"I'll never hunt again."
The words pierced the air like an arrow sailing forward with devastating force and severing the jugular of the moment.
"What's the point.....?"
I stared at him for what must have been long enough to show my repugnant thoughts of the words he just spoke.
"It's what you live for."
The irony of the conversation was evident and thick on my tongue. This was the exact opposite of every other argument we had ever had. My marriage to Kenneth was founded on a mutual love for the outdoors, although we had very different interpretations. I knew the importance of hunting to him. It's who he was, and what he lived for. Not hunting, was simply not an option. I could hear the hurt in his voice, it hurt me to hear. It killed me to see. He had to hunt. He had to. I was convinced that it was now my life goal to get him in the field again.
My father had purchased me a life time license when I was a very young girl. One of the few gifts of my life that transcends far beyond materialism. It was like a life time subscription to conversations with God. There is no price on that, its invaluable. I had an archery tag, Kenneth had a rifle tag. It gave me a month to convince him to go, to remind him that he did love hunting, and it was okay.
My fingers resisted my demands to lace my boots. I stopped all movement, and focused on the trembling tips, literally saying the words "do it," as if commanding them to go against their own will to tie the laces. It was 3:30 a.m. on the opening day of the archery elk hunt. I was covered from head to toe in rag tag camo and enough gear to live in the lap of luxury for upwards of a week if I were to ever be stranded in the mountains. I stood in the mirror and examined my body. My clothes hung differently now. I was no longer curvacious and full of life, I was vacant and depleted. Much like a balloon that had been over filled and then lost it's helium. I maintained buoyancy, but only enough to keep from laying still on the floor. My depressed figure brushed the ground, and wafted with the breeze. My face was sunken in, and my eyes hollowed out. Dark circles framed my dark eyes, making it look as if I didn't have an iris at all, just two black dots staring back at my self. I looked tough, in a crack head prostitute kind of way. I looked used, ravaged. Emotionally, I was. I grabbed my eyeliner and began to darken the lines around my eyes. I had always done this before hunting. Initially, it was because I was concerned I'd run into some lonely hunter boy who just so happen to see me sitting in a tree, 20 yards above the forest floor, decked out in camo, covered in the scent of sage and pine, sexy and available. At this point, I could care less if I saw another human, let alone take the time to identify gender. I was putting on my war paint. I knew what loomed in front of me.
Unavoidable Isolation.
I was going alone.
I thickened the lines at the thought.
Had I painted on red lips I could have easily gotten lost in the crowd on the corner of crack whore and waste of skin. What a site.
My camo gave me comfort.
I thought for a moment that maybe I'd dissolve into the forest, blend in and become a living breathing part of the ecosystem, somewhere that didn't understand this hurt, somewhere that wasn't going to ask if I was ok. Somewhere that simply didn't care.
The truck must have driven itself. Propelling forward towards what I had avoided for two months, being alone.
The voice in my head cursed me for the whole drive, "What are you doing? This is a bad idea. Just turn around. Just go back. It's not your deal. Just go home." I shook it off, and pushed in the gas pedal. 98 miles an hour down the Indian bench, hurling towards insanity, and I knew it. I pushed it harder, fighting the tears and the gleam of the sun that threatened to warm the cold darkness. I cut the night with my headlights, traveling faster than the light could illuminate my path. 102 mph, I governed out. Had I not driven quickly, I would have had to crawl there, every excruciating step sucking the life out of me and tearing at my soul.
I knew I had to do this. I had decided that if I went up here, and harvested an animal, Kenneth would be required to help me....it's a spouse agreement. I get something, you help me, and vise versa. He had agreed to help, had I been successful. Success was imperative at this point. I had to get him on the mountain, to show him it was ok. I had to do this for him. I didn't want to, I didn't need to. I hadn't considered quitting the sport, it's too engrained in my core beliefs. But I certainly wasn't ready for THIS in any way shape or form....yet here I was. I painted it in my mind as a sacrifice I was willing to make for Kenny. Something I was willing to endure for him. The word sacrifice is rooted in the word "sacred," to make sacred......It's the willingness to lose everything in order to benefit the greater cause. I was gambling with what little sanity I had left, in the name of love. Today's Sacrifice.
I came to a stop at the top of a ridge, the same ridge I had sat on while I was pregnant with Weston and shot my first elk with my bow. It was familiar to me although it was still to dark to see further than three feet out of my window. I shifted to park, and killed the engine. My heart raced. I wasn't afraid of the night, it was going to end in a dramatic display of sunlight pushing its way to center stage. I always believed the sunlight pushed the night. I wasn't afraid of solitude, I didn't feel alone here. I was afraid of myself. My mind. My thoughts.
I instinctively slipped on my release and removed my bow from the case in near silence although I was still encapsulated in the truck. The radio whispered the baseline of some country song and illuminated my hands while I worked to get my gear in order. I unwrapped a laffy taffy and shoved the whole thing in my mouth. I chewed like a cow gnawing cudd, grinding it to a pulp and trying to misdirect my mind. I don't think I was even thinking. I was focused on what was ahead. Dark, it's still dark. I swallowed hard twice to get the ball of goofy berry taffy down my throat, and took a deep breath. Slowly, and with great caution, I pulled the door handle, and opened the door into the night. I had no idea what I was getting myself into. It was more than a hurdle, it was a mountain, literally....a mountain I had to climb.
Crickets. Even in the darkness they sang to me. Singing me songs of high pitched hope, erratic and inconsistent. The melodic tones soothed my tangled mind as I focused on trying to find some sort of pattern, or identify a single crickets tone in the midst of all of the chaos. My feet stepped forward, unsure of my footing, still straining to see. "That one is Bert," I thought, "nope, I lied, that was Henry, Bert is a little higher pitched, ah yes....that one is Merv, he must have been a smoker, his chirp is deep." My own stupidity almost made me smile. It was innocent and simple. Anyone laying witness to my insanity would have deemed me loony and locked me up. But to me it was a thought, any though but what was truly on my mind.
Rewind....Push play.
I walked on.
I had full intention of sitting on a water hole I had discovered a few years earlier. It was a steep and rocky hike in, but the physical exertion was not a concern. I noticed in my walking, however, that the pack I used to carry with ease, now cut into my shoulders and hips where I had cinched it down. The pack was too large for my frame now. I had shrunk a full inch, lost thirty pounds, and seemed to hunch a little. I had lost muscle, and myself, and my son.
Rewind....Push play.
Keep walking.......
The birds started singing and I knew daybreak was rapidly approaching. I was right on time for the morning migration. The elk funneled to this water every day, without fail. I was almost guaranteed a shot at something if I executed as planned. My harvest would equal Kenneth getting to come help, and in turn, planting the seed of desire for him to do the same. Keep walking. I reached my ground blind and unclipped my back, a blister popped on my side and I lifted my shirt to see a raw circle oozing water into my belt line. I had just started, it wasn't a good sign. I shifted my weight onto my heels and squatted down, moving branches and twigs I should have cleared weeks ago in preparation. I pushed myself into the brush and allowed it to tangle into my hair, pulling on it with death grips every time I moved more than an inch. It helped me hold still, and would keep me awake had I had the unique (and highly unlikely) opportunity to collapse with exhaustion. I faced the West but could sense the sun spying on me over the ridge behind me. I scooted my body into a position I could pivot and left clumps of hair dangling in the brush behind me. Should have worn a hat. I could see it shimmer in the fresh light. My thoughts regained focus on the dissipation of the darkness. It didn't want to focus on the light. I realized I was afraid of the light. The darkness was less obvious, and held mystery and possibly something worth seeing that I simply just couldn't see because it was dark. It held potential. Keep it dark and you'll never have to know for sure, you are left to wonder, and in a convoluted way, hope. The light left no room for question. It was what it was. Blaring, obvious, reality. Staring me in the face. Looking at me. Warming me. Almost like a hug you just didn't want. I squirmed around in the leaves, rustling and making noise. This was stupid, I'd never see an animal if I couldn't hold still.......I regained focus and stilled my body. Still insanely uncomfortable. I felt like I was covered in ants, biting fire ants. And every single one of them was pissed. I turned from the sun and furrowed my brow in anger. I coursed my fingers over my bow string, trying to hold my attention on the frayed filaments. There were no crickets, no birds, no sound. It was me. And my thoughts. And the fucking sun. I could have crawled out of my own skin. I would have skinned myself had I had access to my Wyo knife. No, I thought. I can't do this. I can't do this. Get me out. I was trapped. My hair was stuck, the branches clung to me, trapping me, I was stuck. Let me go. The sticks tore my skin, the sun tore my soul. My heart was breaking, I could heart it. I was losing it. I was losing my mind and I was aware of it. Conscience of my crazy. I pulled forward, my hair stayed back. I pulled harder, and felt it rip. I was seriously stuck. I clutched my bow with one hand and grabbed the prisoner strands with the other and slid my hand to the base of my scalp and lunged forward. I screamed in pain. Tears streaked my cheeks as I stumbled forward and faceplanted into the hoof trodden dirt. The pain was eminent but the freedom was a release. It hurt, but I was free. I lay in the dirt crying. Loudly. I was no longer hunting. I was dying. I was now the pray, and my own anxiety was the predator. I was a goner. The anxiety was a well practiced hunter with fierce precision in the blows it delved out.
I had blood on my hands, I wasn't sure from where. I was sure I had a bloody nose because I could taste the blood in my mouth.
Rewind....push play.
I spit feverently, trying to get the taste out. I pleaded for something different. I grabbed a handful oakbrush, decorated with my gleaming hair like Christmas tassels. I shoved the leaves into my mouth and bit hard, drowning out the coppery flavor with the intense bitterness of the leaves and fibrous wood. I was on my knees and leaned forward over them to keep from vomiting. The flavor was brash and my body rejected it. Intensely. Tiny bits of goofy berry laffy taffy, mixed with that morning's coffee, and my own blood blew out of me with enough momentum to fill my mouth, and then my nose. At least it didn't taste like blood. I allowed myself to heave. This was good. This was starting over. I'd just start over. I sat in the "I'm puking leave me alone" position until I was sure the contents of my stomach were all laying in front of me. It became important to purge them all. I looked them over, observing the specs of blood I had so desperately not wanted to taste. It almost felt like a win to see them there in front of me. I hadn't allowed them to penetrate me, or stay with me. They were tiny flecks of resentment, and I'd be God Damned if I was going to choke on them. I filled my lungs with air. I filled them to max capacity, allowing my cheeks to bulge with over expansion and held my breath. I was going to breathe. There was movement. My ears pricked to the sound of a breaking branch, and I shifted my eyes up from my own tiny victory. Hooves, I could see hooves.
I had dropped my bow in the lunge forward, and it now lay battered and bruised a few feet from where I slumped. My cheeks deflated quickly and the sound of my lips vibrating at the rush of air alerted the passerby to my location. The air went still. I didn't breathe. I just hovered there. My heart started to beat into my ear drums, I was sure whatever this animal was (although I believe it was an elk based on the color of the hide directly above the hooves) knew where I was, when what I was, and could smell my laffy taffy/coffee/bile concoction by this point, and could hear my heart. But I remained still, overtaken by adrenaline, and a deep curiosity. My heart pounded now. I could feel the pressure coursing through my body, almost lifting my palms when it reached the wrists. The animal exhaled hard, and snorted in disgust. The hooves surged away from me, and were gone.
My mind was centered, for the first time in months. It was drawn from my own darkness into the blaring reality that was illuminated by the sunlight. I blinked hard a few times, taking in what had just transpired. It all looked crisp now. Defined by what I had, only minutes before, wished would stay dark. I began to notice things, I hadn't before. I braced myself over my pile of "victory" and clambered to my feet, coughing on the dust. I used my sleeve to wipe my nose, and noticed how sore it was. It felt broken and the cartilage offered little resistance to my pressure. It crackled, and blood rushed down my throat again.
Rewind.....push play.
Blood.
Blood.
Blood.
Keep walking. I thought........keep walking. Sitting was obviously not an option at this point. Spot and stalk, ya...that's what I'd do. I'd spot, and stalk. I was still determined to make this excursion about harvest success, and helping Kenneth. It was still my derived objective, and I was hell bent to see it through. This still, wasn't about me.
I did walk. My God, did I walk. I walked and walked and walked. According to my GPS I had walked 13 miles by the time I realized I had been going downhill for most of it. Although Newton would argue, what goes down.....must come up. I had no idea where I was. I hadn't considered looking for wildlife. I was focused on walking. I was going to walk until I was graced with the opportunity to harvest an animal, and I was going to drag Kenneth out here, and he was going to remember why this was important. I supposed I had imagined it would all just fall into place. There was no way this was going to be another loss......No one was that cruel.
