tonight the image came to mind of Cory eating chocolate-chip cookies, which made me unspeakingly sad all at once, and I thought to myself, woman, get ahold of yourself!
Who wants to read about how she used to grab five (exactly five) Chips Ahoy and a cup of milk, and hunker down wherever she felt like to dunk them to her little heart's delight?
Well, I do. I've got every memory intact, but if I live long enough to have trouble remembering, someone please read me this so I can have that picture in my mind. I treasure it.
And really? This is what it is. A good cookie-eating memory can be the thing that undoes you after a long day of work, keeping your mind busy with the business of the living. Such is grief. It doesn't play fair. And because I'm a list maker at heart, my mind pulled up similar footage of her drinking a soda, eating pizza, soup, seafood, pasta...
She was across my table for many years. And sometimes, many times, it was just us two. She made a fabulous dining partner, from the beginning of her life to the end.
Get ahold of myself? Pshaw. I am with Queen Victoria on this whole mourning thing. Did you know that not only did she wear only black for forty years after the death of her beloved, but she also continued to have her servants carry hot water to his chamber every single day for his morning shave?
She wrote this to her daughter after the death of Prince Albert, "How I, who leant on him for all and everything—without whom I did nothing, moved not a finger, arranged not a print or photograph, didn't put on a gown or bonnet if he didn't approve it shall go on, to live, to move, to help myself in difficult moments?"
I feel Queen Victoria. She gets it. I bet she had a cookie-eating memory or two of her own.
Who wants to read about how she used to grab five (exactly five) Chips Ahoy and a cup of milk, and hunker down wherever she felt like to dunk them to her little heart's delight?
Well, I do. I've got every memory intact, but if I live long enough to have trouble remembering, someone please read me this so I can have that picture in my mind. I treasure it.
And really? This is what it is. A good cookie-eating memory can be the thing that undoes you after a long day of work, keeping your mind busy with the business of the living. Such is grief. It doesn't play fair. And because I'm a list maker at heart, my mind pulled up similar footage of her drinking a soda, eating pizza, soup, seafood, pasta...
She was across my table for many years. And sometimes, many times, it was just us two. She made a fabulous dining partner, from the beginning of her life to the end.
Get ahold of myself? Pshaw. I am with Queen Victoria on this whole mourning thing. Did you know that not only did she wear only black for forty years after the death of her beloved, but she also continued to have her servants carry hot water to his chamber every single day for his morning shave?
She wrote this to her daughter after the death of Prince Albert, "How I, who leant on him for all and everything—without whom I did nothing, moved not a finger, arranged not a print or photograph, didn't put on a gown or bonnet if he didn't approve it shall go on, to live, to move, to help myself in difficult moments?"
I feel Queen Victoria. She gets it. I bet she had a cookie-eating memory or two of her own.
Sunday, October 4, 2015
Raising a Reader
Reading to Cory is one of my favorite memories. I like to imagine all the board books, story books, chapter books, bits of novels, and one full novel stacked one on top of the other in a teetering pile that reaches the ceiling or maybe fills a room. I can lay in the dark and pull out her favorites in my mind, one after another, like Jenga. I can remember her little body curled into the contours of mine, leaning back and getting lost in the story. Then later, when she was practically a grown up herself, she'd lay down and listen so earnestly, declaring I should do audio books, which cracked me up.
I know if she'd have had children, she'd have read to them, and done all the voices to captivate her listener. She'd have given them books as gifts. Always. They would have prowled bookstores together.
They.
I know if she'd have had children, she'd have read to them, and done all the voices to captivate her listener. She'd have given them books as gifts. Always. They would have prowled bookstores together.
They.
It Can't Be Me; It Has to Be Me
Did I tell you I finally got someone to stay in the kitchen with me the whole time while I cook dinner? He does it without complaint and never leaves my side until dinner is plated, or in his case, bowled.
My dog, Gizmo, is the best. These last couple of months that Blue Apron has gotten me cooking again, he has joined me every single time, planted his little bottom on the tile like a good boy, and gave me all the moral support I could ever ask for. He smiles at me, and flashes me those pretty eyes while he does it, too. A girl could swoon.
Here's the other thing: he actually gets excited about the meal I serve up. He gives me the kind of kudos that Cory used to offer: physical affection in exchange for soup. I cook to make him happy and he lavishes on me the appreciation I crave. It's a beautiful thing. It reminds me a little of when Cory was sick, too, now that Gizmo is failing. There, I typed it. He's failing.
The only thing I can really do to make Gizmo's day is cook for him, and I love to. It very much reminds me of the steak dinner weekends when cooking for Cory was the only comfort I could provide. When in doubt...feed.
I'm having the worst time knowing Gizmo won't be with us much longer. I mean I get that he can't live forever; clocks stop. I just don't want to be the one. I really don't.
I don't want him to suffer, of course, but who am I to say that he is all done? What if what he really wants, if he could tell me, would be one more day...one more car ride, one more cheeseburger, one more bite of Mom's chili, or even the right to die at home surrounded by his humans and his friends, all his familiar smells?
I mean, we don't load the elderly up and take them to be put down because we don't want them to suffer. If Gizmo wants out of this, his goofy grin and tail that still wags hasn't convinced me yet. To be fair, he is losing weight, his little face shrinking a bit and his spine becoming more pronounced when I pick him up. But he's still Gizmo, and don't we all shrink as we age?
Hell, I don't know. I just can't be the one. Yet I'd have to be the one. You see? I can't be the one because I already feel like I sent Cory to her death on my stupid grocery store errand. I can't kill her and the dog, too. He looks at me the same way she used to: complete trust. But to the person out there that says, "Nicole, get a hold of yourself. If he reaches that point, you'll know and you have to do something", I say, I know, I know. And it couldn't be anyone else to take him there and hold him, either. It'd have to be me. I'm his human. I'd have it no other way.
My dog, Gizmo, is the best. These last couple of months that Blue Apron has gotten me cooking again, he has joined me every single time, planted his little bottom on the tile like a good boy, and gave me all the moral support I could ever ask for. He smiles at me, and flashes me those pretty eyes while he does it, too. A girl could swoon.
Here's the other thing: he actually gets excited about the meal I serve up. He gives me the kind of kudos that Cory used to offer: physical affection in exchange for soup. I cook to make him happy and he lavishes on me the appreciation I crave. It's a beautiful thing. It reminds me a little of when Cory was sick, too, now that Gizmo is failing. There, I typed it. He's failing.
The only thing I can really do to make Gizmo's day is cook for him, and I love to. It very much reminds me of the steak dinner weekends when cooking for Cory was the only comfort I could provide. When in doubt...feed.
I'm having the worst time knowing Gizmo won't be with us much longer. I mean I get that he can't live forever; clocks stop. I just don't want to be the one. I really don't.
I don't want him to suffer, of course, but who am I to say that he is all done? What if what he really wants, if he could tell me, would be one more day...one more car ride, one more cheeseburger, one more bite of Mom's chili, or even the right to die at home surrounded by his humans and his friends, all his familiar smells?
I mean, we don't load the elderly up and take them to be put down because we don't want them to suffer. If Gizmo wants out of this, his goofy grin and tail that still wags hasn't convinced me yet. To be fair, he is losing weight, his little face shrinking a bit and his spine becoming more pronounced when I pick him up. But he's still Gizmo, and don't we all shrink as we age?
Hell, I don't know. I just can't be the one. Yet I'd have to be the one. You see? I can't be the one because I already feel like I sent Cory to her death on my stupid grocery store errand. I can't kill her and the dog, too. He looks at me the same way she used to: complete trust. But to the person out there that says, "Nicole, get a hold of yourself. If he reaches that point, you'll know and you have to do something", I say, I know, I know. And it couldn't be anyone else to take him there and hold him, either. It'd have to be me. I'm his human. I'd have it no other way.
What's Your Song?
Cory and I had that playlist on our I-tunes called "Beautiful". I've been listening to it for the last hour painting just one page after another, smiling, even though half the songs were played while she laid in her casket. They are beautiful songs, and I hope someone knows me and loves me well enough to play my favorite songs at my funeral.
That is all.
That is all.
More Stuff
And here I am, at the coffee shop once again.
I might as well have used a wheelbarrow to haul all my crap inside: Art journal, sketch journal, planner, writing journal, menu planner, budget planner (that one makes even me giggle out loud), laptop, 28 fountain pens with various inks, a dozen or so rolls of washi tape, all the stickers my younger self could ever have possibly desired, some stampers, ink pads, watercolor kit, and water brush. I nearly grabbed my carving tools, and decided to show some restraint...ha. One may think I have decided to just live here. And I kinda wish I could.
