I sat with Jake at dinner the other night and we talked about whether or not there were any movies out to see on the weekend. (This was before Batman vs. Superman came out, mind you). Pretty much, there weren't. We like to go with my Mom to the Saturday matinees and catch up in the car...Mom and I doing most of the talking, with Jake nodding in the appropriate places because he never really talks anymore.
We'd decided we'd have to wait until another weekend because the only movie that wasn't raunchy or animated was a little number called Miracle From Heaven that I vetoed in a hot second. "Does it look boring?" Jake asked.
"No, I guess it's supposed to be pretty good, but I know it would make me really mad so I think I'd better not see it." At the very least, I have learned to identify my triggers.
Jake raised an eyebrow, so I went on, "You know, the whole 'my kid was dying but God chose to save them instead of letting them die and they'll go on to have a normal life full of husbands and babies and jobs and crap. The kid lives in the end, of course, so you gotta love that."
I stopped and fumed a moment while his fourteen year old eyes measured mine. I expected him to chime in on this little tirade of mine- after all, she was his Cory Girl, too. When he sat there silently, appearing not ruffled in the least by the thought of other people's siblings getting to live while his died on the street, I was a little disappointed. Misery does love company.
He scanned the menu and waited for me to calm down, which i didn't. Instead, I said, "Aren't you angry? Don't you ever get angry about it? It's okay to be angry, you know." Listen to me, such the knowledgeable grownup, helping this poor wayward teenager to identify his feelings and say them out loud to at least one person in his life.
He shrugged his shoulders, his most steadfast response in any situation that makes him feel vulnerable. "I don't know. Yeah, I guess, sometimes."
I countered with, "Who do you get angry with? Do you ever get angry at God?"
He nearly chuckled at the thought, "No."
"The driver?"I asked.
"No." he said calmly.
At that, my scalp shrunk on my skull and I broke out in gooseflesh. "Well, who then? Me? Are you mad at me?" I knew it,I knew he must blame me deep down. I'm his mom. I'm the one who's supposed to make sure everything is okay and I let her get killed.
"No, Mom, I don't get mad at you. It's not your fault. You know...you can be mad without being mad at somebody. I'm just mad she had to die because I loved her so much."
I stopped, speechless. And while I suppose plenty of grieving parents look to point the finger and feel the relentless compulsion to lay the blame, I have to say he made me feel small. He made me feel small and mean. Somehow despite missing her desperately, he's made peace with her death. If he does get mad, it's fleeting because I never see it. He's not out to make anyone bleed over it. He doesn't begrudge anyone else their big sister. He just goes on, not talking unless pressed, and enjoying whatever he can find that is still good in the world. Maybe next week, at dinner out, he'll tell me a little bit more about how he does it. I know I don't have the faintest clue.
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
Saturday, March 26, 2016
Get Over It Already
Easter will be no big deal,
This is what I think until I'm in the middle of Target picking out fillings for Jacob's Easter basket, leaving Cory's favorite treats sitting on the shelf. I actually get excited to stumble across a couple of The Walking Dead t-shirts, until I remember I can't get any for her because she's dead, and she's never even seen the show, also because she's dead.
I imagine there are people out there thinking, "Just get over it, already. Move on." I'd like to see you try.
Moving through Target this morning, putting one chocolate bunny in my cart instead of two hurt no less than if someone had asked me to open up my chest and hollow out my still beating heart with an ice cream scoop.
Cory will never be in my past. Friends will intellectually (and wholeheartedly) agree with me. "Oh yes, of course, she will always be with you."
But I think they make that statement from one safe and sane point of view, as a positive reminder that I had such a girl and she is loved still. They say it to be kind, to be supportive, with no real understanding of what that really means. She will always be with me- the good memories...AND the road, putting her in the ground, living without her. The trauma remains, too- it's a package deal. No one sorts it out neatly and hands you back the good times that you can remember without feeling your heart break in half.
I am here this morning after a tour of hell through Target for goodies and than Kohl's for a dress shirt, remembering how Cory was buried in the last Easter dress she had the chance to wear. A holiday, that I thought would be...not terrible...suddenly has my chest tight and my heart beating at an uncomfortable pace. My hands are shaking and I'm so angry and heartbroken, I want nothing but to run away.