So there I was, in the bottom of a canyon, I had just slid down the West facing hillside and stood face to face with the East facing sister face. It mirrored the opposing side, with the exception of the lack of a trail to help in the climb. My toes were tender from rocking forwards in my boots, trying to grip the hillside on my descent. I was inclined to avoid the steep climb, and instead turned to the north to follow the creek bed up the draw. Stopping was not an option. That type of imprisonment was torturous. It was past noon, I didn't have a clock and my phone was turned off to reserve battery. I wanted to make sure it was fully charged when I needed to call Kenny to come get me and my harvest. The sun was beating me down again. I was sticky with sweat and could no longer tell the difference between the liquid oozing from my blisters, and sweat that collected on my skin and then ran down the path of least resistance. I could smell myself. My clothes were wet to the touch. I kept walking. As I moved north, slower now than before, I remembered I hadn't eaten. Anxiety crept up my throat and threatened to constrict my airway, I stepped off the deer trail and made it a point to make my own trail. The harder the obstacle, the more thought it would take, the less the anxiety had to grip to. I lost my trail.......Now I was committed to my obstacle course. My blood sugar was low, I could feel my dyskinesia kicking in; I was disoriented and dehydrated. My feet splashed in a puddle. It hadn't rained recently, that I was aware of. I noticed the foilage had changed, and I was now standing in grass that covered my boots, and left streaks of moisture where dry leather had once been. Water?......I had found the creek that had once filled the creek bed. It hadn't had the longevity to reach the bottom of the canyon, but it had made it to this point. As I walked on, I noticed the puddles getting larger until a contiguous stream was at my feet. I was gaining altitude, but my mind focused on the increase in volume of the water. It was my newest muse. Rocks became larger until they were like terracing platforms, each one with their own water paths cut into them from hundreds of years of erosion. The water had taken from these rocks their sediment and weaknesses, and left a shallow pathway for the water to flow. Water carried life and nutrients to the grass I had just tolled over. I scaled the terraces and refused to glance back, or down. I had climbed several hundred feet in the matter of minutes, and hadn't considered my unreasonable fear of heights I had developed. I wasn't looking back now. I wasn't going back either. The only option was up. A ten foot ledge loomed in front of me, pioneering a new obstacle, a new muse. How to get up? Roots from an old pine penetrated the rock providing feeble, but considerable foot placings for climbing. I removed my pack and relished in the rush of air that hit the soaking clothes. I strapped my bow to the well placed clips, and replaced it. Cinching it once again as tight as it would go. It felt even bigger now. Like I had shrunk in the last few hours. I gripped a root above my head and placed a foot on the rock, knee high. All I had was a toe hold, but being faced with a ledge and no options, you become an expert mountaineer and rock climber, and make a move. The root broke and I stumbled backwards, landing on my bow and breaking an arrow. I was by no means hurt, but I was angry. "shit....." I said out loud while I looked at the arrow. I rolled it between my hands, examining the bend and determining it was now useless. The word "Love" was written in black ink on the side of the shaft. It was my feeble attempt to maintain sensitivity while I snuck through the forest looking for something to shoot at. It was a testament to my project. And now it was in my hands, broken. I dug the arrow into the sandstone rock face I was yet to climb. It stuck there, like a flag pole, my fletchings standing proudly at attention. I half smiled, and veered at the ledge again. Well......let's take another swing at that. I scaled it masterfully this time. Making my moves more calculated and testing the strength of my footing before attempting the step. I crested the ledge and pulled myself up by my arms, laying on my belly on the heated rock. It was hot, very hot, but the warm rock felt good on my skin. The water had pooled on this terrace. It created a small, private, rock bath that could have only been witnessed by me. I felt like the only person who had ever trespassed this land. It was mine, and I felt safe here. I lifted my hips and unhooked my hip straps to my pack, I slid my hand upwards and unhooked the breast strap and slid my arms from the restraints. The pack slopped to the side and I rolled onto my back. The water flowed gently from the rock above, and the splash from the fall danced on my face. It felt amazing. It felt like a reward for making it this far. I started crying. I wasn't sure why. I was never 100% sure why I was crying, I felt no need to distinguish the difference. It really didn't matter. I cry a lot. I believe tears are words that need to be said. I was alone, and laying there, enjoying the moment had become a point of guilt. I didn't feel worthy of enjoying anything. I curled into the fetal position and pulled my knees into my forehead. I sobbed. Breathing deeply, and coughing at the smell of my own body. The smell was exhausting, a mixture of vomit, sage, pine, and grief stuck to me like a bad perfume you wish you had never sprayed on yourself in the supermarket. And there it was, the rock bath. I pulled my shirt off, exposing just how badly I was blistered. I hadn't taken the time to care. I tugged on my belt and the weight of my knives dropped them to my feet. I peeled off my shoes, socks, and base layers and stood in the broad daylight, naked. The water was only a few inches deep in the depression on the rock, but my body fit perfectly inside of it and I let it wash over me. I was still crying. The water stung my wounds and I became aware of every single one of them. The water stung like the venom of a snake, biting me wherever I was exposed. I lay there until the pain subsided and relented into numbness. The water crept up my skin, washing away the day's tribulations. I cupped my hands and brought the water to my face. When it splashed down, the water turned red. The way it had when I washed my son's blood off. The pool tainted a pale pink against the sand colored rock, and I closed my eyes.
Rewind. Push play.
I opened my eyes and the water was clear again, washed away by the constant flow from the terrace above. Relief. I scooted back into the trickle and let it roll over my matted hair, I watched the filth fill the pool, and run off the rock. It became a part of the terraces below me. Something I had already passed, and wasn't going back to. I filled my lungs with air again, this time, just to capacity. This time, I exhaled. I opened my mouth to breathe again and the water trailed in, it was salty from my own skin and had a mineral quality to it. I let it trace lines down my face, wherever it desired. I let it wash me. For the first time in this new life, I felt clean. I turned sideways in the depression, knees and head offered to the rays of light, while my core continued to be washed. I fell to sleep.
I was startled awake again by another nightmare. I lay gasping and disoriented. Being strangled now by anxiety and the inability to fill my lungs the way I had before I fell asleep. I punished myself for allowing it to happen, I knew better. Never sleep. I jerked up and grabbed clothes, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable. I put my clothes on again and strapped my pack on, my weapon still strapped to the back. I started the climb, leaving behind forever the water I baptized myself in. Just like the pink water, I let it be behind me. Something I'd never see again. Something I let go. I poked my cheeks with more taffy as I moved forwards, trying to keep a blood sugar level that would keep me from passing out and stumbling backwards. I wasn't hungry though. I never was. I had gone 17 miles now. It was going to get dark. I had made incredible time, but with no direction an object in motion is just that....an object. I needed to find my way back to the truck, and rejoin humanity............I needed to. I didn't want to. It took some time but my GPS picked up enough satellites to tell me that I had made a partial circle, and taking a direct cut across the diameter of the circle would put me back on the road, and close to my truck. The problem was the path of the diameter.....it cut straight through a rock slide. A steep rock slide. One ridiculous, terrible, unstable, piece of shit rock at a time I climbed 600 feet up, at a 15% grade. Up the draw was off course, down the draw was not an option, the rock slide was the new muse. When I reached the top I was soaked and smelly again. I didn't care. I looked down and felt the twangs of my phobia spring to life. I braced myself on a tree, gasping for air, and raised my free hand to flip it off. I wobbled with the lean and wrapped my arms around the tree. I felt as though it flipped me off in return. I turned my back to it, and left it behind. I meandered through the trees, grateful for a semi level surface and heard the familiar sound of hooves, somewhere close. I hunkered down and unstrapped my bow, returned my pack and placed my release on my D ring. I was ready now. It was about time. I could smell elk. They have a deep musty smell that is unmistakable. My heart raced again, surpassing the cardio workout I had just conquered and leading into adrenaline. They were coming. I knelt down and found solid stance. They were closing in. I knocked an arrow. A cow and two calves bounded towards me, almost in high spirits. Their eyes were growing larger as they approached me. I watched them, they didn't see me. She stopped at thirty yards, alerted by her sixth sense to danger. The calves stopped behind her, only a fraction of a second behind her cue. I drew my arrow on her and looked through my site. My fingers froze. I knew what was going to happen. I was going to release the arrow. And then what.
Blood.
Rewind....push play.
Tears filled my eyes, I blinked to remove them so I could see my site, but I was shaking now. Shaking so hard my arrow fell from the rest and the cow jumped at the sound. "No" I moaned. A short, defeated moan. They jolted and ran in the opposite direction, crashing into everything possible along the way to make it as notable as it could be that they were leaving, and I was there. The whole forest heard it. I know it did. There was once again, the cutting silence I had been afraid of. I once again sat, knees pressed to the ground, defeated. I lay my bow down and unhooked my pack. It leapt from my back and lay behind me, smashed, wet, and relieved to be free of me.
"I'm sorry" were my next words. I'm not sure who I said them too. Maybe the universe, maybe the elk, maybe myself, maybe Kenneth, maybe my son.
"I'm so sorry."
I was praying. I was begging forgiveness for my failure. For all of my failures.
"I was just a few feet away." At first I was talking about the elk, but quickly realized where I had let myself go with this. I began hyperventalating again, being strangled to death by anxiety like a robber demanding the till in a robbery.
"4 FEET" I told every tree in a 20 mile radius.......
"4 FUCKING FEET"
"I WAS 4 FEET AWAY"
I screamed a long painful scream....... Birds flew from trees to flee my scene that was unfolding.
I pounded the ground and screamed over and over again ;
"Nooooooooooooooo"
"I'm so sorry"
"Baby, I'm so sorry"
"Mommy is so sorry"
"4 FEET"
"Baby no."
I dug my fingers into the soil, grasping for root. Grasping for something to hold onto while I, once again, lost my mind.
I hated this day.
I hated how far I let myself destruct.
I screamed until I had no voice left. I screamed until I couldn't breathe and my voice was an echo of the sound of my heart breaking, once again. I squeaked my apologies, and caught my breath on an inhale, just to squeak more out again. I apologized over and over for the part I played in the death of my son. I apologized for the hurt everyone was feeling and my inability to soothe it, at all. I apologized for not saving him. I apologized for losing myself and letting everyone down. I apologized for falling short, very short, in my attempts to mother Weston. I apologized for my vacancy and my level of crazy that surpassed all else. I apologized for apologizing. I apologized for being alive. I apologized for being dead inside. I apologized that it wasn't me, and I didn't have a choice. I apologized for letting him ride his bike without a helmet. It was out of character, one of very few times it had happened. But I did that. And I'm sorry. I'm sorry for not knowing how to handle the pain. I'm sorry for erasing myself in order to focus on everyone else. I apologize for not recognizing the importance of grieving in due time. I'm sorry I couldn't love this better. I tried. I failed. I'm sorry for not walking around the truck before he pulled forward, I counted kids. He was up the road, I checked, I swear to God I checked. I'm sorry for yelling at the woman behind me on the street while I held my son. I know she was just concerned. I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry to the children that were inside of the truck that day, forever changed, forever older. I'm sorry for the loss of innocence and the loss of control. I'm sorry for the loss. I'm sorry for the lost feeling everyone feels when they are around me. Like they don't know where to hold onto, or what to say. Please don't try. Tell me how you feel. Don't ask how I do. I'm sorry I'm stubborn. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm sorry.
My voice was gone. The air was still. It was dark again. The moon illuminated the tears on my cheeks and tiny diamonds reflected off of them and gleamed in my stinging eyes. I picked up my pack and followed the tracks leading to the East. Leading back to my truck. Back to reality. Elk bugled in the background reminding me that tomorrow was a new day, and the world moved on. Past my grief, it moved on.
I found my truck and drove home. I watched the moon drag across the spattering of stars in the night sky. They reminded me of my tears glimmering on my cheeks. Stars will forever be, Heaven's tears. Heaven's words, unspoken. Heaven's words that need to be said.
"How was it?" He asked as I climbed into bed. I had showered, and erased the signs of my day.
"Really good," I tried to say enthusiastically, but it only squeaked out. I cleared my throat and tried again.
"Good" I forced, sounding like an 80 year old man.
He rolled away from me, "Going again tomorrow?" he asked, unconvinced by my conviction.
"Yep."
It was dark again.
Monday, July 22, 2013
Sunday, July 21, 2013
#11. Mornings
The flies left. Maggots fed their way into the crevices of my life as a slimy reminder of the decay, and the rot. Everything hurt. My mind became a constant battle between reality and my imagination. I longed for simplicity and quiet. I longed for my son.
The home I raised my children in had a large bay window in the dining room. It let in the morning light as if it were casting a golden sheen into the room. I stood in that window, a million times, holding my babies, and watching the sun bathe us in gold. I held them to my chest, with my hand gently over their necks, supporting their heads, and one below them to pull them tightly to me. And I rocked, back and forth, rhythmically to the sound of my own humming that commenced the morning. We were a production, the sun and I. Welcoming the day, and casting pure love on these babies. These were sweet moments, that I have only recently begun to recount.
All of that was part of my past life. Something I couldn't hold onto, and couldn't let go. I found myself rocking constantly. With my hands in the position to pull something into me, and damaged every time they cut the air, and landed on my own solitude. But I stand, and I rock. Still to this day I look out a window and find myself aching to hold my child. It's an ache I can't explain, only a mother would know.
It's the feeling in your stomach the first time you leave your new baby with a babysitter. It's the feeling you get when they are just out of site over the next ridge, and when you crest the same ridge, you can't see them. It's the feeling the first time they fall, or when they get their shots, or when someone breaks their heart. It's having the wind knocked out of you, and then being plummeted into a pool of thick black oil, all the while the universe screaming at you "I dare you to breathe." It's terror, and hurt, and an endless search. I rock all of the time. I ache, all of the time.