It's an escape here at my little table by the window. No one cares if I do indeed have clean hair today, but yesterday's eye makeup on, and I find I can hide really well under one of my many hats. I throw on some jeans and just run away from it all. In my Hunter boots. Of which I have twenty-six pair, because I am one)stupid and two)a hoarder...might as well get some use out of them. The only things I could manage to do successfully right after Cory died, and off and on since, are buying things and putting outfits together. And I did them as if they were my life's work. Now I have so much stuff, I can't even turn around. It hurts my brain. Declutter would be the obvious solution, especially since I've gained at least ten pounds since 2012 so half the shit doesn't even fit anymore- but tell that to someone who is severely depressed and she will just stare back at you blankly. Do what? Yeah, I'll get to that. I have dreams about swimming through my hallways in a hazmat suit right before they condemn my house for containing too many pairs of shoes, walkways made impassable.
I'll get on a self-care kick and decide to wear makeup again, buy like 12 lip glosses, and a week later, they're buried in a purse I hardly ever carry because I don't have the energy to change it out. I used to be one of those crazy broads who switched their purse out every night before work to match their outfit. I miss that girl sometimes, so I'll buy the purses, but they hang on their hooks, and I carry a Vera Bradley around till the handles look worn. What the hell?
Yes, I am aware that I sound whiny and lazy.
Depression is harder to fight than you might think. You can't just snap out of it. And if nothing else, my anxiety is going to give me back problems. Today, as I straggled through the cold rainy Sunday morning, with my tote bag, handbag, computer, and books, I felt every bit like that fifth grader that carried fourteen binders in 3 bags to school every day. Come to think of it, why did no one think that was strange? I probably should've been put on meds years ago.
The more anxious I am, the more I carry because anxiety seems to be the constant fear of not having enough of something. Carry it all, and your chances of being disappointed go down? I look at the people in my life who don't have anxiety and they are light travelers. My friend, Angie, sports around town with a purse the size of the ones I used to buy Cory for Easter when she was a little girl. What does she have in there? A debit card and some dental floss. Her worries scale down to being able to buy food and maintain good gum health. Wow. To be that girl. I can't even imagine.
She looks equally flabbergasted at some of the crap I pull out of my purse on a daily basis. I might bring every pen I own on one day and the next show up with the pink plastic baby they gave me at the Crisis Pregnancy Center when I was trying to decide what to do. Stuffed animals. Serapes. There's really no telling.
You see that I acknowledge the oddness of my behavior, but I can't seem to do a damn thing about it. I'm off the sauce for a minute and just as quickly I'm hunched over a pile of something, muttering to myself that it would be better to have one of every color. Safer, really.
The outcome is feeling very out of control when what you thought you were doing was a good thing...gathering for the next disaster, because if your child can die while you're making dinner, anything can happen and you must be prepared.
It's comical that I'm supposed to speak at one of the colleges again soon about mindfulness. Yeah, I have my art, but dude, I am no one to advise, I'm a fricking mess.
I might as well have used a wheelbarrow to haul all my crap inside: Art journal, sketch journal, planner, writing journal, menu planner, budget planner (that one makes even me giggle out loud), laptop, 28 fountain pens with various inks, a dozen or so rolls of washi tape, all the stickers my younger self could ever have possibly desired, some stampers, ink pads, watercolor kit, and water brush. I nearly grabbed my carving tools, and decided to show some restraint...ha. One may think I have decided to just live here. And I kinda wish I could.
It's an escape here at my little table by the window. No one cares if I do indeed have clean hair today, but yesterday's eye makeup on, and I find I can hide really well under one of my many hats. I throw on some jeans and just run away from it all. In my Hunter boots. Of which I have twenty-six pair, because I am one)stupid and two)a hoarder...might as well get some use out of them. The only things I could manage to do successfully right after Cory died, and off and on since, are buying things and putting outfits together. And I did them as if they were my life's work. Now I have so much stuff, I can't even turn around. It hurts my brain. Declutter would be the obvious solution, especially since I've gained at least ten pounds since 2012 so half the shit doesn't even fit anymore- but tell that to someone who is severely depressed and she will just stare back at you blankly. Do what? Yeah, I'll get to that. I have dreams about swimming through my hallways in a hazmat suit right before they condemn my house for containing too many pairs of shoes, walkways made impassable.
I'll get on a self-care kick and decide to wear makeup again, buy like 12 lip glosses, and a week later, they're buried in a purse I hardly ever carry because I don't have the energy to change it out. I used to be one of those crazy broads who switched their purse out every night before work to match their outfit. I miss that girl sometimes, so I'll buy the purses, but they hang on their hooks, and I carry a Vera Bradley around till the handles look worn. What the hell?
Yes, I am aware that I sound whiny and lazy.
Depression is harder to fight than you might think. You can't just snap out of it. And if nothing else, my anxiety is going to give me back problems. Today, as I straggled through the cold rainy Sunday morning, with my tote bag, handbag, computer, and books, I felt every bit like that fifth grader that carried fourteen binders in 3 bags to school every day. Come to think of it, why did no one think that was strange? I probably should've been put on meds years ago.
The more anxious I am, the more I carry because anxiety seems to be the constant fear of not having enough of something. Carry it all, and your chances of being disappointed go down? I look at the people in my life who don't have anxiety and they are light travelers. My friend, Angie, sports around town with a purse the size of the ones I used to buy Cory for Easter when she was a little girl. What does she have in there? A debit card and some dental floss. Her worries scale down to being able to buy food and maintain good gum health. Wow. To be that girl. I can't even imagine.
She looks equally flabbergasted at some of the crap I pull out of my purse on a daily basis. I might bring every pen I own on one day and the next show up with the pink plastic baby they gave me at the Crisis Pregnancy Center when I was trying to decide what to do. Stuffed animals. Serapes. There's really no telling.
You see that I acknowledge the oddness of my behavior, but I can't seem to do a damn thing about it. I'm off the sauce for a minute and just as quickly I'm hunched over a pile of something, muttering to myself that it would be better to have one of every color. Safer, really.
The outcome is feeling very out of control when what you thought you were doing was a good thing...gathering for the next disaster, because if your child can die while you're making dinner, anything can happen and you must be prepared.
It's comical that I'm supposed to speak at one of the colleges again soon about mindfulness. Yeah, I have my art, but dude, I am no one to advise, I'm a fricking mess.
Monday, September 28, 2015
Always, always, Cory Bird
Right after Cory was first diagnosed with Bi-Polar Disorder was tough. Going on meds helped, but also caused some confusion, I'm sure, for someone who was busy with the work of forming her identity. For a teenager with a mental illness, there is the daunting task of sorting out symptoms from personality traits: who am I really?
Tonight, I was going through old messages and found this facebook inbox message to Cory from 2009. I am so, so happy that I told her these things, that she saw them in print, and could go back and reread them if she wanted to or needed to, just like I did tonight. I am so grateful that she knew she was my world.
you will always be cory-girl to me
Tonight, I was going through old messages and found this facebook inbox message to Cory from 2009. I am so, so happy that I told her these things, that she saw them in print, and could go back and reread them if she wanted to or needed to, just like I did tonight. I am so grateful that she knew she was my world.
you will always be cory-girl to me
i know you must be feeling like a by-product of bi-polar at this point, like maybe your personality has been ground up, spit out, put through the milk and all that's left is the manually-separated parts like the chicken penis tacos they serve at work. I just wanted you to know that I will never think of you as my bi-polar daughter. You are Cory bird to me, with your freakishly small thumbs, your hauntingly beautiful green eyes, your smile that lights up your face and most times the room you're standing in. You are still the witty, smart, shy around large groups of people you don't know, good taste in music, learned how to accessorize and find your way around an outfit from your mother Cory girl. You are still my favorite person in the whole world to watch a movie with, go shopping with, grab a Frutista freeze with, hang around and do nothing with. I love that we get each other's humor and many times have made each other fall down laughing. And that is pure Cory-girl, no mania required. I love you and I'm always here for you
Tell Me Something
Jacob told me the other day that I am the best storyteller, so that's just what I did while we walked around the cemetery yesterday. We were out to see Cory, water her flowers, and take a little tour of the old section. While we walked, I told him the stories I'd written in the coffee shop that morning, one about wearing high heels to ninth grade and another about Bob saving (ahem) the day when us girls had thought someone was in the house. I had my quiet boy laughing out loud at each of them and it made me smile so much. Jacob shares himself with practically no one, which makes his laughter, expressions, and responses pure gold.