This is what I think until I'm in the middle of Target picking out fillings for Jacob's Easter basket, leaving Cory's favorite treats sitting on the shelf. I actually get excited to stumble across a couple of The Walking Dead t-shirts, until I remember I can't get any for her because she's dead, and she's never even seen the show, also because she's dead.
I imagine there are people out there thinking, "Just get over it, already. Move on." I'd like to see you try.
Moving through Target this morning, putting one chocolate bunny in my cart instead of two hurt no less than if someone had asked me to open up my chest and hollow out my still beating heart with an ice cream scoop.
Cory will never be in my past. Friends will intellectually (and wholeheartedly) agree with me. "Oh yes, of course, she will always be with you."
But I think they make that statement from one safe and sane point of view, as a positive reminder that I had such a girl and she is loved still. They say it to be kind, to be supportive, with no real understanding of what that really means. She will always be with me- the good memories...AND the road, putting her in the ground, living without her. The trauma remains, too- it's a package deal. No one sorts it out neatly and hands you back the good times that you can remember without feeling your heart break in half.
I am here this morning after a tour of hell through Target for goodies and than Kohl's for a dress shirt, remembering how Cory was buried in the last Easter dress she had the chance to wear. A holiday, that I thought would be...not terrible...suddenly has my chest tight and my heart beating at an uncomfortable pace. My hands are shaking and I'm so angry and heartbroken, I want nothing but to run away.
Sunday, March 20, 2016
The Hardest Part
I ache to hear the creak of her floorboards above my head. I dream of her up in her room, banging drawers shut and playing her music too loud. Little things. Everything.
Monday, March 14, 2016
Hard Choices; Good Choices; the Right Choices
Ending a relationship with someone you love is never easy. What if that person also has a chronic mental illness? The decision becomes infinitely more complicated.
There are a lot of things to consider and it quickly becomes a thin line between wanting to support someone who didn't ask for their illness and keeping yourself healthy and out of a potentially abusive situation. If you have a child together, you must also look at the severity of the illness and decide if it is safe for your child to be in their care and immersed in their symptoms.
Both of my children's fathers have mental illnesses. I've had to ask myself the following questions: Were they trying to get better? Receiving treatment from a doctor? Was their condition improving? How patient could I continue to be? Did their behavior put my health or my children's health at risk? Did their presence, especially for Cory, who struggled with her own mental illness, create stability or instability? How did Cory's mental health respond to their presence or absence in her life?
I'm a pretty patient person. I enjoy helping people. It's what I do for a living. If I can see you are trying, I will turn myself inside out for you. But I am a mother first. Never forget that. My children have always been and will always be my first responsibility. If I see they are coming to harm, know that I will protect them. Always. And at any cost.
It's hard enough for a child to have a parent -or parental figure in their mind- leave due to a separation or divorce. It's something else to make this the only pattern of you that they have ever known. It's hurtful enough to ignore your child because of your illness and refusal to seek treatment; it's another thing entirely to tell her one minute that you love her more than anything in the world and the next that you lived without her for ten years and you can do it again easily because you honestly don't even like her.
It's one thing to let your mental illness prevent you from being supportive to your child when they are suffering from their own mental illness, but it's another thing to toy with her thinking and tell her she's nothing but a crazy girl who thinks a clown lives in her basement. If you cannot help, at least do not harm.
Mental illness makes life more difficult. Yes, a thousand times yes. But it does not free you from being accountable for your behaviors, your choices, and your actions. You and you alone are responsible for you. If your symptoms have driven you to make decisions you're not proud of, it is time to get help. I respect Cory so much for being that type of person, and for expecting the same of others.
There are a lot of things to consider and it quickly becomes a thin line between wanting to support someone who didn't ask for their illness and keeping yourself healthy and out of a potentially abusive situation. If you have a child together, you must also look at the severity of the illness and decide if it is safe for your child to be in their care and immersed in their symptoms.
Both of my children's fathers have mental illnesses. I've had to ask myself the following questions: Were they trying to get better? Receiving treatment from a doctor? Was their condition improving? How patient could I continue to be? Did their behavior put my health or my children's health at risk? Did their presence, especially for Cory, who struggled with her own mental illness, create stability or instability? How did Cory's mental health respond to their presence or absence in her life?
I'm a pretty patient person. I enjoy helping people. It's what I do for a living. If I can see you are trying, I will turn myself inside out for you. But I am a mother first. Never forget that. My children have always been and will always be my first responsibility. If I see they are coming to harm, know that I will protect them. Always. And at any cost.