Time alone was my worst enemy. No one had dared leave me alone, and I was resentful and eternally grateful all at the same time. Alone meant quiet, quiet meant thoughts, thoughts meant sheer terror. Absolutely not. No. With every rewind and push play, I would calibrate my level of shock.....my level of fear, and hurt. It never got easier. I had seen it a million times, and it managed to get harder.
Mornings are the hardest, still. Those first few moments where you blink yourself to awareness and recount where you are, who you are, and what you are doing.
Where am I...........this dark room, the walls are closing in.
Who am I............God, I wish I knew......
What am I doing...........Suffocating under this pain. My babies, where are they.......My son.....my son is gone...........total collapse.
The pain. The pain is always there. It became my lifeblood. The pain will be there in the morning, along with the evaluation I ran myself through. The pain is there.....shot of oxygen. Inhale, open your eyes.
People who are under the impression that time heals all wounds have not lost a child. It's not about healing, it's about finding a way to survive it. And once you find a path, that doesn't sting quite as much as the other one, you take a step. More often than not, you find yourself standing on a land mine, getting your legs ripped off and watching the fragments of your footing fly into the abyss. Slop them back together in a tangled mess of bailing twine and duct tape, and take another step.
You don't have a choice.
You just do it.
The home I raised my children in had a large bay window in the dining room. It let in the morning light as if it were casting a golden sheen into the room. I stood in that window, a million times, holding my babies, and watching the sun bathe us in gold. I held them to my chest, with my hand gently over their necks, supporting their heads, and one below them to pull them tightly to me. And I rocked, back and forth, rhythmically to the sound of my own humming that commenced the morning. We were a production, the sun and I. Welcoming the day, and casting pure love on these babies. These were sweet moments, that I have only recently begun to recount.
All of that was part of my past life. Something I couldn't hold onto, and couldn't let go. I found myself rocking constantly. With my hands in the position to pull something into me, and damaged every time they cut the air, and landed on my own solitude. But I stand, and I rock. Still to this day I look out a window and find myself aching to hold my child. It's an ache I can't explain, only a mother would know.
It's the feeling in your stomach the first time you leave your new baby with a babysitter. It's the feeling you get when they are just out of site over the next ridge, and when you crest the same ridge, you can't see them. It's the feeling the first time they fall, or when they get their shots, or when someone breaks their heart. It's having the wind knocked out of you, and then being plummeted into a pool of thick black oil, all the while the universe screaming at you "I dare you to breathe." It's terror, and hurt, and an endless search. I rock all of the time. I ache, all of the time.
Time alone was my worst enemy. No one had dared leave me alone, and I was resentful and eternally grateful all at the same time. Alone meant quiet, quiet meant thoughts, thoughts meant sheer terror. Absolutely not. No. With every rewind and push play, I would calibrate my level of shock.....my level of fear, and hurt. It never got easier. I had seen it a million times, and it managed to get harder.
Mornings are the hardest, still. Those first few moments where you blink yourself to awareness and recount where you are, who you are, and what you are doing.
Where am I...........this dark room, the walls are closing in.
Who am I............God, I wish I knew......
What am I doing...........Suffocating under this pain. My babies, where are they.......My son.....my son is gone...........total collapse.
The pain. The pain is always there. It became my lifeblood. The pain will be there in the morning, along with the evaluation I ran myself through. The pain is there.....shot of oxygen. Inhale, open your eyes.
People who are under the impression that time heals all wounds have not lost a child. It's not about healing, it's about finding a way to survive it. And once you find a path, that doesn't sting quite as much as the other one, you take a step. More often than not, you find yourself standing on a land mine, getting your legs ripped off and watching the fragments of your footing fly into the abyss. Slop them back together in a tangled mess of bailing twine and duct tape, and take another step.
You don't have a choice.
You just do it.
Saturday, July 20, 2013
#10. Drowning
Sleep wouldn't come. Sleep evaded me like a solar eclipse when I had waited my whole life to watch the shadow pass. I always seemed to miss it, but not by much. I wasn't above medication to help, I wasn't above anything to help. There is a lot of danger in desperation.
I wanted to escape. On one hand I wanted everything the same. Untouched and stagnate. I wanted to maintain what I had. But the realization sizzled like fat on a frying pan, popping and sputtering into my eyes. Nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same.
On the other hand, I wanted to rip everything apart and leave it utterly and completely destroyed. I wanted to ravage everything I had ever loved and obliterate it beyond recognition. Everything was grey now where vivid color had once been. The sun didn't shine, it simply was a variation on the gray scale that happened to be slightly lighter than the black that encompassed me. Depression doesn't begin to touch what I was. It doesn't explain the darkness. Suicide never did cross my mind. I knew I couldn't put my baby boy through losing us both, although I knew in my heart of hearts that he already had. I wasn't the same mommy anymore. I was a shell. A vacated paradise with nothing left but bitter sand and dead withered plants. Only shapeless forms remained where life once flourished. I saw it in myself. I did my best to hide it from the onlookers. It's hard to explain my thought process here, especially while I'm laying it all out.
I relate it to drowning. For over two years, I was drowning. During that time, there were periods of destitute thoughts and fleeting death in the midst of my lungs collapsing and my heart not beating. I was force fed oxygen in short bursts that only resembled my youngest son Weston, and his need for a mother. My body lay motionless at the bottom of the depths, unwilling to move in order to prevent making waves. I refused to make anyone else's swim for survival more difficult. It wasn't until recently I got my first breath of air. After breathing in all of the grief into my heart, mind, and soul....all that's left is to cough hard, and spew it out. So....this is emotional spewing.
During the darkest days, which is the better part of the first year, I sought any and all comfort. There wasn't much. Most days, there wasn't any.
I was a robot moving through motions.
Alcohol called to me, like a numbing agent being dangled over an open wound but never drizzled. I had toggled the idea in my mind, but it struck a cord as an option. I'm terrified now by how driven I was to attempt that weak and senseless path. Desperation.
Some sweet people, with good intentions, invited me to a concert in late July. Suffocated by the walls that closed in on me, I agreed to go. Kenneth (My children's father) was not interested in going, but had agreed to me tagging along.
And so came the alcohol. Lots of it as the people I recognized from the viewing, who had become dear to me filed into the room where I stood. They had raised a tremendous amount of money for my family and I and had taken this opportunity to present it to me, and share their thoughts. I was moved beyond tears. They were friends of my brother's and had never met me before. Never. Yet here they were, standing in a circle showing me flawless love. It was a rare shot of comfort I absorbed quickly like a junkie shooting heroine. It was enough to carry me through one more day. And that's how I lived.....one day at a time. One second at a time really.
We toasted the moment, we toasted his life.
I began to drink.
Whipped vodka and orange soda. Beer. I tried my hardest to be in the moment. I was doing well. Uncle Kraker took the stage and began to sing, the world began to spin. At this point, I had lost a lot of weight from the stress, and not eating. I have always been a light weight but I was beyond schnockered by the time the music started. The world spun, I sat down. The world spun harder, I laid down. The rest is a pathetic array of prying my eyes open to blue denim, loud music, and my face in my own vomit. My brother held my hair while I puked. On myself. And then I puked more, on him. I puked so hard I thought I'd vacuumed my shoes through my legs and out my gullet. And I was crying. Non-stop. Unable to gain the control I worked so hard to maintain. This wasn't numb. This was raw and horrible. I felt more trapped in the loss of control than I felt in my mechanical world of robot movements. I woke up in the same house we started, with someone else's false eyelashes stuck to my cheek, and a hang over that paled the worst case of typhoid fever, food poisoning, and the walk of shame combined in a cute little package, with a bow on top. What a mess.
I sat on the stairs to take them one at a time on my hind end, scooting slowly so as not to lose what little contents might have been in my stomach from actually swallowing a little spit in the night. It was bile, I could feel it burning my esophagus. Someone was cleaning down stairs.......Damn them. The smell of the cleaning agent sent me bounding to the bathroom to purge my weak stomach once again. I couldn't stand the smell of alcohol for weeks.........I ruled that out, quickly, as a means to survival.
In a later discussion with my father he made the profound comment.......
"Drinking is for happy people."
I couldn't agree more, and am very very careful about my consumption. The loss of control is unacceptable. I blame no one for my actions, I begged for it. I needed it. Had I not gone too far, I might have meddled in it for longer, and drawn out the hurt. It was one night......one night that was a lesson in humility and rage. A lesson I'll never forget.
I wanted to escape. On one hand I wanted everything the same. Untouched and stagnate. I wanted to maintain what I had. But the realization sizzled like fat on a frying pan, popping and sputtering into my eyes. Nothing was the same. Nothing would ever be the same.
On the other hand, I wanted to rip everything apart and leave it utterly and completely destroyed. I wanted to ravage everything I had ever loved and obliterate it beyond recognition. Everything was grey now where vivid color had once been. The sun didn't shine, it simply was a variation on the gray scale that happened to be slightly lighter than the black that encompassed me. Depression doesn't begin to touch what I was. It doesn't explain the darkness. Suicide never did cross my mind. I knew I couldn't put my baby boy through losing us both, although I knew in my heart of hearts that he already had. I wasn't the same mommy anymore. I was a shell. A vacated paradise with nothing left but bitter sand and dead withered plants. Only shapeless forms remained where life once flourished. I saw it in myself. I did my best to hide it from the onlookers. It's hard to explain my thought process here, especially while I'm laying it all out.
I relate it to drowning. For over two years, I was drowning. During that time, there were periods of destitute thoughts and fleeting death in the midst of my lungs collapsing and my heart not beating. I was force fed oxygen in short bursts that only resembled my youngest son Weston, and his need for a mother. My body lay motionless at the bottom of the depths, unwilling to move in order to prevent making waves. I refused to make anyone else's swim for survival more difficult. It wasn't until recently I got my first breath of air. After breathing in all of the grief into my heart, mind, and soul....all that's left is to cough hard, and spew it out. So....this is emotional spewing.
During the darkest days, which is the better part of the first year, I sought any and all comfort. There wasn't much. Most days, there wasn't any.
I was a robot moving through motions.
Alcohol called to me, like a numbing agent being dangled over an open wound but never drizzled. I had toggled the idea in my mind, but it struck a cord as an option. I'm terrified now by how driven I was to attempt that weak and senseless path. Desperation.
Some sweet people, with good intentions, invited me to a concert in late July. Suffocated by the walls that closed in on me, I agreed to go. Kenneth (My children's father) was not interested in going, but had agreed to me tagging along.
And so came the alcohol. Lots of it as the people I recognized from the viewing, who had become dear to me filed into the room where I stood. They had raised a tremendous amount of money for my family and I and had taken this opportunity to present it to me, and share their thoughts. I was moved beyond tears. They were friends of my brother's and had never met me before. Never. Yet here they were, standing in a circle showing me flawless love. It was a rare shot of comfort I absorbed quickly like a junkie shooting heroine. It was enough to carry me through one more day. And that's how I lived.....one day at a time. One second at a time really.
We toasted the moment, we toasted his life.
I began to drink.
Whipped vodka and orange soda. Beer. I tried my hardest to be in the moment. I was doing well. Uncle Kraker took the stage and began to sing, the world began to spin. At this point, I had lost a lot of weight from the stress, and not eating. I have always been a light weight but I was beyond schnockered by the time the music started. The world spun, I sat down. The world spun harder, I laid down. The rest is a pathetic array of prying my eyes open to blue denim, loud music, and my face in my own vomit. My brother held my hair while I puked. On myself. And then I puked more, on him. I puked so hard I thought I'd vacuumed my shoes through my legs and out my gullet. And I was crying. Non-stop. Unable to gain the control I worked so hard to maintain. This wasn't numb. This was raw and horrible. I felt more trapped in the loss of control than I felt in my mechanical world of robot movements. I woke up in the same house we started, with someone else's false eyelashes stuck to my cheek, and a hang over that paled the worst case of typhoid fever, food poisoning, and the walk of shame combined in a cute little package, with a bow on top. What a mess.
I sat on the stairs to take them one at a time on my hind end, scooting slowly so as not to lose what little contents might have been in my stomach from actually swallowing a little spit in the night. It was bile, I could feel it burning my esophagus. Someone was cleaning down stairs.......Damn them. The smell of the cleaning agent sent me bounding to the bathroom to purge my weak stomach once again. I couldn't stand the smell of alcohol for weeks.........I ruled that out, quickly, as a means to survival.
In a later discussion with my father he made the profound comment.......
"Drinking is for happy people."
I couldn't agree more, and am very very careful about my consumption. The loss of control is unacceptable. I blame no one for my actions, I begged for it. I needed it. Had I not gone too far, I might have meddled in it for longer, and drawn out the hurt. It was one night......one night that was a lesson in humility and rage. A lesson I'll never forget.
#9. Calluses
There was a time I questioned God. Interestingly enough, never in this new life.
As a teenager, it seemed mythical and impractical. I clung to science, and religion (up until that point) had only hurt me. No God would hurt you. For me, God is not in religion, and in early development of my theology I had determined that if God was not in religion, God was not in life. It wasn't until later in life, I found Faith and Spirituality. It's something I learned while hunting.