When we made our way back to Cory, we stood in front of her to say our goodbyes. Jacob told her he misses her and loves her so much. I asked him if there was something new happening that he wanted to tell his sister...that was part of this, too, to include her in his life now, however he could. He stood there, contemplating, and then offered up to her headstone, with the smallest of smiles, "I'm in eighth grade now."
My heart broke again right there on the spot. My babies.
When we made our way back to Cory, we stood in front of her to say our goodbyes. Jacob told her he misses her and loves her so much. I asked him if there was something new happening that he wanted to tell his sister...that was part of this, too, to include her in his life now, however he could. He stood there, contemplating, and then offered up to her headstone, with the smallest of smiles, "I'm in eighth grade now."
My heart broke again right there on the spot. My babies.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Our Amityville Moment
I laughed out loud driving down the highway today thinking about one particular night with Cory and her father.
Cory had been sick for a little while by then- hearing voices and seeing some pretty creepy things. One night while Jake was at Tim's, the two of us went to a scary movie and then let ourselves into a dark, empty creepy ass house. It wasn't long before we both started to hear a mysterious groaning sound coming from the basement. We both heard it. I couldn't decide if I'd finally snapped under the stress of Cory's mental illness or what.
It really sounded like someone or something not quite human was in the basement. My first thought was that teenage boys had broke into the house and were trying to scare us- you know, because that happens so often. I was on the phone to Bob in less than two minutes, all, "Babe, I think someone's in the house!"
Calmly, from his non-creepy place across town, he says, "Then call the police."
"But I'm not sure. Oh my God, what IS that sound?" I was at that scalp-shrinking stage of fear and Cory was practically climbing on top of me in her fear.
"Oh my Gawd!!" he said, exasperated. "You girls are so silly! I'm on my way over."
It may have been the longest twenty minutes ever. Our hero burst in the door and cocked his head to listen. Sure enough, that creepy howling drive-you-out-of-the-house, don't-take-a-thing-just-leave-this-very-moment piped up right on cue. It was an Amityville Horror moment.
Bob froze to the spot. "Oh my God!"
"SEE?!!" we responded. "What the hell IS that?"
"Nick, I don't know." he answered, moving farther into the house and well away from the stairwell.
The three of us stood in the living room, listening to the sounds coming up through the vents, no one making a move, and each of us fearing that something was on its way up the stairs to find us.
I jabbed him in the stomach. "Babe, go down there!"
He looked at me nakedly. "Uh...I'm not going down there."
Cory and I burst into nervous laughter. Was this man for real? Why did he come over, just to loan us the emotional support of being scared shitless with us?
I can still see his eyes, every bit as wide as Cory's and it just cracks me up. This was the man I once slept in the hallway outside of an apartment with because he wouldn't kill a bat.
After much discussion, he went outside to take a manly look around the premises. He returned a few minutes later, his chest all puffed out to have solved the mystery.
There was a beagle puppy loose in the neighborhood, and it had holed up next to our basement window, howling for its owners. Somehow the sound had funneled through our drainage pipes or something and turned into the most inhuman utterances heard outside of a horror film.
He tried his best to just gloss over the fact that he wouldn't go downstairs and face the music, but Cory and I ribbed him to the dogs and back for like two weeks straight.
How this memory makes me smile. There were good times. Such good times.
Cory had been sick for a little while by then- hearing voices and seeing some pretty creepy things. One night while Jake was at Tim's, the two of us went to a scary movie and then let ourselves into a dark, empty creepy ass house. It wasn't long before we both started to hear a mysterious groaning sound coming from the basement. We both heard it. I couldn't decide if I'd finally snapped under the stress of Cory's mental illness or what.
It really sounded like someone or something not quite human was in the basement. My first thought was that teenage boys had broke into the house and were trying to scare us- you know, because that happens so often. I was on the phone to Bob in less than two minutes, all, "Babe, I think someone's in the house!"
Calmly, from his non-creepy place across town, he says, "Then call the police."
"But I'm not sure. Oh my God, what IS that sound?" I was at that scalp-shrinking stage of fear and Cory was practically climbing on top of me in her fear.
"Oh my Gawd!!" he said, exasperated. "You girls are so silly! I'm on my way over."
It may have been the longest twenty minutes ever. Our hero burst in the door and cocked his head to listen. Sure enough, that creepy howling drive-you-out-of-the-house, don't-take-a-thing-just-leave-this-very-moment piped up right on cue. It was an Amityville Horror moment.
Bob froze to the spot. "Oh my God!"
"SEE?!!" we responded. "What the hell IS that?"
"Nick, I don't know." he answered, moving farther into the house and well away from the stairwell.
The three of us stood in the living room, listening to the sounds coming up through the vents, no one making a move, and each of us fearing that something was on its way up the stairs to find us.
I jabbed him in the stomach. "Babe, go down there!"
He looked at me nakedly. "Uh...I'm not going down there."
Cory and I burst into nervous laughter. Was this man for real? Why did he come over, just to loan us the emotional support of being scared shitless with us?
I can still see his eyes, every bit as wide as Cory's and it just cracks me up. This was the man I once slept in the hallway outside of an apartment with because he wouldn't kill a bat.
After much discussion, he went outside to take a manly look around the premises. He returned a few minutes later, his chest all puffed out to have solved the mystery.
There was a beagle puppy loose in the neighborhood, and it had holed up next to our basement window, howling for its owners. Somehow the sound had funneled through our drainage pipes or something and turned into the most inhuman utterances heard outside of a horror film.
He tried his best to just gloss over the fact that he wouldn't go downstairs and face the music, but Cory and I ribbed him to the dogs and back for like two weeks straight.
How this memory makes me smile. There were good times. Such good times.
The Clunkers
All the kids' homecoming pictures were up on facebook this weekend, and I'm looking at them, like, really? How do these children look so grown up, so cool, so attractive? Where is the gawky phase for this generation? I mean the really scary, as Cory would say "not quite human", gawky phase...do they skip it?
I saw a picture of a friend's daughter on my news feed, and I really just couldn't get over it. The girl was in heels and something adorably modest, but shoulder baring, and she looked so put together, confident, and just gorgeous...and she's 14! At 14, I could not have carried myself that way at gunpoint. Kudos to you, beautiful teenager's mother, for raising a girl so confident and at ease with herself.
Now let me share the story that came to mind of my troubled, awkward past. Ninth grade...are you ready?
In ninth grade, my best friend, Nicole and I, were not cool. I know this hard for you to imagine. We were funny only to ourselves and pretty much invisible to the opposite sex. We were devoid of breast tissue, fashion sense, and that altogether most important boy-getting factor: confidence.
We were so behind the times, that while everyone else was going to Bon Jovi concerts, we were busy worshipping our private heros: George Michael and an unknown male dancer on Dance Party USA that wore shades anytime he was in public. Yes, we were those girls.
Well, one day, Nicole and I decided to really show Northwestern Jr. High just how grown up and desirable we were by wearing high heels to school. This may be the first example of the truly atrocious judgment calls I have been known to make in my lifetime.
First, let's discuss the shoes. They were basic pumps with a mid-sized heel, summer white. That should tell it all right there. How far off the mark were we if we thought we were going to seduce middle school boys with shoes suitable for an aging pastor's wife? I smile at our innocence.
If I remember correctly, we tricked those puppies out with some mid-calf denim prairie skirts (one of which had a racy inch of eyelet all around the hem), and prepared to stop traffic. I really want this to be one of those feel-good stories like when Sissy Spacek in the original Carrie turned out to be really beautiful at the prom right before the bucket fell, but...sadly...no.
We showed up feeling super sexy and it lasted all of two minutes. As good as we might have imagined that we looked in those shoes, we had not thought about the fact that we still had to walk in them...in front of everyone: in front of the boys we thought were cute, in front of the girls we wished we could be like, in front of teachers who could not hide their pity.
And they clunked. Those mid-sized heels were chunky, heavy, and louder than thunder. Picture Nicole and I, a couple of skinny girls clomping down the hallways of Northwestern like Clydesdales. The faces of the crowd were first confused and then either disgusted or condescending. Grins were hid behind hands and open laughter was heard. Oh, God, the horror! To this day, I shudder. The more we tried to shrink from the crowd, the more attention we drew with each clumsy, uncoordinated footfall. My face didn't stop burning for six hours.
To this day, I do not know why we didn't think to just go home sick. The humiliation was all encompassing. It may have been years before I wore heels again in public. I still dream about that day sometimes. This single experience was the reason I spent good, quality time coaching Cory on how to walk in heels, and talked to her extensively about confidence. No one should have to go through what I went through.