It's hard enough for a child to have a parent -or parental figure in their mind- leave due to a separation or divorce. It's something else to make this the only pattern of you that they have ever known. It's hurtful enough to ignore your child because of your illness and refusal to seek treatment; it's another thing entirely to tell her one minute that you love her more than anything in the world and the next that you lived without her for ten years and you can do it again easily because you honestly don't even like her.
It's one thing to let your mental illness prevent you from being supportive to your child when they are suffering from their own mental illness, but it's another thing to toy with her thinking and tell her she's nothing but a crazy girl who thinks a clown lives in her basement. If you cannot help, at least do not harm.
Mental illness makes life more difficult. Yes, a thousand times yes. But it does not free you from being accountable for your behaviors, your choices, and your actions. You and you alone are responsible for you. If your symptoms have driven you to make decisions you're not proud of, it is time to get help. I respect Cory so much for being that type of person, and for expecting the same of others.
Thursday, March 10, 2016
Just Jake
It's always unexpected when Jacob offers up some memory, story, or thought of his sister without being prompted. They are rare, and so precious.
Today, in the car, on the way home from parent-teacher conferences, he spoke about the last time he saw Cory alive. He said it was the day of the accident, maybe an hour or two before she died. They had to take turns with the living room big screen on a regular basis so he could play his video games and she could watch music videos or her shows. They did pretty good on their own, with me only having to referee occasionally.
That day?
"I gave the tv to her when she asked. I let her have a turn. I'm so glad I did." he said quietly and turned his face to the window in a hurry before our eyes could meet.
He always finds something to be grateful for. He doesn't get it from me. Or from Tim. It's just Jake.
Today, in the car, on the way home from parent-teacher conferences, he spoke about the last time he saw Cory alive. He said it was the day of the accident, maybe an hour or two before she died. They had to take turns with the living room big screen on a regular basis so he could play his video games and she could watch music videos or her shows. They did pretty good on their own, with me only having to referee occasionally.
That day?
"I gave the tv to her when she asked. I let her have a turn. I'm so glad I did." he said quietly and turned his face to the window in a hurry before our eyes could meet.
He always finds something to be grateful for. He doesn't get it from me. Or from Tim. It's just Jake.
Sunday, March 6, 2016
Hating on the Furniture
Weekends are the worst. The house looms empty without her laughter and silliness to fill it. We try, Jake and I, but Cory brought the party. Our party is a bit more subdued...a little less falling-down-on the-floor-laughing and a little more pointing-at-one-another-silently-with-raised-eyebrows.
Through the week, I stay busy. I am healthy enough now to compartmentalize most days. I occupy my brain pretty well during my work day. After work is the same parenting grind as anyone else: dinner, homework, time together, shower, bedtime. But on Saturdays and Sundays-
there is way too much time to fill. I spend absolutely no time in my living room. I always expect to spy her curled up at one end with her favorite blanket and Church, and when that image doesn't appear, I get the hell out of there. What is the point? If it is possible to resent a couch, than I do. If it is possible to hate a room of your house just because it no longer provides you joy, than I do.
One of these days, I will buy a new couch and rearrange my furniture. That is the plan. For now, I will hide out in my bedroom with my turquoise IKEA rolley cart at my bedside, chocked full of art and journaling supplies, but still strangely resembling a hospital nightstand. It has been, hands down, one of my best purchases ever. It has kept me alive- and creating- for the last couple of years, no easy feat for an inanimate object.
Through the week, I stay busy. I am healthy enough now to compartmentalize most days. I occupy my brain pretty well during my work day. After work is the same parenting grind as anyone else: dinner, homework, time together, shower, bedtime. But on Saturdays and Sundays-
there is way too much time to fill. I spend absolutely no time in my living room. I always expect to spy her curled up at one end with her favorite blanket and Church, and when that image doesn't appear, I get the hell out of there. What is the point? If it is possible to resent a couch, than I do. If it is possible to hate a room of your house just because it no longer provides you joy, than I do.
One of these days, I will buy a new couch and rearrange my furniture. That is the plan. For now, I will hide out in my bedroom with my turquoise IKEA rolley cart at my bedside, chocked full of art and journaling supplies, but still strangely resembling a hospital nightstand. It has been, hands down, one of my best purchases ever. It has kept me alive- and creating- for the last couple of years, no easy feat for an inanimate object.