I was in my early teen years, rowdy and hell bent to be unique and tough. My father had taken me hunting and I sat still in an oak bush, listening intently and deathly still. I watched the deer funnel down a finger to water and I observed their breath as they stood feet in front of me. I was alive with intrigue. Living, breathing, and vulnerable. They were beautiful to me, majestic and real. A small buck trailed behind the does to water, I had been intently watching for quite some time and movement was required but not possible. It would have to be controlled movements. Slow, and calculated around the attention I had not gathered, yet. I moved with my breath, inhale through my nose.....be still.......exhale through my mouth, lift hand slowly...watch, watch....be still. Over and over until I had the gun positioned into my shoulder and had not alerted the herd of my ever looming and dangerous presence in the brush. My father sat behind me, breathing encouragement under his breath in a way that only a skilled hunter could do. "Be still sister" he would hiss into the wind so only I could hear. My heart raced. My mind raced. A traditional muzzleloader, a wild animal, my breath....be still. The buck stood broadside at twenty five yards, I repeated my father's mantra over and over in my mind on how to squeeze the trigger, and don't forget to aim. My finger gripped the trigger and I squoze it with what seemed like all of the strength I had when suddenly the sound ripped through the serene setting and sent a small round ball hurling towards the vitals on the beautiful animal that stood breathing in front of me seconds before. The smoke filled my vantage and I began shaking with adrenaline and anticipation as the light breeze and the distant sound of the herd running cleared the scene. Dirt was being kicked around by hard hooves, I could smell the sulfur in the smoke still swirling my senses. There he was. Dying.
"I got him Dad!" I yelled/coughed through the smoke. "I got him!"
I scrambled to my feet, leaving the single shot muzzleloader where it lay and disregarding everything I had previously learned about reloading, and being patient. I ran to the animal, struggling for breath. Perfect vital shot. There it was. What I had done. What HAD I DONE? My dad's hand found my shoulder, and he pressed his thumb and forefinger into the nape of my neck, the way he always did. It hurt, but in a safe kind of way. It was firm. He had anticipated this. I looked at him with tears filling my eyes as the animal lay still, jerking occasionally as the nerves gave up their will to live.
He didn't speak to me right then. He just knelt by the animal and motioned for me to come closer. What had I done.
He took my hand as I knelt beside him and placed it over the animals lifeless eyes. We, together, closed the lids. I moved my hands down his neck, stroking him as if trying to comfort him in death. I could feel the energy leaving him, and I knew I had done this. How could this be right? My hands found the small entry hole where a tiny trickle of blood ran out of, and bounded down the hide to a large pool that had formed below him. The exit wound.
I cringed.
I placed my hand over the wound, and held it there forever. Warmth, wet, death. I pulled my hand up and saw it was covered in blood, and hide. I did this. My dad took his finger and placed it in the blood, he streaked it on his cheeks, and then on mine. He still didn't speak, but to me, I interpreted this action as allowing the animal to become a part of me.
We prayed. We thanked the creator. We thanked the universe. We were gracious. I fed my family. I did that. It's a weird guilty sense of pride that comes from a desire to survive, and connect with nature. It's necessary for my soul. Not to kill, but to be part of the flow of energy.
Spirituality started here for me. It's the same feeling I get every time I catch a fish. The transfer of energy. I'm gracious every time.
God became a possibility when I discovered I was pregnant. It was one step forward and two steps back when I lost my first pregnancy. It was possible again when I found out I was pregnant with Kole, and it was absolute when I held him in my arms.
I know that questioning faith is something that transpires when you lose someone, especially someone close to you, and not in a "usual order." You aren't supposed to bury your babies. From the day they are born, the race is on. I had full intention of whipping their ass in the race to the grave. I'd dive in head first in order to beat them. No question. It's not something you fathom, and something you avoid thinking about. There is a reason no one talks about it after the fact. Unfortunately, it's reality. Millions of children die every year. Millions of parents bury their babies. I did. I had to.
I believe I chose this. And in my heart of hearts I know that there is no one who was more perfectly suited to be my child's mother, than me. I wouldn't trade those four years with him, for a lifetime with anyone else. He is mine. The time was mine. I'd do it all over again, even if the outcome HAD to be the same. Even if I knew the rest of my life I'd move through the sunrise and then the sunset in so much pain that the calluses are impossible to see through. Even if I have become those calluses. I would do this over again.
For me, personally, my faith increased. It had to. I was faced with the decision in blaring hot fashion....baptism by fire (if you will.)
Somewhere along my journey I read an interesting take on faith that I have adapted to MANY aspects of my life. It's a collaboration of ideas taken from random places, anywhere from Disney movies, to theology, to the bible, to the babble of a two year old child.
No man can walk out on his own story, you are required to be an active participant in the story line even if you choose to write your story as a blank page. Your choices on faith are as follows, believe, or don't believe. But think that through. If you chose to not believe in God you may go through your life, governing yourself in a manner that suggests you don't believe in him. And let's say you get to the end of your life and you were right, there was no God, no harm no foul. But what if were wrong. What if there was a God? Now let's say you choose to believe in God, and conduct yourself in a way that suggests your faith. You get to the end of your time here, and find out you were wrong. Still, you lived your life full of love, doing right when possible, never inflicting hurt. And if you are right, thank the heavens you chose that path. To me, faith becomes logic. Why look for an excuse to do, what you inherently know is wrong.
I've used this logic to grant people the benefit of the doubt on a million occasions. I choose to believe that people are doing the best they can, because that paints a scene for my story that is hopeful and not lost to the abyss of evil and destitution that is probably more likely. I choose to believe people are inherently good because this is MY story. I get to write it. If I'm disappointed, I'm still the person at the end of the day, who believed in you. I tried. I will sleep at night knowing I tried. You are responsible for dealing with your own thoughts, and judgements.
I have thought, and rethought many things people have said/done to me in regard to the loss of my son. I choose to believe they were trying to help, or acting out of self preservation. I don't blame them. I harbor no resentment. And I have forgiven. Truly forgiven. I seek not to understand. There is no room for anger.
As a teenager, it seemed mythical and impractical. I clung to science, and religion (up until that point) had only hurt me. No God would hurt you. For me, God is not in religion, and in early development of my theology I had determined that if God was not in religion, God was not in life. It wasn't until later in life, I found Faith and Spirituality. It's something I learned while hunting.
I was in my early teen years, rowdy and hell bent to be unique and tough. My father had taken me hunting and I sat still in an oak bush, listening intently and deathly still. I watched the deer funnel down a finger to water and I observed their breath as they stood feet in front of me. I was alive with intrigue. Living, breathing, and vulnerable. They were beautiful to me, majestic and real. A small buck trailed behind the does to water, I had been intently watching for quite some time and movement was required but not possible. It would have to be controlled movements. Slow, and calculated around the attention I had not gathered, yet. I moved with my breath, inhale through my nose.....be still.......exhale through my mouth, lift hand slowly...watch, watch....be still. Over and over until I had the gun positioned into my shoulder and had not alerted the herd of my ever looming and dangerous presence in the brush. My father sat behind me, breathing encouragement under his breath in a way that only a skilled hunter could do. "Be still sister" he would hiss into the wind so only I could hear. My heart raced. My mind raced. A traditional muzzleloader, a wild animal, my breath....be still. The buck stood broadside at twenty five yards, I repeated my father's mantra over and over in my mind on how to squeeze the trigger, and don't forget to aim. My finger gripped the trigger and I squoze it with what seemed like all of the strength I had when suddenly the sound ripped through the serene setting and sent a small round ball hurling towards the vitals on the beautiful animal that stood breathing in front of me seconds before. The smoke filled my vantage and I began shaking with adrenaline and anticipation as the light breeze and the distant sound of the herd running cleared the scene. Dirt was being kicked around by hard hooves, I could smell the sulfur in the smoke still swirling my senses. There he was. Dying.
"I got him Dad!" I yelled/coughed through the smoke. "I got him!"
I scrambled to my feet, leaving the single shot muzzleloader where it lay and disregarding everything I had previously learned about reloading, and being patient. I ran to the animal, struggling for breath. Perfect vital shot. There it was. What I had done. What HAD I DONE? My dad's hand found my shoulder, and he pressed his thumb and forefinger into the nape of my neck, the way he always did. It hurt, but in a safe kind of way. It was firm. He had anticipated this. I looked at him with tears filling my eyes as the animal lay still, jerking occasionally as the nerves gave up their will to live.
He didn't speak to me right then. He just knelt by the animal and motioned for me to come closer. What had I done.
He took my hand as I knelt beside him and placed it over the animals lifeless eyes. We, together, closed the lids. I moved my hands down his neck, stroking him as if trying to comfort him in death. I could feel the energy leaving him, and I knew I had done this. How could this be right? My hands found the small entry hole where a tiny trickle of blood ran out of, and bounded down the hide to a large pool that had formed below him. The exit wound.
I cringed.
I placed my hand over the wound, and held it there forever. Warmth, wet, death. I pulled my hand up and saw it was covered in blood, and hide. I did this. My dad took his finger and placed it in the blood, he streaked it on his cheeks, and then on mine. He still didn't speak, but to me, I interpreted this action as allowing the animal to become a part of me.
We prayed. We thanked the creator. We thanked the universe. We were gracious. I fed my family. I did that. It's a weird guilty sense of pride that comes from a desire to survive, and connect with nature. It's necessary for my soul. Not to kill, but to be part of the flow of energy.
Spirituality started here for me. It's the same feeling I get every time I catch a fish. The transfer of energy. I'm gracious every time.
God became a possibility when I discovered I was pregnant. It was one step forward and two steps back when I lost my first pregnancy. It was possible again when I found out I was pregnant with Kole, and it was absolute when I held him in my arms.
I know that questioning faith is something that transpires when you lose someone, especially someone close to you, and not in a "usual order." You aren't supposed to bury your babies. From the day they are born, the race is on. I had full intention of whipping their ass in the race to the grave. I'd dive in head first in order to beat them. No question. It's not something you fathom, and something you avoid thinking about. There is a reason no one talks about it after the fact. Unfortunately, it's reality. Millions of children die every year. Millions of parents bury their babies. I did. I had to.
I believe I chose this. And in my heart of hearts I know that there is no one who was more perfectly suited to be my child's mother, than me. I wouldn't trade those four years with him, for a lifetime with anyone else. He is mine. The time was mine. I'd do it all over again, even if the outcome HAD to be the same. Even if I knew the rest of my life I'd move through the sunrise and then the sunset in so much pain that the calluses are impossible to see through. Even if I have become those calluses. I would do this over again.
For me, personally, my faith increased. It had to. I was faced with the decision in blaring hot fashion....baptism by fire (if you will.)
Somewhere along my journey I read an interesting take on faith that I have adapted to MANY aspects of my life. It's a collaboration of ideas taken from random places, anywhere from Disney movies, to theology, to the bible, to the babble of a two year old child.
No man can walk out on his own story, you are required to be an active participant in the story line even if you choose to write your story as a blank page. Your choices on faith are as follows, believe, or don't believe. But think that through. If you chose to not believe in God you may go through your life, governing yourself in a manner that suggests you don't believe in him. And let's say you get to the end of your life and you were right, there was no God, no harm no foul. But what if were wrong. What if there was a God? Now let's say you choose to believe in God, and conduct yourself in a way that suggests your faith. You get to the end of your time here, and find out you were wrong. Still, you lived your life full of love, doing right when possible, never inflicting hurt. And if you are right, thank the heavens you chose that path. To me, faith becomes logic. Why look for an excuse to do, what you inherently know is wrong.
I've used this logic to grant people the benefit of the doubt on a million occasions. I choose to believe that people are doing the best they can, because that paints a scene for my story that is hopeful and not lost to the abyss of evil and destitution that is probably more likely. I choose to believe people are inherently good because this is MY story. I get to write it. If I'm disappointed, I'm still the person at the end of the day, who believed in you. I tried. I will sleep at night knowing I tried. You are responsible for dealing with your own thoughts, and judgements.
I have thought, and rethought many things people have said/done to me in regard to the loss of my son. I choose to believe they were trying to help, or acting out of self preservation. I don't blame them. I harbor no resentment. And I have forgiven. Truly forgiven. I seek not to understand. There is no room for anger.
#8. Holding On
It was Wednesday. It had been a week. Every Wednesday my phone rang with my college mentor on the other line. It was an arrangement I made in order to prompt myself to complete the task I had said I would complete, her primary job was to ram rod me into completing my Master's degree.
I couldn't care less at this point about my education. It seemed like a distant image that was most likely a mirage and senseless to chase. But it was Wednesday.
My phone lit up, and her name came across the screen.
At first I was irrationally upset that she called at all. How dare she be so oblivious to what was dealing with and assume that on top of it all I could handle an outrageous course load I had balanced nicely before.....before this.........before my new life. My new life barely accommodated the things required for life, such as breathing.
And then I remembered it was Wednesday. Something I could count on. Maybe the only thing I could count on. I answered the phone. The first phone call I had taken in a week. I was silenced by the tone on the other end. Chipper, and upbeat. Just like usual. I exhaled.
She didn't know.
I was going to have to tell her.
Panic.
My voice constricted like a grape in the sun, shriveling to nonexistence. Barely recognizable.
"Lis," I choked......"I lost my son last week."