I finally did get some confidence by the way. One item of clothing was responsible, and it wasn't shoes. In tenth grade, I had no better body than I'd had the year before, but I did procure a certain above-the-knee denim jean skirt with a zippered flounced ruffle that shook prettily when I walked. It was magic. My ass might still have been two inches wide, but in that skirt you wouldn't know it. It was the first time I remember feeling attractive in the body that I had. And wouldn't you know, feeling good enough was the only thing I ever really needed in the first place? People noticed.
If I could go back to junior high and high school with the confidence I have now, I think I could get Nicole and I in a lot of trouble. And perhaps that is why we were late bloomers in the first place.
I saw a picture of a friend's daughter on my news feed, and I really just couldn't get over it. The girl was in heels and something adorably modest, but shoulder baring, and she looked so put together, confident, and just gorgeous...and she's 14! At 14, I could not have carried myself that way at gunpoint. Kudos to you, beautiful teenager's mother, for raising a girl so confident and at ease with herself.
Now let me share the story that came to mind of my troubled, awkward past. Ninth grade...are you ready?
In ninth grade, my best friend, Nicole and I, were not cool. I know this hard for you to imagine. We were funny only to ourselves and pretty much invisible to the opposite sex. We were devoid of breast tissue, fashion sense, and that altogether most important boy-getting factor: confidence.
We were so behind the times, that while everyone else was going to Bon Jovi concerts, we were busy worshipping our private heros: George Michael and an unknown male dancer on Dance Party USA that wore shades anytime he was in public. Yes, we were those girls.
Well, one day, Nicole and I decided to really show Northwestern Jr. High just how grown up and desirable we were by wearing high heels to school. This may be the first example of the truly atrocious judgment calls I have been known to make in my lifetime.
First, let's discuss the shoes. They were basic pumps with a mid-sized heel, summer white. That should tell it all right there. How far off the mark were we if we thought we were going to seduce middle school boys with shoes suitable for an aging pastor's wife? I smile at our innocence.
If I remember correctly, we tricked those puppies out with some mid-calf denim prairie skirts (one of which had a racy inch of eyelet all around the hem), and prepared to stop traffic. I really want this to be one of those feel-good stories like when Sissy Spacek in the original Carrie turned out to be really beautiful at the prom right before the bucket fell, but...sadly...no.
We showed up feeling super sexy and it lasted all of two minutes. As good as we might have imagined that we looked in those shoes, we had not thought about the fact that we still had to walk in them...in front of everyone: in front of the boys we thought were cute, in front of the girls we wished we could be like, in front of teachers who could not hide their pity.
And they clunked. Those mid-sized heels were chunky, heavy, and louder than thunder. Picture Nicole and I, a couple of skinny girls clomping down the hallways of Northwestern like Clydesdales. The faces of the crowd were first confused and then either disgusted or condescending. Grins were hid behind hands and open laughter was heard. Oh, God, the horror! To this day, I shudder. The more we tried to shrink from the crowd, the more attention we drew with each clumsy, uncoordinated footfall. My face didn't stop burning for six hours.
To this day, I do not know why we didn't think to just go home sick. The humiliation was all encompassing. It may have been years before I wore heels again in public. I still dream about that day sometimes. This single experience was the reason I spent good, quality time coaching Cory on how to walk in heels, and talked to her extensively about confidence. No one should have to go through what I went through.
I finally did get some confidence by the way. One item of clothing was responsible, and it wasn't shoes. In tenth grade, I had no better body than I'd had the year before, but I did procure a certain above-the-knee denim jean skirt with a zippered flounced ruffle that shook prettily when I walked. It was magic. My ass might still have been two inches wide, but in that skirt you wouldn't know it. It was the first time I remember feeling attractive in the body that I had. And wouldn't you know, feeling good enough was the only thing I ever really needed in the first place? People noticed.
If I could go back to junior high and high school with the confidence I have now, I think I could get Nicole and I in a lot of trouble. And perhaps that is why we were late bloomers in the first place.
Wednesday, September 23, 2015
The Tide Is In
It swallows me whole. It fills the world. Everything goes black, and I can't see an inch in front of me.
Tuesday, September 15, 2015
More Stand Stills
The moments of connecting come just as randomly as the triggers. Here's two in as many days:
I drew a sketch of Cory in my Hobonichi the other day and water colored it, hoping like mad it captured something of her likeness. Although art has kept me alive these last couple of years, I rarely attempt to draw her, afraid of failing and somehow not keeping her image alive. I surveyed it...certainly not a realistic, photo-perfect rendering, but something around the eyes and mouth said Cory-Girl to me. I finally decided, her cheeks needed a little color, and in an effort not to go overboard, dipped my fingertip into the wet paint and dabbed it onto her cheeks on the paper. In that instant, I experienced the oddest sensation of doing her makeup one more time. It was bittersweet, poignant, and full.
And today, a memory came up on my Facebook feed: a picture of Cory and I cozied up in a booth, ,just talking and waiting to order some dinner. I ate that picture up with my eyes: her hands, the set of her shoulder, her head tilted right into mine. It was a posture that spoke of love, safety, and having a confidante. I lived to be her rock, and that picture tells me I succeeded. I want to memorize the way she held herself, burn every image of her into my brain so that we will always, always be together.
I drew a sketch of Cory in my Hobonichi the other day and water colored it, hoping like mad it captured something of her likeness. Although art has kept me alive these last couple of years, I rarely attempt to draw her, afraid of failing and somehow not keeping her image alive. I surveyed it...certainly not a realistic, photo-perfect rendering, but something around the eyes and mouth said Cory-Girl to me. I finally decided, her cheeks needed a little color, and in an effort not to go overboard, dipped my fingertip into the wet paint and dabbed it onto her cheeks on the paper. In that instant, I experienced the oddest sensation of doing her makeup one more time. It was bittersweet, poignant, and full.
And today, a memory came up on my Facebook feed: a picture of Cory and I cozied up in a booth, ,just talking and waiting to order some dinner. I ate that picture up with my eyes: her hands, the set of her shoulder, her head tilted right into mine. It was a posture that spoke of love, safety, and having a confidante. I lived to be her rock, and that picture tells me I succeeded. I want to memorize the way she held herself, burn every image of her into my brain so that we will always, always be together.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
Memory Lane
This insomnia can be a time machine and in these last few early morning hours, I've been transported back to sitting on my kitchen floor after being sent away from the scene.
It was involuntary to camp out on my ceramic tile. When you've just been told your child is dead, your legs quite literally give way. But at the same time, I could not be coaxed to come into the living room and sit on the couch or in a chair near the family members that had been arriving in a steady stream since the news had spread. For one, I couldn't stand to meet anyone's eyes. I was still holding out hope that this whole thing was a nightmare, and seeing the pain, sympathy, and horror in someone's gaze would surely rip that possibility away. So I avoided.
Secondly, I had begun, in between the constant reel of the last hour's events and the ricochet images (her fallen body splayed, legs dirty, twisted arm, and blue lips) to piece together the fact that I was responsible for her death. I wanted to face no one with this knowledge, and especially not my mother. What must she think of me now? I was not able to raise children. I let Cory get hurt. I let her get killed!
And lastly, although I could not for the life of me feel the cabinets below the sink behind my back, I was searching for that grounding feeling of something solid against my flesh...something that did not yield, something to stop this incredibly uncomfortable feeling of mental vertigo. The kitchen floor would have to do.
So I sat there and heard "I'm sorry, ma'am, she is gone. I'm sorry, ma'am, she is gone. I'm sorry, ma'am, she is gone..." over and over again until I thought I'd lose my mind.
I can't remember if I cried while I sat there. I know my insides were turned up to a million miles an hour, panic being my number one recognizable feeling. DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!
It seems to me that I didn't cry enough...that inside I was sobbing my heart out over my sweet girl, her posture, her walk, her voice, her smile, but on the outside, my face resembled a stone statue, hard and dry and devoid of emotion. This made me feel like a monster, and I remember relaxing for a split second, suddenly certain I would wake up from this atrocious nightmare. If it were real, I'd be bawling my head off. But then something happened that was indisputable. The officer in charge and the medical examiner paid a visit to my kitchen and in the words that were passed, much of which I can't remember, one of them handed me her wallet and her phone. Her personal effects.
Was it then that I stumbled to the bathroom to throw up? I'm not sure, but I remember being on my knees in front of the toilet retching and seeing colors, finally gaining my feet and hitting myself in the head a couple good ones. Stupid! Stupid! What were you thinking?!! You should never have let her walk to the store!