Progress Check Up
Here's some things I couldn't do even a year ago:
I couldn't work a full day on her birthday.
I couldn't keep a conversation going for more than ten minutes with anyone without talking about her.
I couldn't describe her injuries to anyone who asked without choking up.
I couldn't see my son as an individual, someone other than an extension of his sister and therefore a goldmine of memories to pillage on demand.
But here are some things I still can't do:
Move her hairbrush out of its accustomed place in the bathroom vanity drawer.
Throw away her makeup.
Move her purse off the bench in the dining room.
Take her coat off its hook in the entry way.
Walk the mall.
I've had a Victoria's Secret gift card since Christmas. It just sits in my wallet. One of these days, I'll send someone to stock up on shower gel for me. The only parts of the mall I frequent are Barnes and Nobles (direct entry from the outside) and the movie theater. The last time I bought Cory something in Victoria's Secret was for her funeral. Doesn't every mother buy their child new underwear and perfume to be buried in?
Choosing Cory's outfit to be buried in was surreal. It was so reminiscent of getting her ready for a dance, except that I didn't do her hair and makeup and we didn't take pictures when she was all ready. Choose something long-sleeved; we like to give the appearance of warmth.
Not entirely sure they got her hair right, but I was in too much shock to complain. Suggesting that she skip the shoes since no one would see them anyways? Now, that was another matter entirely.
There are many things after the death of my daughter that I can do...things that have taken years, but I've gotten there. Still there are things that may never happen again. There are certain books and movies I will never lay eyes again, no matter how much I enjoy them. It is too painful to experience them without her.
Feel safe? Doubtful. PTSD and all that jazz.
Happy? No. Sorry, guys, I'm not happy. I am enduring.
I couldn't work a full day on her birthday.
I couldn't keep a conversation going for more than ten minutes with anyone without talking about her.
I couldn't describe her injuries to anyone who asked without choking up.
I couldn't see my son as an individual, someone other than an extension of his sister and therefore a goldmine of memories to pillage on demand.
But here are some things I still can't do:
Move her hairbrush out of its accustomed place in the bathroom vanity drawer.
Throw away her makeup.
Move her purse off the bench in the dining room.
Take her coat off its hook in the entry way.
Walk the mall.
I've had a Victoria's Secret gift card since Christmas. It just sits in my wallet. One of these days, I'll send someone to stock up on shower gel for me. The only parts of the mall I frequent are Barnes and Nobles (direct entry from the outside) and the movie theater. The last time I bought Cory something in Victoria's Secret was for her funeral. Doesn't every mother buy their child new underwear and perfume to be buried in?
Choosing Cory's outfit to be buried in was surreal. It was so reminiscent of getting her ready for a dance, except that I didn't do her hair and makeup and we didn't take pictures when she was all ready. Choose something long-sleeved; we like to give the appearance of warmth.
Not entirely sure they got her hair right, but I was in too much shock to complain. Suggesting that she skip the shoes since no one would see them anyways? Now, that was another matter entirely.
There are many things after the death of my daughter that I can do...things that have taken years, but I've gotten there. Still there are things that may never happen again. There are certain books and movies I will never lay eyes again, no matter how much I enjoy them. It is too painful to experience them without her.
Feel safe? Doubtful. PTSD and all that jazz.
Happy? No. Sorry, guys, I'm not happy. I am enduring.
Saturday, March 5, 2016
To One, To All
She can't ask to be seen anymore.
See her, anyways.
She's not completely gone if her name still passes our lips. She lives in the moments we pass back and forth...the stories, the laughter, even the tears.
It won't make me sad if you mention her. I won't be shocked if you speak of her death. I am sad all the time now. I know she is dead.
Help me keep her memory alive. Share the stories you have of her and the moments she passes through your mind on an ordinary day. If I share a picture of her with you, please tell me what you're thinking when you look at it.
Say her name. She deserves to live more than nineteen years.
See her, anyways.
She's not completely gone if her name still passes our lips. She lives in the moments we pass back and forth...the stories, the laughter, even the tears.
It won't make me sad if you mention her. I won't be shocked if you speak of her death. I am sad all the time now. I know she is dead.
Help me keep her memory alive. Share the stories you have of her and the moments she passes through your mind on an ordinary day. If I share a picture of her with you, please tell me what you're thinking when you look at it.
Say her name. She deserves to live more than nineteen years.
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