She was mid sentence, and the line went still.......
I could hear the movement of air as my body sunk against the wall. I clutched my knees again, ripping the scab off of my knees, watching them bleed.
"Carrie, I......."
Silence.
I could hear her tears hit the receiver. She was pregnant with her second child, and her first was Kole's age. We had talked about our children a thousand times throughout the years. She had been with me since Kole was an infant. She knew my stories. She knew my heart. She knew my love. She is one of my very best friends.
"What do you want to do?"
The questions wasn't what I had anticipated. I had expected her to bow out, like everyone else. Walk away from the hurt and leave it alone. Knowing it was too much to handle. No one can. But there it was, for the first time in what seemed like my whole life, an option.She was the first sign of hope for me. The first person who believed I might survive, and that maybe I could do it.
"Call me on Wednesday." I said, questioning, pleading, telling.
"Ok." She said in response, questioning, pleading, telling.
It was in that instant I decided that I would grieve by trying to keep everything the same. Stagnation was my impulse. Keep it still. Perhaps by clinging to what existed in my past life, I could maintain something from there, keep him with me.
It was Wednesday again, and my phone rang. It was her. Consistency. Something to rely on. What I was clinging to at the moment, what kept me alive. She let me drive the course and pick goals. We were both hopeful by my fortitude, but didn't count on the damage done by the trauma. I no longer could breeze through the course load. I couldn't read. I couldn't write. I could barely speak, and the harder I tried, the more I realized the gap in my competency. How is it possible to go from having a near photographic memory, to barely being able to read? How is the a "side effect" of traumatic situations.
I studied it relentlessly. I read about my symptoms, and with the help of more than one psychological professional diagnosed myself with PTSD. This was my new reality. Not only was I not going to be able to pick up where I left off, in a meager attempt to perpetuate my education, I was not able to function as a moderately intelligent person anymore. My intelligence had always given me a sense of security in life, a sort of edge against the competition. Now I was faced with a half completed degree, and a daunting student loan.
Another option presented itself. I could drop out. No one would blame me....in fact, they would understand, and sypathize and wrap me in words of affirmation and sentiments that were as follows;
"Honey, you can only do what you can do."
"We understand, it was very hard."
"You have the right to just be sad."
I could hear it echo. You can only do what you can do. Piss on that. I needed a win. God, I needed a win. Something to look forward to. Something I could stand on for just a moment. So I committed to finishing my degree.
And I failed.
I failed a test, the final Praxis exam. I failed it by one point. I had studied relentlessly for months, reading the page and reaching the bottom just to realize that my mind was watching the movie on the VCR, and not comprehending the words.
Rewind, push play.
I read it again, and again, and again. I read the words over and over until my eyes would hurt and I couldn't focus on the words. I read until my books were tattered and stained with tears and oil from my finger forcing my eyes to follow it by streaking across the sentences. It was like catching a wild dog, and telling it to sit still. It was no longer as simple as thinking about it, and executing. It was an active process, requiring focus, and determination.
I failed by one point. It was a new low.
Once again. A choice. Walk away, no one would blame me. They would understand.
Forget that.
I read the books again. I read them over and over. I read the study guides until I had them memorized, and then forgotten, and then memorized again. And I walked in for my next exam. Terrified. I was quiet, and shaking. I remember thinking about all of the other tests I had stormed into like a force to be reckoned with, sat down, and in a quarter of the time of everyone else, completed, took a nap, and asked to be excused. Now I was the trembling girl on the front row, clearly terrified. And notably insecure, as seen on the bead of sweat formed before she even sat down.
Pathetic I thought, and shook my head as I scribbled my name on the paper. It looked like a foreign language.
I could only think to pray. I prayed so hard my eyes hurt from squenching them shut. And was then forced to wait for results.
Rewind....push play.
I couldn't care less at this point about my education. It seemed like a distant image that was most likely a mirage and senseless to chase. But it was Wednesday.
My phone lit up, and her name came across the screen.
At first I was irrationally upset that she called at all. How dare she be so oblivious to what was dealing with and assume that on top of it all I could handle an outrageous course load I had balanced nicely before.....before this.........before my new life. My new life barely accommodated the things required for life, such as breathing.
And then I remembered it was Wednesday. Something I could count on. Maybe the only thing I could count on. I answered the phone. The first phone call I had taken in a week. I was silenced by the tone on the other end. Chipper, and upbeat. Just like usual. I exhaled.
She didn't know.
I was going to have to tell her.
Panic.
My voice constricted like a grape in the sun, shriveling to nonexistence. Barely recognizable.
"Lis," I choked......"I lost my son last week."
She was mid sentence, and the line went still.......
I could hear the movement of air as my body sunk against the wall. I clutched my knees again, ripping the scab off of my knees, watching them bleed.
"Carrie, I......."
Silence.
I could hear her tears hit the receiver. She was pregnant with her second child, and her first was Kole's age. We had talked about our children a thousand times throughout the years. She had been with me since Kole was an infant. She knew my stories. She knew my heart. She knew my love. She is one of my very best friends.
"What do you want to do?"
The questions wasn't what I had anticipated. I had expected her to bow out, like everyone else. Walk away from the hurt and leave it alone. Knowing it was too much to handle. No one can. But there it was, for the first time in what seemed like my whole life, an option.She was the first sign of hope for me. The first person who believed I might survive, and that maybe I could do it.
"Call me on Wednesday." I said, questioning, pleading, telling.
"Ok." She said in response, questioning, pleading, telling.
It was in that instant I decided that I would grieve by trying to keep everything the same. Stagnation was my impulse. Keep it still. Perhaps by clinging to what existed in my past life, I could maintain something from there, keep him with me.
It was Wednesday again, and my phone rang. It was her. Consistency. Something to rely on. What I was clinging to at the moment, what kept me alive. She let me drive the course and pick goals. We were both hopeful by my fortitude, but didn't count on the damage done by the trauma. I no longer could breeze through the course load. I couldn't read. I couldn't write. I could barely speak, and the harder I tried, the more I realized the gap in my competency. How is it possible to go from having a near photographic memory, to barely being able to read? How is the a "side effect" of traumatic situations.
I studied it relentlessly. I read about my symptoms, and with the help of more than one psychological professional diagnosed myself with PTSD. This was my new reality. Not only was I not going to be able to pick up where I left off, in a meager attempt to perpetuate my education, I was not able to function as a moderately intelligent person anymore. My intelligence had always given me a sense of security in life, a sort of edge against the competition. Now I was faced with a half completed degree, and a daunting student loan.
Another option presented itself. I could drop out. No one would blame me....in fact, they would understand, and sypathize and wrap me in words of affirmation and sentiments that were as follows;
"Honey, you can only do what you can do."
"We understand, it was very hard."
"You have the right to just be sad."
I could hear it echo. You can only do what you can do. Piss on that. I needed a win. God, I needed a win. Something to look forward to. Something I could stand on for just a moment. So I committed to finishing my degree.
And I failed.
I failed a test, the final Praxis exam. I failed it by one point. I had studied relentlessly for months, reading the page and reaching the bottom just to realize that my mind was watching the movie on the VCR, and not comprehending the words.
Rewind, push play.
I read it again, and again, and again. I read the words over and over until my eyes would hurt and I couldn't focus on the words. I read until my books were tattered and stained with tears and oil from my finger forcing my eyes to follow it by streaking across the sentences. It was like catching a wild dog, and telling it to sit still. It was no longer as simple as thinking about it, and executing. It was an active process, requiring focus, and determination.
I failed by one point. It was a new low.
Once again. A choice. Walk away, no one would blame me. They would understand.
Forget that.
I read the books again. I read them over and over. I read the study guides until I had them memorized, and then forgotten, and then memorized again. And I walked in for my next exam. Terrified. I was quiet, and shaking. I remember thinking about all of the other tests I had stormed into like a force to be reckoned with, sat down, and in a quarter of the time of everyone else, completed, took a nap, and asked to be excused. Now I was the trembling girl on the front row, clearly terrified. And notably insecure, as seen on the bead of sweat formed before she even sat down.
Pathetic I thought, and shook my head as I scribbled my name on the paper. It looked like a foreign language.
I could only think to pray. I prayed so hard my eyes hurt from squenching them shut. And was then forced to wait for results.
Rewind....push play.
#7. Breathing
"Breathe baby, just breathe."
the best advice I ever got. It's full of love, and truth. It's the four words that got me through the next few months.
After the swarm cleared I felt as though my life was punctuated by hurdles that needed to be jumped in order to survive. Each one, insurmountable. There really is no way to explain the way it felt to be me in that time frame. I stood staring as the world went by. The cold harsh reality is, the world kept moving. I couldn't fathom how people could enjoy life. How could they? It seamed like treason to me, and spurred many feelings of resentment and loathing.
I learned a lot about myself in the McDonald's drive through, on the way to the mortuary. They stopped for food. I was stunned to think that it was even open. I was under the impression that because my world had evaporated, the rest of the world surely didn't keep moving. I realized that was irrational, but none the less, there we were. I shook the anger, and replaced it with the task at hand.
I sat mentally preparing myself, not for what I was about to see, but for what I needed to say to those in the vehicle with me. What did they need to hear to get through this. I rehearsed a barrage of sentiments I had picked from the million that had been tossed in my direction. Like a pile of hats, I tried them on and selected the ones that fit. Some were ridiculous, some were sensible and logical, some where so far from left field that they provided a sort of mystical comfort. Comfort was few are far between, like a lightening bug you place in a mason jar and hope it shines forever. So quickly, they burn out.
The mortuary has a smell. It's not death in the way one would imagine, it's chemical and contrived. It's not real.
I was forced to look at my son, the first time since they took him from me at the hospital when they confirmed the obvious truth.
I was unsure what I was supposed to say to the mortician while they looked on.
"Thank you?" "He looks great"........so many hats, none of them fit.
As they raised the lid on the casket I had selected, with the lining I had selected, with the child I had created inside;
I grasped the hands of those next to me and whispered,
"Remember, he's not in there. He's behind us, holding us up."
These words were regurgitated. I heard them when I was sixteen years old and stood in line at a funeral I didn't want to be at. I watched the mother of the boy I had loved since I was five years old, look into my soul with glowing eyes and say "He's not in there, he's standing behind me, holding me up." That hat fit here.
The truth was, he didn't look good. I don't remember details, I wouldn't let myself truly look. The image I have is burned into me like a brand, I work diligently every day to overcome that sight and work towards remembering the moments before the accident. I struggle to see life. I struggle to remember those times, because in the same breath, I am forced to recall what I lost.
He was cold. My hands worked the way they always had, to button his shirt. The same shirt he had worn to my Grandfather's funeral. The same shirt he wore to his preschool graduation. The same shirt I had bought for him.
Rewind.....push play.
Tiny socks.
Hiking boots.
Rewind....push play.
Rewind....push play.
What else would he need in heaven?
His fishing pole.
His Lightning McQueen blanket.
Rewind....push play.
Rewind....push play.
His pocket knife.
I moved quickly, but with grace. Hastening what needed to be done, and knowing it was me that had to do it. I can't let him down now. I won't.
Rewind, rewind rewind...play play play.
Rewind, rewind rewind...play play play.
I wanted to protect everyone around me from this hurt, shield them. But I knew I would regret being selfish in this task. I had help. My mother in law bravely places his socks on. It made more sense for her to do it, I rarely ever did. He and I danced through life like gypsy children, tough feet and free spirited. We never wore shoes. She had made more than one effort to impress upon me the importance of socks and shoes. More than anything, I think she loved to kiss his toes. That part was hers. His daddy tied his boots, and wrapped his blanket around him. I held them, whispering the sentiments I had rehearsed in my mind, doing my best to be strong. I knew I couldn't afford to break down here, there just wasn't time. It wasn't my time.
"We are done, what do we need to do now?" I asked the mortician. He walked to the wooden box, and slowly closed the door. The hinges were silent, and the smell of formaldehyde wafted in my face as if I was being slapped with death. It's the last time I saw my son. It's the last time I felt his skin. It had to be done. It's what I did.What I did for him.
Had I attempted to prepare myself for that experience, I would have drown. There is no preparation. There is no manual, or guidance. No one to walk you through the proper steps, or what eases the blow. There is only one way to do it. You just do it.
#6. Dissimination of the Flies
My brother was laying in bed, I doubt he was asleep.........
I walked to him and like a child climbed under the sheets and pulled them tightly over my head.
It was the day after the funeral.
I began to shake. I shook so hard my muscles hurt. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around me and held firmly. At the moment he had a good grasp, the dam broke. I broke. I was lost, no longer laying in my body. I was watching from above us, watching my wrecked self writhe in physical and emotional pain like I had never felt before.
"I want my son." I said, softly, barely palatable at first. I shook harder.
"I want MY son" I began to say, emphasizing the word my as if staking claim on something that was stolen from me. He was, just that. Stolen from me.