All those times of locking up the sharps and the meds, taking her to the e.r., making sure she'd taken her meds- they all went up in smoke in front of one lady in a hurry to get home. I had tried so hard and somehow ended up there on the kitchen floor, staring at my tiles realizing perhaps I should mop my floor but not really able to figure out how one goes about doing that. So I just sat and waited for someone to tell me this wasn't really happening. Of course, they never did. Eventually, I had to get to my feet and go somewhere else. And I did. I did. I planned her funeral and when it was over, I wished for death, but somehow remained and put one foot in front of the other.
I've hated most every moment of it, and although sometimes, I think I've made a little progress, there are nights and mornings like this one to put me right back on that kitchen floor, freaking the fuck out. This can't be happening. It just can't be.
Oh, how I wish this could just be a three year long nightmare and I could just wake up.
It was involuntary to camp out on my ceramic tile. When you've just been told your child is dead, your legs quite literally give way. But at the same time, I could not be coaxed to come into the living room and sit on the couch or in a chair near the family members that had been arriving in a steady stream since the news had spread. For one, I couldn't stand to meet anyone's eyes. I was still holding out hope that this whole thing was a nightmare, and seeing the pain, sympathy, and horror in someone's gaze would surely rip that possibility away. So I avoided.
Secondly, I had begun, in between the constant reel of the last hour's events and the ricochet images (her fallen body splayed, legs dirty, twisted arm, and blue lips) to piece together the fact that I was responsible for her death. I wanted to face no one with this knowledge, and especially not my mother. What must she think of me now? I was not able to raise children. I let Cory get hurt. I let her get killed!
And lastly, although I could not for the life of me feel the cabinets below the sink behind my back, I was searching for that grounding feeling of something solid against my flesh...something that did not yield, something to stop this incredibly uncomfortable feeling of mental vertigo. The kitchen floor would have to do.
So I sat there and heard "I'm sorry, ma'am, she is gone. I'm sorry, ma'am, she is gone. I'm sorry, ma'am, she is gone..." over and over again until I thought I'd lose my mind.
I can't remember if I cried while I sat there. I know my insides were turned up to a million miles an hour, panic being my number one recognizable feeling. DANGER! DANGER! DANGER!
It seems to me that I didn't cry enough...that inside I was sobbing my heart out over my sweet girl, her posture, her walk, her voice, her smile, but on the outside, my face resembled a stone statue, hard and dry and devoid of emotion. This made me feel like a monster, and I remember relaxing for a split second, suddenly certain I would wake up from this atrocious nightmare. If it were real, I'd be bawling my head off. But then something happened that was indisputable. The officer in charge and the medical examiner paid a visit to my kitchen and in the words that were passed, much of which I can't remember, one of them handed me her wallet and her phone. Her personal effects.
Was it then that I stumbled to the bathroom to throw up? I'm not sure, but I remember being on my knees in front of the toilet retching and seeing colors, finally gaining my feet and hitting myself in the head a couple good ones. Stupid! Stupid! What were you thinking?!! You should never have let her walk to the store!
All those times of locking up the sharps and the meds, taking her to the e.r., making sure she'd taken her meds- they all went up in smoke in front of one lady in a hurry to get home. I had tried so hard and somehow ended up there on the kitchen floor, staring at my tiles realizing perhaps I should mop my floor but not really able to figure out how one goes about doing that. So I just sat and waited for someone to tell me this wasn't really happening. Of course, they never did. Eventually, I had to get to my feet and go somewhere else. And I did. I did. I planned her funeral and when it was over, I wished for death, but somehow remained and put one foot in front of the other.
I've hated most every moment of it, and although sometimes, I think I've made a little progress, there are nights and mornings like this one to put me right back on that kitchen floor, freaking the fuck out. This can't be happening. It just can't be.
Oh, how I wish this could just be a three year long nightmare and I could just wake up.
Wednesday, September 9, 2015
Going Back
I get that I sound like a broken record. That's what grief is, after all. It just goes on...as long as you do.
I just ordered my new Hobonichi journals for the coming year, and spent some time looking back through the last year so far in my old ones. I notice a definitive lightening in my artwork. There are still grim days, but there are also some smiles and pictures of cats nesting in colorful handbags. Lady, my therapist, used to say that trauma gave you the narrowest of all possible world views- the only thing you could see or think about was the incident. And then, over time, your view widens a bit, and a bit more. Eventually, you realize Anne Frank was right, "there is still beauty to be seen".
However, there are still horrors, too. Do not be fooled by the Susie Sunshines of the world. They lie.
I pulled in McDonald's the other day to get a Large Coke, extra ice, and passed directly by a parked ambulance. I could've reached my arm out the window and touched it. It was the closest I've physically been to a rescue vehicle since the accident. My reaction was instantaneous, and alarming. I bent at the waist like someone with whiplash and gagged, suddenly certain I was going to dump my lunch into my lap, just like that.
A vehicle. Just a vehicle. Not even the same one, I'm sure. But there it was...parked in the McDonald's on the side of West Fricking Michigan Avenue, sure and right in its presence to be there helping to save lives. I couldn't look at it anymore, just sort of mentally mean-mugged it, and fought with my gorge.
Within seconds of seeing that stupid ambulance, I'd also been forced to stand again on the hot pavement, screaming and craning to see her face, desperate to know she was okay, out of my mind with worry, waiting to get in the ambulance with her and go to the hospital where she would be made well because that is what is done. They show it on tv and in the movies all the time. The heroine survives.
The unfairness that it did not go that way just overwhelms me. It fills my soul with a bitter, black gall that coats everything I see. Nothing can be good in a world without my CoryGirl. You must know what? Surely, I've told you what she meant to me, and you've heard enough stories by now to wish you'd met her and known her, too.
Occasionally, during these flashbacks and for some time after, I go back to tunnel vision. Just me and some strangers by the side of the road with my girl who was already dead when I got there. Already dead. I shake my head, bow it in defeat, and nothing changes. Is it really so strange to feel I am being punished?
Better luck to you, your child, and your ambulance, should you ever need one.
I just ordered my new Hobonichi journals for the coming year, and spent some time looking back through the last year so far in my old ones. I notice a definitive lightening in my artwork. There are still grim days, but there are also some smiles and pictures of cats nesting in colorful handbags. Lady, my therapist, used to say that trauma gave you the narrowest of all possible world views- the only thing you could see or think about was the incident. And then, over time, your view widens a bit, and a bit more. Eventually, you realize Anne Frank was right, "there is still beauty to be seen".
However, there are still horrors, too. Do not be fooled by the Susie Sunshines of the world. They lie.
I pulled in McDonald's the other day to get a Large Coke, extra ice, and passed directly by a parked ambulance. I could've reached my arm out the window and touched it. It was the closest I've physically been to a rescue vehicle since the accident. My reaction was instantaneous, and alarming. I bent at the waist like someone with whiplash and gagged, suddenly certain I was going to dump my lunch into my lap, just like that.
A vehicle. Just a vehicle. Not even the same one, I'm sure. But there it was...parked in the McDonald's on the side of West Fricking Michigan Avenue, sure and right in its presence to be there helping to save lives. I couldn't look at it anymore, just sort of mentally mean-mugged it, and fought with my gorge.
Within seconds of seeing that stupid ambulance, I'd also been forced to stand again on the hot pavement, screaming and craning to see her face, desperate to know she was okay, out of my mind with worry, waiting to get in the ambulance with her and go to the hospital where she would be made well because that is what is done. They show it on tv and in the movies all the time. The heroine survives.
The unfairness that it did not go that way just overwhelms me. It fills my soul with a bitter, black gall that coats everything I see. Nothing can be good in a world without my CoryGirl. You must know what? Surely, I've told you what she meant to me, and you've heard enough stories by now to wish you'd met her and known her, too.
Occasionally, during these flashbacks and for some time after, I go back to tunnel vision. Just me and some strangers by the side of the road with my girl who was already dead when I got there. Already dead. I shake my head, bow it in defeat, and nothing changes. Is it really so strange to feel I am being punished?
Better luck to you, your child, and your ambulance, should you ever need one.
Tuesday, September 8, 2015
Back To School
I spent five hundred dollars on Cory's kindergarten wardrobe, and this was back in 1998! Tim tried to weigh in, and discovered there would be no cutting corners for my girl- yes, she needed five different pair of shoes! What were we, barbarians? We stuffed her backpack full of so many school supplies, she nearly tipped over when she walked away. Most of them came home with a note from her teacher saying she really didn't need quite everything. I have to smile now, she might as well have added a line suggesting I get evaluated for an anxiety disorder and watch myself as I edged ever closer to the hoarder I might someday become. All I knew is that after years of making do with dollar store treasures, my girl would have whatever she needed...as if any of that could be bought and paid for, and stuffed inside a backpack. Silly twenty-four year old me.