"I WANT MY SON" I said, repetitive and out lout for the first time. He held tightly. Waiting for a storm to dwindle that may never dwindle. I raged on and on until I had nothing left in me. I hadn't eaten, I hadn't slept. I had avoided, abandoned, shut down, lost contact, and eliminated any emotional responsibility in this moment. I couldn't hold on any longer. I had gripped the edge with roughed off fingernails until they pulled free from my finger tips and left me spiraling to my demise at the bottom of hell. Rock bottom. He cried too. My hair was soaked. The cool damp air tingled my scalp and I came back to whatever reality I could clamber to and realized I was doing it again. I was hurting him with my own pain. I punished myself silently and fell to quiet whimpers and shortened breaths punctuated by broken inhaled breaths like an infant who was crying themselves to sleep. I felt myself drifting off to sleep........I fought it, but exhaustion was inevitable. My eyes closed, and the nightmares started.
I only slept for a few moments but it was long enough to know I could not continue to sleep like that. I could not have those dreams, ever again. I couldn't. I wouldn't survive it. I'd rather die. Sleeping pills maybe? But only ones that keep me from dreaming....is that possible?
When I awoke I heard the vacuum......"they are leaving" I thought.
Good.......leave me alone.
Alone.
Panic overtook me.........alone. They were all going to leave me here in the wake of this. Go back to their ordinary fucking lives, and their ordinary fucking jobs, and here I was.........
I want MY son.
I knew I couldn't ask them to stay, so I watched them all go. I hugged them, and thanked them all, hoping that someone would notice the pleading in my eyes for someone to promise to stay. Please promise you'll stay.
They come in swarms, cooing you with white noise of support and love, and then they leave. Just as quickly as they came, they leave. Leaving you with the blaring silence that can't be drown out.
Rewind.............push play.
I walked to him and like a child climbed under the sheets and pulled them tightly over my head.
It was the day after the funeral.
I began to shake. I shook so hard my muscles hurt. Instinctively he wrapped his arms around me and held firmly. At the moment he had a good grasp, the dam broke. I broke. I was lost, no longer laying in my body. I was watching from above us, watching my wrecked self writhe in physical and emotional pain like I had never felt before.
"I want my son." I said, softly, barely palatable at first. I shook harder.
"I want MY son" I began to say, emphasizing the word my as if staking claim on something that was stolen from me. He was, just that. Stolen from me.
"I WANT MY SON" I said, repetitive and out lout for the first time. He held tightly. Waiting for a storm to dwindle that may never dwindle. I raged on and on until I had nothing left in me. I hadn't eaten, I hadn't slept. I had avoided, abandoned, shut down, lost contact, and eliminated any emotional responsibility in this moment. I couldn't hold on any longer. I had gripped the edge with roughed off fingernails until they pulled free from my finger tips and left me spiraling to my demise at the bottom of hell. Rock bottom. He cried too. My hair was soaked. The cool damp air tingled my scalp and I came back to whatever reality I could clamber to and realized I was doing it again. I was hurting him with my own pain. I punished myself silently and fell to quiet whimpers and shortened breaths punctuated by broken inhaled breaths like an infant who was crying themselves to sleep. I felt myself drifting off to sleep........I fought it, but exhaustion was inevitable. My eyes closed, and the nightmares started.
I only slept for a few moments but it was long enough to know I could not continue to sleep like that. I could not have those dreams, ever again. I couldn't. I wouldn't survive it. I'd rather die. Sleeping pills maybe? But only ones that keep me from dreaming....is that possible?
When I awoke I heard the vacuum......"they are leaving" I thought.
Good.......leave me alone.
Alone.
Panic overtook me.........alone. They were all going to leave me here in the wake of this. Go back to their ordinary fucking lives, and their ordinary fucking jobs, and here I was.........
I want MY son.
I knew I couldn't ask them to stay, so I watched them all go. I hugged them, and thanked them all, hoping that someone would notice the pleading in my eyes for someone to promise to stay. Please promise you'll stay.
They come in swarms, cooing you with white noise of support and love, and then they leave. Just as quickly as they came, they leave. Leaving you with the blaring silence that can't be drown out.
Rewind.............push play.
#5. The Speech
What many of you don't know is this speech was written after not eating or sleeping for three days. No food and sleep deprivation could be considered a religious "fast" but for all intents and purposes, I just couldn't do it. My mind was ravaged, my heart was gone, my body and it's required nourishment were not a consideration or even anywhere near the table of things I cared about. But I had volunteered myself to speak on behalf of my son. On behalf of myself. I have no idea what I was thinking. There were a million moments where I felt like a captive audience watching myself move through the motions. I know I was guided by God himself in those first few days.
For instance- the very day of the accident I absolutely insisted. ADAMANTLY INSISTED on driving to Neola, finding Claude, and telling him it was not his fault. The accident was not his fault. It was just that. An accident. He was stunned to see me that day. I had done my best to clean up my rough exterior but big red scabs adorned my knees as a constant reminder and my hair was a tattered mess from the assault I had raged upon it trying to remove any trace of red. We sat on the porch of his son's house and the sun set in the West as it always had, and sitting there, I realized, it always would. He looked like a child. An old man with a child's eyes. I felt his hurt. I know his hurt. I wanted to hold him and let him cry but I didn't have the strength to lift my arms, being there was an emotional risk I had neither intended to do or knew how I'd execute with any amount of grace. It didn't matter, I was a puppet to the divine action of forgiveness and sat in total honestly in front of this man and told him it was not his fault, and I forgave him. I truly did. There was no room for anger. There was simply too much hurt. I refused to complicate my grief with incredulous notions of blame or resentment. I was wise in those first days, very wise. External influences and human nature would drive me to later complicate the emotions beyond belief. But in the first few days, divinity drove my thoughts, words, and actions. It wasn't about me.
The night before the funeral I sat in bed at my mother in law's house. It was past midnight and I felt the minutes pounding me like a drum. Writing this speech meant considering the situation. Writing this speech was an admission. It was my goodbye letter. It was a thank you note. It was a promise. A white screen blared back at me, burning my tender and swollen eyes. The curser bar blinked back at my hollow stare. I put my fingers on the keyboard and heard my best friend's voice replay in my head "Breathe baby, just breathe." My fingers stroked the keys, this is what came out.
For instance- the very day of the accident I absolutely insisted. ADAMANTLY INSISTED on driving to Neola, finding Claude, and telling him it was not his fault. The accident was not his fault. It was just that. An accident. He was stunned to see me that day. I had done my best to clean up my rough exterior but big red scabs adorned my knees as a constant reminder and my hair was a tattered mess from the assault I had raged upon it trying to remove any trace of red. We sat on the porch of his son's house and the sun set in the West as it always had, and sitting there, I realized, it always would. He looked like a child. An old man with a child's eyes. I felt his hurt. I know his hurt. I wanted to hold him and let him cry but I didn't have the strength to lift my arms, being there was an emotional risk I had neither intended to do or knew how I'd execute with any amount of grace. It didn't matter, I was a puppet to the divine action of forgiveness and sat in total honestly in front of this man and told him it was not his fault, and I forgave him. I truly did. There was no room for anger. There was simply too much hurt. I refused to complicate my grief with incredulous notions of blame or resentment. I was wise in those first days, very wise. External influences and human nature would drive me to later complicate the emotions beyond belief. But in the first few days, divinity drove my thoughts, words, and actions. It wasn't about me.
The night before the funeral I sat in bed at my mother in law's house. It was past midnight and I felt the minutes pounding me like a drum. Writing this speech meant considering the situation. Writing this speech was an admission. It was my goodbye letter. It was a thank you note. It was a promise. A white screen blared back at me, burning my tender and swollen eyes. The curser bar blinked back at my hollow stare. I put my fingers on the keyboard and heard my best friend's voice replay in my head "Breathe baby, just breathe." My fingers stroked the keys, this is what came out.
For Now-
Many
of you might not have noticed this, but when a bailer drives past your
window, at midnight, through endless tears, it sounds like a heart
beating. The rhythmic sound filled my heart with peace, while I found
the strength to find the words I have been looking for since Wednesday.This is the hardest thing I will ever have to go through. This is the hardest speech I will ever have to give. I have looked many places for guidance in finding the right words for this moment. While deep in prayer and overwhelmed with grief I pleaded with the Lord for help, I pleaded for his guidance and comfort. With clenched fists, and a shattered heart I held my breath waiting for something, anything to help me find my sanity and the will to survive the pain. My youngest son Weston came busting through the door, he grabbed me by the hand and said
“Mommy, get up.”
I have
an image in my mind of an open field that seems to go forever. The sky
is a vivid blue with only a few white puffy clouds that float aimlessly
in the distant overhead. Every flower that God had ever taken the
time to sculpt and paint is strewn in beautiful disarray across a
welcome green background. A tiny path has been pushed through the
field, and winds from side to side, back and forth across this collage
of beauty. Although baby foot prints push the path, not a single flower
is crushed, not a single flower is left unappreciated. At the end of
the path, is my baby boy. His face is overcome with joy and pride as he
bends down to pick a simple dandelion. He picked me; nothing fancy,
nothing dramatically unique, but I was perfect for him, and he was
perfect for me.
I believe that’s where this journey started. When he decided I was his mommy.
I won’t even begin to explain to you my pain. I have no interest in sharing it, or letting it go for now. The only thing stronger than my pain, is my love for my son. And I need to feel both, while I try to find a way to live again. For my little friends who are worried I will never be the same. Oh, Sweet babies, I won’t. My heart will never be the same. Part of it lies in a wooden box, on the side of a hill, watching the clouds in the day, and the stars in the night. But, on the other side of my life’s great tragedy, I will find love and hope that is deeper than I have ever felt before. I will spend more time chasing butterflies, and catching the sunshine.
Although I can’t explain my pain, I will explain to you are the gifts I have received in the last week.
I have a very clear sense of family. This group of people who have banded together to lift my family back to a state of living are phenomenal people who deserve all of the blessings there are to offer.
I know what fear is, and I know that I’m not scared. This Earth is a tough one, and as each day passes we must gain the strength to persevere.
I know that love conquers all. And together, we will move mountains. And if we can’t, we will leap frog over them.
I remember the pain I felt on the day you were born, it was intense, and felt like it would never end. But at the end of the hurt and the tears, I was blessed with new life. We must all begin a new process of labor. We will all feel the pain, and cry the tears, but I promise you when we make it to the end of the labor, there will be new life.
I’ve told many of you this before, and I will tell you again. Hold your babies when your arms are tired. Rock them to sleep, every night. Let them feel mud ooze between their toes, and coat their gentle skin. Skip down the road, even if someone might see you. Try to swing over the bar. Sing at the top of your lungs, with the window down and the radio blaring. When given the opportunity to choose between spending time with your child, and dealing with the logistics of life, pick your child. You will never regret the things you did, but you will always long for the things you didn’t do.
Author Unknown
Tiny Angel
Tiny Angel rest your wings
sit with me for awhile.
How I long to hold your hand,
And see your tender smile.
Tiny Angel, look at me,I want this image clear....
That I will forget your precious face
Is my biggest fear.
Tiny Angel can you tell me,
Why you have gone away?
You weren't here for very long....
Why is it, you couldn't stay?
Tiny Angel shook his head,
"These things I do not know....
But I do know that you love me,
And that I love you so".
I say these things in the name of Jesus Christ,
Amen
#4. Crow Chasing the Butterfly
I'm not sure I spoke for weeks. I remember the eyes of those I conversed with far beyond the words said. I knew I was in bad shape, I saw my reflection in their sincere concern.
"How are you?"
Rage.
"Well if you need anything, don't hesitate to call."
Despair.
People flocked around me like flies would circle a decrepit corpse......the corpse was my life. The familiar buzz of the people became a white noise I conducted myself by. It became a game to survive each encounter and convince them I was "doing ok." In spite of myself, and in hindsite I probably really was doing ok. Probably better than ok. If I had acted in a manner that my mind screamed at me to do, I would still be laying in the hay field behind the house, begging to trade Koley places. Or in the horse barn, throwing pallets against the wall, allowing myself to rage war on my circumstances in a vain attempt to change it.
It was right after I had finished getting cleaned up at my sister in law's house. We had decided to go to my Mother in Law's house (who was out of town on vacation, and unreachable at the time.) We went there to hide. I don't know who was with me, I don't remember who was there, I don't remember why I felt so inclined but I walked in the front door and saw people in the kitchen, breathless at the site of me. I walked in the front door, and right out the back. I jumped the fence, barefoot still, and walked to the barn. I screamed. I fell to my knees and the tears flowed again. I screamed and felt rage boil in me like lava in a volcano. I spewed venom and hate at the walls of the barn. Both fists plunged into the soil throwing it at the silver walls while the horses stood alert and concerned. I threw pallets that once leaned harmlessly against the walls. They didn't break. Why didn't they shatter like me? I remember throwing them again, trying to make them shatter. I screamed profanities with enough violence to silence the neighbor dogs who had chimed into my bellowing. I collapsed into the dirt and lay there breathing. It was the only sound. Silence closed it. It was deafening. I wrapped my hair into my fingers and knotted it around my hands, pulling it, ripping it to drown out the sound of my rage. I could hear it pulling from my scalp.
Rewind, push play.
No one came. No one followed me. Part of me was thankful to not have to explain my behavior or be judged by it, the other half felt entirely and utterly alone. Like the last person alive, and not by choice. I whispered "let me go please let me go."
Silence.
I brushed off the dirt, straightened my tressels of what I believed to still be blood soaked hair and walked into the house, to face the flies.