I see I fared no better when stuffing her casket to the brim with her special things and outfitting her with all the brand new pretties. She needed none of it, of course, but it brought me so much joy to provide for her. It always has.
Love you, Baby Girl.
I see I fared no better when stuffing her casket to the brim with her special things and outfitting her with all the brand new pretties. She needed none of it, of course, but it brought me so much joy to provide for her. It always has.
Love you, Baby Girl.
Friday, September 4, 2015
Brain Matter(s)
School has almost started, and in Head Start land, the beginning of school means many in-service trainings for staff. I presented about Conscious Discipline, which is a social-emotional curriculum that focuses on the connection between brain state and behavior.
When I train, I always try to tell stories and give personal examples to illustrate points. I sort of stumped myself as I tried to give examples of survival state- fight, flight, or freeze. The flight part was a piece of cake; I simply shared how I chucked my cellphone at Angie's head and took off running barefoot down the highway when that horrible woman from the driver's insurance company told me over the phone that I needed to accept that Cory's death was no accident.
But fight? I'm no fighter. Freeze? When have I ever done that? I am a well-accomplished flee-er.
So I thought about these other brain stem behaviors for a couple days, and realized I actually have done them, I just didn't realize it.
Let's start with fight. I remember being in the car with my sister and mom a couple days after the accident, my hardcover journal (i.e. funeral planner) in my lap, trying to tune out their voices that pursued every detail of the plan to plant my daughter in the ground. Everyone was upset. Things were beyond tense. At one point, an argument ensued between my mom and sister, and in response to the raised voices and hammering home of the fact that Cory was indeed laying on a slab somewhere, lifeless, I simply picked up that heavy hardcover book and began to beat myself in the face and head with it. Fight.
The possible fight reaction is the reason I won't drive by the driver's house, just to see what it looks like...to see if the exterior of her house gives away any sense of personal responsibility, guilt, or poor mental health. Is her life falling apart the way mine is? Do her surroundings give away her inability to organize or care for herself? Is she suffering? Is she?!
No, I won't even drive by because I would surely be tempted to stop and knock, and if she were right in front of my face- the woman who side-swiped my girl, caving in her head and breaking her little body: neck, arm, hips, I don't think my hands would be able to stop themselves. My pre-frontal lobe would be on vacation, and I'd have a nice long time in prison later to wish I'd never sought her out. I don't want- as a Hispanic friend of mine who speaks English as her second language says- to ever "regret myself" that way.
So then- freeze? When have I ever frozen? This one was a toughie. All I could remember doing in brain stem situations like being choked up against a wall or chased through the house at knife point was running.
Finally, days later, in the shower, it hit me.
At the road side, the bystanders held me back and I didn't fight them. I have hated myself for this for three years. Night and day. Obsessively. HOW could I not go to my baby? Touch her? Feel the warmth beginning to flee from her body? Provide her the thin or even imaginary comfort of my hand on her face, her precious, precious face?
Let me tell you how. My brain wouldn't give the order to my feet. I was frozen to the spot. I never had the chance to think how I would feel about it later on; it just was.
I'm not a bad person. I'm not a bad mother. How about that? I was just in the lowest part of my brain, surviving the scariest thing that has ever happened to me- and that wasn't the possibility I would be hurt or killed, it was that my child might be.
Isn't it funny how long it takes until some things click? No one can tell them to you; you have to come to them on your own, in your own time. So now, in my "reason and logic" pre-frontal part of my brain, I forgive myself for freezing beside the road, for not fighting tooth and nail to get to her side. I forgive myself for that part.
Baby steps.
When I train, I always try to tell stories and give personal examples to illustrate points. I sort of stumped myself as I tried to give examples of survival state- fight, flight, or freeze. The flight part was a piece of cake; I simply shared how I chucked my cellphone at Angie's head and took off running barefoot down the highway when that horrible woman from the driver's insurance company told me over the phone that I needed to accept that Cory's death was no accident.
But fight? I'm no fighter. Freeze? When have I ever done that? I am a well-accomplished flee-er.
So I thought about these other brain stem behaviors for a couple days, and realized I actually have done them, I just didn't realize it.
Let's start with fight. I remember being in the car with my sister and mom a couple days after the accident, my hardcover journal (i.e. funeral planner) in my lap, trying to tune out their voices that pursued every detail of the plan to plant my daughter in the ground. Everyone was upset. Things were beyond tense. At one point, an argument ensued between my mom and sister, and in response to the raised voices and hammering home of the fact that Cory was indeed laying on a slab somewhere, lifeless, I simply picked up that heavy hardcover book and began to beat myself in the face and head with it. Fight.
The possible fight reaction is the reason I won't drive by the driver's house, just to see what it looks like...to see if the exterior of her house gives away any sense of personal responsibility, guilt, or poor mental health. Is her life falling apart the way mine is? Do her surroundings give away her inability to organize or care for herself? Is she suffering? Is she?!
No, I won't even drive by because I would surely be tempted to stop and knock, and if she were right in front of my face- the woman who side-swiped my girl, caving in her head and breaking her little body: neck, arm, hips, I don't think my hands would be able to stop themselves. My pre-frontal lobe would be on vacation, and I'd have a nice long time in prison later to wish I'd never sought her out. I don't want- as a Hispanic friend of mine who speaks English as her second language says- to ever "regret myself" that way.
So then- freeze? When have I ever frozen? This one was a toughie. All I could remember doing in brain stem situations like being choked up against a wall or chased through the house at knife point was running.
Finally, days later, in the shower, it hit me.
At the road side, the bystanders held me back and I didn't fight them. I have hated myself for this for three years. Night and day. Obsessively. HOW could I not go to my baby? Touch her? Feel the warmth beginning to flee from her body? Provide her the thin or even imaginary comfort of my hand on her face, her precious, precious face?
Let me tell you how. My brain wouldn't give the order to my feet. I was frozen to the spot. I never had the chance to think how I would feel about it later on; it just was.
I'm not a bad person. I'm not a bad mother. How about that? I was just in the lowest part of my brain, surviving the scariest thing that has ever happened to me- and that wasn't the possibility I would be hurt or killed, it was that my child might be.
Isn't it funny how long it takes until some things click? No one can tell them to you; you have to come to them on your own, in your own time. So now, in my "reason and logic" pre-frontal part of my brain, I forgive myself for freezing beside the road, for not fighting tooth and nail to get to her side. I forgive myself for that part.
Baby steps.
Tuesday, September 1, 2015
When All Else Fails
When all else fails, there is ice cream.
I just remembered ice cream tonight...you know, that it is available to buy in stores and can be served at home. Sure, we've had our share of milkshakes and flurries through the drive-thru, but I haven't bought ice cream in a grocery store since Cory died.
Moosetracks! All of a sudden, it struck me, and I jumped in the car to get a half-gallon at Family Fare. I came home and scooped it with our blue ice cream scooper that's been on hiatus for the last three years. I put it in a coffee mug and added a splash of milk, the way we always did.
How could I have forgotten about ice cream? And did I forget, or was this another way to punish myself for failing her? And shame on me if it was the latter, because Jacob has suffered the same dismal absence of ice cream in his household for the last three years, right along with me. He didn't do anything but wait on the lawn.
Maybe it reminded me too much of our movie nights and "shows" watched back to back after dinner.
Whatever the reason, I scooped it with a heavy hand tonight. To hell with the extra calories, it could be worse, right? It could be cocaine or meth or heroin.
I just remembered ice cream tonight...you know, that it is available to buy in stores and can be served at home. Sure, we've had our share of milkshakes and flurries through the drive-thru, but I haven't bought ice cream in a grocery store since Cory died.
Moosetracks! All of a sudden, it struck me, and I jumped in the car to get a half-gallon at Family Fare. I came home and scooped it with our blue ice cream scooper that's been on hiatus for the last three years. I put it in a coffee mug and added a splash of milk, the way we always did.
How could I have forgotten about ice cream? And did I forget, or was this another way to punish myself for failing her? And shame on me if it was the latter, because Jacob has suffered the same dismal absence of ice cream in his household for the last three years, right along with me. He didn't do anything but wait on the lawn.
Maybe it reminded me too much of our movie nights and "shows" watched back to back after dinner.
Whatever the reason, I scooped it with a heavy hand tonight. To hell with the extra calories, it could be worse, right? It could be cocaine or meth or heroin.
A Day in Her Shoes
Lately, I've been wearing her shoes.
It started as a good luck thing for a public speaking thing, but I've kept wearing them right along the last couple of weeks or so.
And as I do, I think about what it was like to walk in her shoes. I think about her forgiving nature, about her bravery with her mental illness, and I try to be more like her. She was admirable.
She rounds my corners. I'll admit it; I like nothing more than a good nattering of gossip. Cory would go along for quite at awhile, but the older she got, the less she was okay with talking behind someone's back or just being blatantly mean.
So, that said, she tempers my anger. And I have quite a lot. Most days, I feel robbed of what other parents take for granted: the culmination of a childhood, the transition to adulthood, the passing of the torch to the next family- your child's features on a baby's face and your prize winning holiday recipe intact.
I know every parent that loses a child goes through some testing of their faith or question of faith, at the least. And, buddy, I have questions. He (if there is a He) couldn't salvage this meek girl who struggled but still turned away from gossip because it wasn't kind? He could spare so many others who blatantly bent his rules? Restart their hearts? Make them walk again?
I know this tragedy has my mother asking questions. My dad asks none. He has that sort of firm, blind faith that says God knows better than man, and he must have had good reason, Amen.
Mom wants to know, "Why my grandbaby? Why couldn't she be spared?" And I respect them both in different ways. I respect my father for having the sort of blind faith that can survive such a heart wrenching disaster. At the same time, I equally respect my mother for continuing to follow her faith, but expecting answers when this whole sad mess is over. There will be a conversation.
And me? I may never believe. Part of me wants to believe Cory is in heaven, while another part sees her such as she was, spread out on the road for any passerby-er to see...and what sort of God would allow that to happen to a girl that hurt no one, and struggled everyday for a normal life and any sort of peace?
Beats the hell out of me.
It started as a good luck thing for a public speaking thing, but I've kept wearing them right along the last couple of weeks or so.
And as I do, I think about what it was like to walk in her shoes. I think about her forgiving nature, about her bravery with her mental illness, and I try to be more like her. She was admirable.
She rounds my corners. I'll admit it; I like nothing more than a good nattering of gossip. Cory would go along for quite at awhile, but the older she got, the less she was okay with talking behind someone's back or just being blatantly mean.
So, that said, she tempers my anger. And I have quite a lot. Most days, I feel robbed of what other parents take for granted: the culmination of a childhood, the transition to adulthood, the passing of the torch to the next family- your child's features on a baby's face and your prize winning holiday recipe intact.
I know every parent that loses a child goes through some testing of their faith or question of faith, at the least. And, buddy, I have questions. He (if there is a He) couldn't salvage this meek girl who struggled but still turned away from gossip because it wasn't kind? He could spare so many others who blatantly bent his rules? Restart their hearts? Make them walk again?
I know this tragedy has my mother asking questions. My dad asks none. He has that sort of firm, blind faith that says God knows better than man, and he must have had good reason, Amen.
Mom wants to know, "Why my grandbaby? Why couldn't she be spared?" And I respect them both in different ways. I respect my father for having the sort of blind faith that can survive such a heart wrenching disaster. At the same time, I equally respect my mother for continuing to follow her faith, but expecting answers when this whole sad mess is over. There will be a conversation.
And me? I may never believe. Part of me wants to believe Cory is in heaven, while another part sees her such as she was, spread out on the road for any passerby-er to see...and what sort of God would allow that to happen to a girl that hurt no one, and struggled everyday for a normal life and any sort of peace?
Beats the hell out of me.
Sunday, August 30, 2015
Little Brother
Jake and I went to see her at the cemetery tonight. We got out and stood in front of her monument, our conversation quieted to whispers in this special place. Jacob would no more goof around in a cemetery than he would streak naked down the street. He is a respectful old soul. I greeted her the same as always, and Jake followed suit. "Do you want to tell her something you miss about her?" I asked him.
"Oh, I miss everything about her." he said. The sweetness of his honesty made me bow my head and take a step back, just letting the siblings be together. Their world was lost when she left, and it's worth mourning all on its own.
We stayed only a couple of minutes; I'm careful not to force these visits to be too long, afraid I'll stop Jacob from wanting to come. We gave our kisses and ran from the stark reality of her name carved into that beautiful stone. As we drove away, I asked Jacob if he thought Cory was happy where she was.
"Well...I think she misses us, but you know, she doesn't have to see those terrible things anymore so maybe she is happy. You said she was smiling when she came to see you, right?"
Yes, she sure was.
"Oh, I miss everything about her." he said. The sweetness of his honesty made me bow my head and take a step back, just letting the siblings be together. Their world was lost when she left, and it's worth mourning all on its own.
We stayed only a couple of minutes; I'm careful not to force these visits to be too long, afraid I'll stop Jacob from wanting to come. We gave our kisses and ran from the stark reality of her name carved into that beautiful stone. As we drove away, I asked Jacob if he thought Cory was happy where she was.
"Well...I think she misses us, but you know, she doesn't have to see those terrible things anymore so maybe she is happy. You said she was smiling when she came to see you, right?"
Yes, she sure was.
A Visitor
"Mom? Mom?"
I opened my eyes and there she was, sitting cross-legged at the end of my bed. In my dream-state, hallucination, or visit between worlds, I couldn't move to touch her, so instead contented myself with going over her every feature with my eyes: her hair beautifully mussed from a nice, long sleep, her eyes, so huge and full of life, her gentle smile, her long limbs whole and bent under her own control, and her little hands resting comfortably in her lap as she awaited my response.
"Cory? Cory!" I choked out at last.
She said nothing back, only smiled again and sat there magically, filling for a moment the gaping hole that I tote around daily. She wanted nothing from me this time. She needed nothing- not a snack, not my comfort, not my opinion, nor my companionship. She was far more content than I could even imagine. She was here for me.
On her face, without the need for words, was the knowledge of my struggle. She knew all about the horror, the terrible images, the nightmares, the loss of control, the weariness, the despair, the hopelessness...she knew about the depression, the anxiety, the plaguing guilt. She knew the things I've done when coping well and things I've done when coping poorly. And she loved me anyway. She knew that my heart knows no calendar and that every moment without her, I fear I might soon die, and many, many days wish I would so that the pain would end. She knew that I am not the same happy, attentive Mommy that she and Jacob had known those years ago, but forgave me because she also knew I've been doing the best I can.
It was a sort of telepathy as I "told" her how angry it made me when other people weighed in on my progress- the well-meaning tough-lovers who insist I couldn't control the event, but I could control my reaction.
She sat there silently, calmly and relayed that they meant well and don't understand. It is another world when a mother loses a child and someone who doesn't live there can't possibly give you directions to help you get around. They can't know how long trips take if they have never made them.
True, I agreed, and added that a grieving mother can't control her reactions to the unexpected death of her child. She's been plunged into brain stem to sink or swim for however long it takes her to learn to tread water. When she bobs to the surface, it's only to catch her breath and react to the emotional part of her brain. Finding that problem-solving part of her brain and staking a claim there, actually living there day to day could take years. For the most part, you are in survival, floating to the top to feed your other child a meal or remember to pay a bill. All you can do is try to fight another day. And Cory, if I weren't trying, I wouldn't be here anymore.
"I know, Mommy. Trust me, I know."
Tuesday, August 25, 2015
Safe Place
I made dinner- not until 9 p.m., but I made it. I had a bit of a rough day. At a training I learned about signs and symptoms of several different mental illnesses, which I was happy about- happy the training was available to the community and happy the stigma of getting help was being addressed.
When the presenter got to schizophrenia and schizoaffective disorder, I could feel my heart beating faster. It was Cory's face I saw as hallucinations and delusions were described. There were video clips and role play, but I knew even the best of intentions would never be able to describe the terror, the confusion, the fear, and the anxiety that Cory lived with. My heart still hurts for all she went through and that I wasn't able to take it away. She was getting better, but she'd lived in hell for a good long time by then, and there was nothing I could do about it.
"Telling them that they are safe, that you'll keep them safe is one of the best things you can do."
I can't tell you how many memories that single statement brought back. How much I wish I'd been able to keep her safe one last time.
When the presenter got to schizophrenia and schizoaffective disorder, I could feel my heart beating faster. It was Cory's face I saw as hallucinations and delusions were described. There were video clips and role play, but I knew even the best of intentions would never be able to describe the terror, the confusion, the fear, and the anxiety that Cory lived with. My heart still hurts for all she went through and that I wasn't able to take it away. She was getting better, but she'd lived in hell for a good long time by then, and there was nothing I could do about it.
"Telling them that they are safe, that you'll keep them safe is one of the best things you can do."
I can't tell you how many memories that single statement brought back. How much I wish I'd been able to keep her safe one last time.
Monday, August 24, 2015
Without You is How I Disappear
I've got a lot of work left to do.
I don't even want to go home today.