Days later,
Someone had decided that a family therapy session was a good idea. Up until that point, I had not discussed my recurrent movie, and had not wanted to. I had cried, and cried, and cried....that routine was working for me in terms of survival. Just leave me alone.
We sat in a circle while a man sat in front of me. I had seen him before in couple's therapy that Kenneth and I had attempted earlier that year. I didn't like him. I didn't like his approach, and I didn't like his presence now. I coached myself into civility and admitted I was going to need help. Maybe this would open dialogue. Maybe this will drown out the silence.
I sat on the floor with my knees pressed into my chest. I wrapped my arms round my legs and found my fingers stroking the scabs that remained on my knees. They were healing, I traced my fingernail under the edge, and ripped it off. Fresh red blood surfaced.
Rewind, push play.
I closed my eyes tightly and took a breath, waiting.
It didn't feel like group therapy. It felt like an intervention. The room was silent and the therapist looked at me and said "so Carrie, I feel it would be helpful if you told us what happened." I stared blankly as I felt my first of many anxiety attacks building in my chest. "um....."
I realize now that curiosity drives people. More often than not the reality is far easier to deal with than the imagination, and the blanks it tends to fill with horror.
The truth.
The truth is, what I had seen is worse than anyone's imagination. I felt rage now.
The room was still. All eyes on me.
"What do you want me to say? I said, fighting the tears..........What do you want me to tell you Leon? That I picked my son's skull up off of the road, that I felt his brain on my finger tips?"
I heard my mother in law gasp. My eyes shot to her and I watched her collapse into her husband. I was succumb with shock. What had I done. What had I done.
The words "Oh my God." leaked from my lips like a canyon breeze in the evening. I stood up, and walked out....barefoot still. I climbed more fences, kept walking, oblivious to the abrasions my feet were enduring. I wanted to disappear. I had just inflicted more pain in a five second time frame than was necessary to endure in a lifetime. I lay in a hayfield and watched the purple flowers dance. I lay there and promised I wouldn't do what I'm doing now. I promised I'd never tell the story in full detail because the details were unimportant. Only I was there. Only I was 4 feet away. There was a reason God didn't subject these poor people to that scene. It's my movie. This is mine.
Rewind, push play.
Of all of the things I have done in my life, that moment changed me forever. There was no room for anger. There is never room for anger. Fill the space with love. Never inflict harm on anyone, avoid it at all costs. I am truly sorry for that moment.
The flies lasted until the funeral. A constant hover I had hated, and relied on all at the same time. It's not that I'm unappreciative of the love and outpouring of support we experienced, quite on the contrary. I am eternally grateful. But I didn't want to be grateful, I didn't want to have to be. Showing gracious gestures was admitting I needed them, admitting I needed them supported the idea that I really had lost my son. I didn't want to admit it. It was like a long slow dance that I didn't know the steps to, so I faked it. I faked it all, moving with the silence and doing my best to sidestep all interaction. I had no words, for anyone. Yet there I was, consoling the broken hearts who had met my son, or knew one of us who had. I held them in their suffering because I was the mother. I am the mother. It's my job. None of it seemed real.
"How are you?"
Rage.
"Well if you need anything, don't hesitate to call."
Despair.
People flocked around me like flies would circle a decrepit corpse......the corpse was my life. The familiar buzz of the people became a white noise I conducted myself by. It became a game to survive each encounter and convince them I was "doing ok." In spite of myself, and in hindsite I probably really was doing ok. Probably better than ok. If I had acted in a manner that my mind screamed at me to do, I would still be laying in the hay field behind the house, begging to trade Koley places. Or in the horse barn, throwing pallets against the wall, allowing myself to rage war on my circumstances in a vain attempt to change it.
It was right after I had finished getting cleaned up at my sister in law's house. We had decided to go to my Mother in Law's house (who was out of town on vacation, and unreachable at the time.) We went there to hide. I don't know who was with me, I don't remember who was there, I don't remember why I felt so inclined but I walked in the front door and saw people in the kitchen, breathless at the site of me. I walked in the front door, and right out the back. I jumped the fence, barefoot still, and walked to the barn. I screamed. I fell to my knees and the tears flowed again. I screamed and felt rage boil in me like lava in a volcano. I spewed venom and hate at the walls of the barn. Both fists plunged into the soil throwing it at the silver walls while the horses stood alert and concerned. I threw pallets that once leaned harmlessly against the walls. They didn't break. Why didn't they shatter like me? I remember throwing them again, trying to make them shatter. I screamed profanities with enough violence to silence the neighbor dogs who had chimed into my bellowing. I collapsed into the dirt and lay there breathing. It was the only sound. Silence closed it. It was deafening. I wrapped my hair into my fingers and knotted it around my hands, pulling it, ripping it to drown out the sound of my rage. I could hear it pulling from my scalp.
Rewind, push play.
No one came. No one followed me. Part of me was thankful to not have to explain my behavior or be judged by it, the other half felt entirely and utterly alone. Like the last person alive, and not by choice. I whispered "let me go please let me go."
Silence.
I brushed off the dirt, straightened my tressels of what I believed to still be blood soaked hair and walked into the house, to face the flies.
Days later,
Someone had decided that a family therapy session was a good idea. Up until that point, I had not discussed my recurrent movie, and had not wanted to. I had cried, and cried, and cried....that routine was working for me in terms of survival. Just leave me alone.
We sat in a circle while a man sat in front of me. I had seen him before in couple's therapy that Kenneth and I had attempted earlier that year. I didn't like him. I didn't like his approach, and I didn't like his presence now. I coached myself into civility and admitted I was going to need help. Maybe this would open dialogue. Maybe this will drown out the silence.
I sat on the floor with my knees pressed into my chest. I wrapped my arms round my legs and found my fingers stroking the scabs that remained on my knees. They were healing, I traced my fingernail under the edge, and ripped it off. Fresh red blood surfaced.
Rewind, push play.
I closed my eyes tightly and took a breath, waiting.
It didn't feel like group therapy. It felt like an intervention. The room was silent and the therapist looked at me and said "so Carrie, I feel it would be helpful if you told us what happened." I stared blankly as I felt my first of many anxiety attacks building in my chest. "um....."
I realize now that curiosity drives people. More often than not the reality is far easier to deal with than the imagination, and the blanks it tends to fill with horror.
The truth.
The truth is, what I had seen is worse than anyone's imagination. I felt rage now.
The room was still. All eyes on me.
"What do you want me to say? I said, fighting the tears..........What do you want me to tell you Leon? That I picked my son's skull up off of the road, that I felt his brain on my finger tips?"
I heard my mother in law gasp. My eyes shot to her and I watched her collapse into her husband. I was succumb with shock. What had I done. What had I done.
The words "Oh my God." leaked from my lips like a canyon breeze in the evening. I stood up, and walked out....barefoot still. I climbed more fences, kept walking, oblivious to the abrasions my feet were enduring. I wanted to disappear. I had just inflicted more pain in a five second time frame than was necessary to endure in a lifetime. I lay in a hayfield and watched the purple flowers dance. I lay there and promised I wouldn't do what I'm doing now. I promised I'd never tell the story in full detail because the details were unimportant. Only I was there. Only I was 4 feet away. There was a reason God didn't subject these poor people to that scene. It's my movie. This is mine.
Rewind, push play.
Of all of the things I have done in my life, that moment changed me forever. There was no room for anger. There is never room for anger. Fill the space with love. Never inflict harm on anyone, avoid it at all costs. I am truly sorry for that moment.
The flies lasted until the funeral. A constant hover I had hated, and relied on all at the same time. It's not that I'm unappreciative of the love and outpouring of support we experienced, quite on the contrary. I am eternally grateful. But I didn't want to be grateful, I didn't want to have to be. Showing gracious gestures was admitting I needed them, admitting I needed them supported the idea that I really had lost my son. I didn't want to admit it. It was like a long slow dance that I didn't know the steps to, so I faked it. I faked it all, moving with the silence and doing my best to sidestep all interaction. I had no words, for anyone. Yet there I was, consoling the broken hearts who had met my son, or knew one of us who had. I held them in their suffering because I was the mother. I am the mother. It's my job. None of it seemed real.
#3. No Guarantee
I was born on a Friday in June. I died on a Wednesday of the same month.
I learned to love at an early age, and found that the good Lord graced me with the inability to do anything partially. I love with my whole heart, from the bottom of my toes. My children are the life blood of everything good in my world. They breathe life into each day with a beauty and intrigue only paralleled by the sunrise. I love from a place I don't think many people understand. It's innocent and pure, never selfish. When I am driven to truly love someone, I find myself in near pain from the overwhelming desire to encapsulate them in honesty, hope, vision, fortitude, and strength. I've often tried to define what love is to me, but found it easier to list the things that love is not.
Love is not selfish.
Love has no motive.
Love is not attachment.
Love is not insecure.
Love does not break your heart.
Love is not a condition.
Although that is no where near a complete list, the most important for me (today) is as follows:
Love is no guarantee.
I have debated greatly on what details I would share with this writing. In deciding, I found it important to determine an objective. Brazenly throwing my heart out for examination is reckless and dangerous and opens me up for speculation and potential harm. My goal here is to offer some sort of hand to those going through something hard in their life. Some battle. For me, this takes an insane amount of courage. I hope that is not lost on anyone.
I have always believed that broken hearts sympathize with those that resemble their own. I have a unique ability to empathize with most people because I understand, in great depth, life's ability to strip you of all sense of security and hope. And the overwhelming notion that you are utterly and completely alone in your fight to survive. I assure you, you are not alone. You are not crazy. Neither am I. But of the barrage of emotions a person goes through in their life, only a very few are ever discussed. I will do my very best to be explicit and honest, with full regard to my own sanity and the damage and vulnerability this does to myself, and in turn my daily interactions.
Big ...........Deep......... Breath.
Even though I play June 22 over and over and over in my mind, it comes in short bursts of intensity, like lightening in desert thunder storm. I'll find myself completely detached from reality for a few moments, just long enough to paint the image, and send me reeling. Coming back from the images requires conscience effort and great determination.
I remember small things, and I remember big things. Things that shouldn't have any significance are now the things that threaten to destroy my life daily.
I remember thinking how beautiful the sun looked kissing my children that morning.
I remember mowing the lawn, and having to stop before every tall dandelion so my kids could pick them for me.
I remember watching them play while I worked around the yard.
I remember the song I was listening to, and thinking in the moment that it was significant for some reason. The lyrics haunt me to this day. "I painted your room at midnight, so I'd know that yesterday was over."
I remember all of the people I love the most being around us, like an unannounced, unplanned going away party.
I remember the sound of Claud's voice saying "Be decent for once would ya?" as he pulled forward.
I remember the sound of the bike being crushed.
I remember the sound of the little girl behind me saying "Carrie, Kole is under there."
I remember dropping to my knees.
I remember the scream........I think it was my own scream. I heard it over and over but don't remember filling my lungs with air.
I remember the tar covered pebbles pressed into my blood soaked knees.
I remember the heat of the road burning into my thighs.
I remember a woman saying "you have to try CPR or you will never forgive yourself"
I remember the wetness of his baby blood pouring down me when I pressed his tiny mouth to mine.
I remember the way it tasted. I remember the way it smelled like copper pennies.
I remember sirens.
I remember lights.
I remember the white sheet.
Shock.
Total shock.
I remember calling Kole's dad, and the only words I had were "Kole is dead."
I remember his voice coming back through the phone like a plead more than a question "What?" he repeated over and over.
I was screaming again.
Rocking back and forth.
I remember the woman who sat with me.
I remember begging for her to pray.
I remember hating her when she prayed for me, and not for my son. I knew in that moment that my worst fears were realized. They were praying for me. My son was gone.
I remember his tiny hands, limp as i pressed them to my face, begging God to let them touch me.
I remember the way it felt when Jesus took him from my arms.
I remember driving to the hospital with my best friend and my husband. He was gone. She kept her eyes on mine, holding me there like a lifeline to what little awareness I had to the ongoing world. She held me there like a seasoned vet in the art of loss. Alone, and blood soaked I sat across the ambulance from her, in slow motion taking everything in and seeing nothing. I only saw her eyes. "Breathe baby," she said, "Just breathe."
Like a broken record this plays in my mind, stuck on repeat. I will it to repeat. I make it start over and over. Remembering is a pain second only to the idea of forgetting it. Poignant and defining, this is where I began. Everything prior to this day is obsolete and foreign to me now.
What I saw was horrific, my absolute worst nightmare.
I was educated enough in the field of biology and psychology to know instantly that there was no hope. I am plagued with disbelief still to this day, but am forced to open my eyes to it and face it every single day.
What many of you don't realize is every day is a choice. Whether you wake up on the street, or you wake up in a mansion in Fiji, the truth of the matter is, you make a decision to continue breathing. You absolutely, do not have to. For many days after the accident, I absolutely did not want to. It wasn't a suicidal thought process, as much as a lack of soul. I had no soul. My heart was at the mortuary, and my soul was a tar covered pebble soaked in blood. I felt crazy. I felt lost and confused. And yet there was my beautiful hazel eyed two year old, toddling around my mother in law's house, looking for his brother, and looking form me.
I don't remember thinking about much. I just remember the whole experience being like a VCR, hit record and watch it backwards, when it clicks, push play and watch it forward.