I don't want to go home and walk into a house where she isn't. I don't want to make dinner in the godforsaken kitchen with my cool Blue Apron meal supplies. I don't want to cook for three people. I don't want to take a leisurely shower afterwards uninterrupted by her pounding on the door to ask me a question. I don't want to beg Jacob to watch Switched At Birth with me, get rejected, and then end up watching it alone, feeling sad and empty. I don't want to kiss one child good night, while the other one rests underground, surely bones by now.
I wish I could just disappear. It's too hard, and I'm tired of trying to be okay.
I'm not okay.
I don't even want to go home today.
I don't want to go home and walk into a house where she isn't. I don't want to make dinner in the godforsaken kitchen with my cool Blue Apron meal supplies. I don't want to cook for three people. I don't want to take a leisurely shower afterwards uninterrupted by her pounding on the door to ask me a question. I don't want to beg Jacob to watch Switched At Birth with me, get rejected, and then end up watching it alone, feeling sad and empty. I don't want to kiss one child good night, while the other one rests underground, surely bones by now.
I wish I could just disappear. It's too hard, and I'm tired of trying to be okay.
I'm not okay.
Sunday, August 23, 2015
Cory at Twenty-Two
Today, Tim and Jake went to a Tiger's game. Left alone, in a house too quiet, I ventured out to get Jake's school clothes- shopping for one child when you used to shop for two is miserable. It's raining today, and I thought of how Cory and I used to link hands and run through the puddles screaming like loons. By the time I got to the coffee shop and put on my angry music, I was feeling more than a little downtrodden. The sky out is so grey and cloudy, it felt perfectly natural to daydream a little about who Cory would be today if she were still here.
I run into her friends and other kids her age all the time and they are so busy! Friends and jobs and studies- sometimes spouses and children. I think Cory would be at a little slower pace because she'd went through so much with her mental illness those last three years.
When I think about her sitting across from me right now, I imagine her with a smile. I can hear her laughter as we trade stories and people watch. There would be no strange thoughts or beliefs. I think the voices would be gone except for times of extreme stress. She would be taking her meds and seeing a therapist regularly. Definitely, she'd be taking classes. Maybe working part-time. She'd be reconnected with old friends and have made new ones.
My baby girl who was afraid to leave the house would be making plans all the time- getting txts, sending pics, dating the boys I didn't want her to date, getting tattoos. She'd be sending me funny things on facebook, and reassuring me all was well. Can you feel that? SHE would be reassuring ME that all was well. After all, she'd be a twenty two year old beautiful, intelligent, confident young woman who could do anything she put her mind to. Even overcoming mental illness. Especially overcoming mental illness.
That's who she'd be. Cause that's already who she was.
I run into her friends and other kids her age all the time and they are so busy! Friends and jobs and studies- sometimes spouses and children. I think Cory would be at a little slower pace because she'd went through so much with her mental illness those last three years.
When I think about her sitting across from me right now, I imagine her with a smile. I can hear her laughter as we trade stories and people watch. There would be no strange thoughts or beliefs. I think the voices would be gone except for times of extreme stress. She would be taking her meds and seeing a therapist regularly. Definitely, she'd be taking classes. Maybe working part-time. She'd be reconnected with old friends and have made new ones.
My baby girl who was afraid to leave the house would be making plans all the time- getting txts, sending pics, dating the boys I didn't want her to date, getting tattoos. She'd be sending me funny things on facebook, and reassuring me all was well. Can you feel that? SHE would be reassuring ME that all was well. After all, she'd be a twenty two year old beautiful, intelligent, confident young woman who could do anything she put her mind to. Even overcoming mental illness. Especially overcoming mental illness.
That's who she'd be. Cause that's already who she was.
Wednesday, August 19, 2015
Fun with Nightmares & Flashbacks
It's a chain reaction: stress breeds grief attacks, health problems, and sleep issues. With the sleep issues come the flashbacks. The flashbacks keep me awake half the night, agitated and just sick to my stomach, feeling every bit like I'm back with the rescue workers staring down at the remains of my daughter. Once I finally get to sleep, the nightmares plague me. The next day, I'm anything but well-rested which feeds my anxiety. Anxiety causes flashbacks, too. So there's the whole unholy, vicious circle.
Last night, when I finally got to sleep, I had a dream that Cory was back at home, unharmed and the accident in never-never land. I kept calling her down from her bedroom but she never responded. I ran up the stairs to give her what-for for staying up half the night with a flashlight and book under the covers, and found her lying on the bed, quite dead. The terror I felt and the way I screamed up at the sky was every bit as real as what had happened on the side of West Michigan on the fifth of July three years ago. Immediately, memories of her from babyhood on up flooded my brain and I could only think, much as I had that hot afternoon, well, that's it. It's over. I would like to die now, too.
My nightmares always have some horrific, graphic content, and this one was no exception. In that just-do-it, no arguing logic way of dreams, I bent over and hoisted her body up in my arms. I left her room, carrying her with tears screaming down my face and what felt like every vein I possessed ready to burst. I carried her out of the house, and begin carrying her through the streets, my back bowing over with the effort, knowing if I dropped her I would never be able to look at myself in the mirror again. It was my duty to carry her corpse as far as humanly possible, so carry her I did.
To my horror and dismay, I looked down and discovered that pieces of her were falling off her torso as I made my laborious way down West Michigan, and there was nothing I could do about it. There was no way to put her back together again. She was just broken, and I was somehow responsible. What kind of mother was I? I couldn't even carry her corpse intact. This is all your fault, Nick. You're bad. You suck.
I woke up with my face wet with tears and my whole body in a damp sweat. Her face in my dream had looked exactly the way I always remembered it, and I couldn't get the image of her head dangling backwards towards the ground as I carried her out of my mind.
Once I'd been awake for a little bit, another intrusive memory barged its way in. She'd been knocked out of her Hello Kitty tennis shoes. How hard do you have to hit someone to knock them out of the shoes, one shoe landing at each far side of the scene? How could she be knocked out of her shoes when they were still tied when I got them back from the police? How could that NOT hurt? She had to have felt the initial impact. My heart can hardly bear this thought.
And from there,
how could the driver not have seen her? How was she so completely unaware of her immediate surroundings? Since when are drivers not supposed to watch out for pedestrians? How could she have not only hit her, but never even braked? How is that not careless? How is that not negligent? How did she kill someone and walk away with no consequences whatsoever?
I hope I can get some sleep tonight.
Last night, when I finally got to sleep, I had a dream that Cory was back at home, unharmed and the accident in never-never land. I kept calling her down from her bedroom but she never responded. I ran up the stairs to give her what-for for staying up half the night with a flashlight and book under the covers, and found her lying on the bed, quite dead. The terror I felt and the way I screamed up at the sky was every bit as real as what had happened on the side of West Michigan on the fifth of July three years ago. Immediately, memories of her from babyhood on up flooded my brain and I could only think, much as I had that hot afternoon, well, that's it. It's over. I would like to die now, too.
My nightmares always have some horrific, graphic content, and this one was no exception. In that just-do-it, no arguing logic way of dreams, I bent over and hoisted her body up in my arms. I left her room, carrying her with tears screaming down my face and what felt like every vein I possessed ready to burst. I carried her out of the house, and begin carrying her through the streets, my back bowing over with the effort, knowing if I dropped her I would never be able to look at myself in the mirror again. It was my duty to carry her corpse as far as humanly possible, so carry her I did.
To my horror and dismay, I looked down and discovered that pieces of her were falling off her torso as I made my laborious way down West Michigan, and there was nothing I could do about it. There was no way to put her back together again. She was just broken, and I was somehow responsible. What kind of mother was I? I couldn't even carry her corpse intact. This is all your fault, Nick. You're bad. You suck.
I woke up with my face wet with tears and my whole body in a damp sweat. Her face in my dream had looked exactly the way I always remembered it, and I couldn't get the image of her head dangling backwards towards the ground as I carried her out of my mind.
Once I'd been awake for a little bit, another intrusive memory barged its way in. She'd been knocked out of her Hello Kitty tennis shoes. How hard do you have to hit someone to knock them out of the shoes, one shoe landing at each far side of the scene? How could she be knocked out of her shoes when they were still tied when I got them back from the police? How could that NOT hurt? She had to have felt the initial impact. My heart can hardly bear this thought.
And from there,
how could the driver not have seen her? How was she so completely unaware of her immediate surroundings? Since when are drivers not supposed to watch out for pedestrians? How could she have not only hit her, but never even braked? How is that not careless? How is that not negligent? How did she kill someone and walk away with no consequences whatsoever?
I hope I can get some sleep tonight.
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