Cleaning up after the accident was a terrifying ordeal. Blood has a new significance to me now. I went into the bathroom of my Sister in Law's home. Alone for the first time. Alone with my reflection. I saw at that moment what I had envisioned, only worse. Particulate stuck to my body, blood matted my hair. I alone was enough to scare anyone, compounded with the days events was something Stephen King wouldn't touch. It was too much. I looked at myself for a long time, blinking slowly at my reflection. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was a moment of rebirth. My clothes had adhered to my skin, glued down in red. My skin was caked in burgundy and sticky black tar that had melted on the black top and adhered to my exposed legs and forearms. I peeled my shirt up, listening to the crackle of the stiff material as I pulled it over my head. Rage coursed through me. Blaring hot rage, like the bubbles of tar on the road, I wanted to explode and cover everything around me in the darkness that was closing in. I slipped off my daisy duke shorts and stared at them blankly laying at my feet. Guilt. Why had I put them on, why did I require attention, did it kill my son? Did I kill my son. More rage. The shower was on I noticed after a few minutes. Someone must have turned it on, it was beyond me. I don't remember the drive to the house. I don't remember words said. I remember no shoes, leaving the hospital after they asked me to pull back the sheet so they could "confirm death."
Blaring, deep, resentful, rage.
The water wasn't hot enough. The water is never hot enough to remove the blood. I turned it all the way to the left and watched the steam billow out of the bathtub. I climbed in and know it scalded me but I felt nothing. I watched the white tub streak red at first, and then it was covered the way I was. I sat in the basin and watched the red surround me, and then run down the drain. He was running down the drain.
Rewind, push play.
The red wouldn't come off. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. I scoured my skin with every ounce of soap I could find and used my fingernails to scrape red. I then realized it ran from my hair. Still matted after what seemed an eternity in the water. I washed it, and rinsed it and washed it again. It wouldn't come clean. I could never be clean again. It was all or nothing. Leave my body soaked, or remove it all. My knees were bleeding now. The pebbles that were pressed into them like a queen's rhinestone were now laying in the drain and in their place, perfect indentations that mixed my own blood with my child's.
Despair. I can't win. I'll never win again. I have lost. Everything.
Guilt.
Rage.
Rewind, push play.
The water was cold. Freezing now. I hadn't noticed. Now there were tears. Finally there were tears. Forever, there would be tears.
My frozen and shaking body prompted me to turn off the water. I sat dripping wet and naked in the tub, unwilling to face what lay beyond the seclusion. Had I known, I might have stayed in there longer.
I would discover over the next few days a spectrum of emotion that neither has a limit on low, or high. I would find out what seclusion really was. Seclusion that was felt while standing in front of God and a thousand people, alone. Today was the first day of the rest of my life, and the last day of my son's life.
Rewind, push play.
I learned to love at an early age, and found that the good Lord graced me with the inability to do anything partially. I love with my whole heart, from the bottom of my toes. My children are the life blood of everything good in my world. They breathe life into each day with a beauty and intrigue only paralleled by the sunrise. I love from a place I don't think many people understand. It's innocent and pure, never selfish. When I am driven to truly love someone, I find myself in near pain from the overwhelming desire to encapsulate them in honesty, hope, vision, fortitude, and strength. I've often tried to define what love is to me, but found it easier to list the things that love is not.
Love is not selfish.
Love has no motive.
Love is not attachment.
Love is not insecure.
Love does not break your heart.
Love is not a condition.
Although that is no where near a complete list, the most important for me (today) is as follows:
Love is no guarantee.
I have debated greatly on what details I would share with this writing. In deciding, I found it important to determine an objective. Brazenly throwing my heart out for examination is reckless and dangerous and opens me up for speculation and potential harm. My goal here is to offer some sort of hand to those going through something hard in their life. Some battle. For me, this takes an insane amount of courage. I hope that is not lost on anyone.
I have always believed that broken hearts sympathize with those that resemble their own. I have a unique ability to empathize with most people because I understand, in great depth, life's ability to strip you of all sense of security and hope. And the overwhelming notion that you are utterly and completely alone in your fight to survive. I assure you, you are not alone. You are not crazy. Neither am I. But of the barrage of emotions a person goes through in their life, only a very few are ever discussed. I will do my very best to be explicit and honest, with full regard to my own sanity and the damage and vulnerability this does to myself, and in turn my daily interactions.
Big ...........Deep......... Breath.
Even though I play June 22 over and over and over in my mind, it comes in short bursts of intensity, like lightening in desert thunder storm. I'll find myself completely detached from reality for a few moments, just long enough to paint the image, and send me reeling. Coming back from the images requires conscience effort and great determination.
I remember small things, and I remember big things. Things that shouldn't have any significance are now the things that threaten to destroy my life daily.
I remember thinking how beautiful the sun looked kissing my children that morning.
I remember mowing the lawn, and having to stop before every tall dandelion so my kids could pick them for me.
I remember watching them play while I worked around the yard.
I remember the song I was listening to, and thinking in the moment that it was significant for some reason. The lyrics haunt me to this day. "I painted your room at midnight, so I'd know that yesterday was over."
I remember all of the people I love the most being around us, like an unannounced, unplanned going away party.
I remember the sound of Claud's voice saying "Be decent for once would ya?" as he pulled forward.
I remember the sound of the bike being crushed.
I remember the sound of the little girl behind me saying "Carrie, Kole is under there."
I remember dropping to my knees.
I remember the scream........I think it was my own scream. I heard it over and over but don't remember filling my lungs with air.
I remember the tar covered pebbles pressed into my blood soaked knees.
I remember the heat of the road burning into my thighs.
I remember a woman saying "you have to try CPR or you will never forgive yourself"
I remember the wetness of his baby blood pouring down me when I pressed his tiny mouth to mine.
I remember the way it tasted. I remember the way it smelled like copper pennies.
I remember sirens.
I remember lights.
I remember the white sheet.
Shock.
Total shock.
I remember calling Kole's dad, and the only words I had were "Kole is dead."
I remember his voice coming back through the phone like a plead more than a question "What?" he repeated over and over.
I was screaming again.
Rocking back and forth.
I remember the woman who sat with me.
I remember begging for her to pray.
I remember hating her when she prayed for me, and not for my son. I knew in that moment that my worst fears were realized. They were praying for me. My son was gone.
I remember his tiny hands, limp as i pressed them to my face, begging God to let them touch me.
I remember the way it felt when Jesus took him from my arms.
I remember driving to the hospital with my best friend and my husband. He was gone. She kept her eyes on mine, holding me there like a lifeline to what little awareness I had to the ongoing world. She held me there like a seasoned vet in the art of loss. Alone, and blood soaked I sat across the ambulance from her, in slow motion taking everything in and seeing nothing. I only saw her eyes. "Breathe baby," she said, "Just breathe."
Like a broken record this plays in my mind, stuck on repeat. I will it to repeat. I make it start over and over. Remembering is a pain second only to the idea of forgetting it. Poignant and defining, this is where I began. Everything prior to this day is obsolete and foreign to me now.
What I saw was horrific, my absolute worst nightmare.
I was educated enough in the field of biology and psychology to know instantly that there was no hope. I am plagued with disbelief still to this day, but am forced to open my eyes to it and face it every single day.
What many of you don't realize is every day is a choice. Whether you wake up on the street, or you wake up in a mansion in Fiji, the truth of the matter is, you make a decision to continue breathing. You absolutely, do not have to. For many days after the accident, I absolutely did not want to. It wasn't a suicidal thought process, as much as a lack of soul. I had no soul. My heart was at the mortuary, and my soul was a tar covered pebble soaked in blood. I felt crazy. I felt lost and confused. And yet there was my beautiful hazel eyed two year old, toddling around my mother in law's house, looking for his brother, and looking form me.
I don't remember thinking about much. I just remember the whole experience being like a VCR, hit record and watch it backwards, when it clicks, push play and watch it forward.
Cleaning up after the accident was a terrifying ordeal. Blood has a new significance to me now. I went into the bathroom of my Sister in Law's home. Alone for the first time. Alone with my reflection. I saw at that moment what I had envisioned, only worse. Particulate stuck to my body, blood matted my hair. I alone was enough to scare anyone, compounded with the days events was something Stephen King wouldn't touch. It was too much. I looked at myself for a long time, blinking slowly at my reflection. I didn't realize it at the time, but it was a moment of rebirth. My clothes had adhered to my skin, glued down in red. My skin was caked in burgundy and sticky black tar that had melted on the black top and adhered to my exposed legs and forearms. I peeled my shirt up, listening to the crackle of the stiff material as I pulled it over my head. Rage coursed through me. Blaring hot rage, like the bubbles of tar on the road, I wanted to explode and cover everything around me in the darkness that was closing in. I slipped off my daisy duke shorts and stared at them blankly laying at my feet. Guilt. Why had I put them on, why did I require attention, did it kill my son? Did I kill my son. More rage. The shower was on I noticed after a few minutes. Someone must have turned it on, it was beyond me. I don't remember the drive to the house. I don't remember words said. I remember no shoes, leaving the hospital after they asked me to pull back the sheet so they could "confirm death."
Blaring, deep, resentful, rage.
The water wasn't hot enough. The water is never hot enough to remove the blood. I turned it all the way to the left and watched the steam billow out of the bathtub. I climbed in and know it scalded me but I felt nothing. I watched the white tub streak red at first, and then it was covered the way I was. I sat in the basin and watched the red surround me, and then run down the drain. He was running down the drain.
Rewind, push play.
The red wouldn't come off. I scrubbed and scrubbed and scrubbed. I scoured my skin with every ounce of soap I could find and used my fingernails to scrape red. I then realized it ran from my hair. Still matted after what seemed an eternity in the water. I washed it, and rinsed it and washed it again. It wouldn't come clean. I could never be clean again. It was all or nothing. Leave my body soaked, or remove it all. My knees were bleeding now. The pebbles that were pressed into them like a queen's rhinestone were now laying in the drain and in their place, perfect indentations that mixed my own blood with my child's.
Despair. I can't win. I'll never win again. I have lost. Everything.
Guilt.
Rage.
Rewind, push play.
The water was cold. Freezing now. I hadn't noticed. Now there were tears. Finally there were tears. Forever, there would be tears.
My frozen and shaking body prompted me to turn off the water. I sat dripping wet and naked in the tub, unwilling to face what lay beyond the seclusion. Had I known, I might have stayed in there longer.
I would discover over the next few days a spectrum of emotion that neither has a limit on low, or high. I would find out what seclusion really was. Seclusion that was felt while standing in front of God and a thousand people, alone. Today was the first day of the rest of my life, and the last day of my son's life.
Rewind, push play.
Friday, July 19, 2013
#2. No Place to Start
I don't want to do this.
In my mind I am a tiny child laying in the middle of the floor, crushing myself into the fetal position, screaming "NO" while I'm being beaten to death by all of the things I love the most. I suffer from severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. For those of you who don't suffer from it will have no basis for comparison to the way it feels, the loss of control. I will do my best to be sympathetic to your inexperience, and hopefully I'll breed empathy into you. Not for a single moment do I want you to fully understand, nor do I want you to show me sympathy. No one wants to be a member of this club. I don't want to be this broken. I don't want to hurt this badly. And the last thing I want is to expose those emotions in order to solicit "the look" from people. The look of utter discouragement and despair that I see painted across the faces of people who know my story. The look that says "you poor thing." The look that labels me.
God, I don't want to do this.
This is my reality.
The words I'm going to say are honest. They are more honest than I want to admit and I choke on the thoughts, let alone the words. The reality is far worse than the speculation in this instance. The only thing that compares to what happened to me are the nightmares I play over and over and over and over, as real as the sun on my skin on a blaring hot summer day. They sting my mind, and my heart, every time I close my eyes.
I wrote once in a letter to my Aunt that I am a product of my past, and a testament to my future. In order to understand that statement, you would have to understand that my life is punctuated into chapters. Different people played the lead in each. I have no idea who the girl was in the first few chapters, through childhood and teenage years. I have no idea who the woman was who was married in the mid chapters. The woman who birthed two perfect children is a complete stranger to me now.
The woman who lay on the pavement, holding my lifeless child, is who I am now.
That's where this has to start.
I know it. God knows it. My baby knows it.
That's where this starts. At the end.
In my mind I am a tiny child laying in the middle of the floor, crushing myself into the fetal position, screaming "NO" while I'm being beaten to death by all of the things I love the most. I suffer from severe Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. For those of you who don't suffer from it will have no basis for comparison to the way it feels, the loss of control. I will do my best to be sympathetic to your inexperience, and hopefully I'll breed empathy into you. Not for a single moment do I want you to fully understand, nor do I want you to show me sympathy. No one wants to be a member of this club. I don't want to be this broken. I don't want to hurt this badly. And the last thing I want is to expose those emotions in order to solicit "the look" from people. The look of utter discouragement and despair that I see painted across the faces of people who know my story. The look that says "you poor thing." The look that labels me.
God, I don't want to do this.
This is my reality.
The words I'm going to say are honest. They are more honest than I want to admit and I choke on the thoughts, let alone the words. The reality is far worse than the speculation in this instance. The only thing that compares to what happened to me are the nightmares I play over and over and over and over, as real as the sun on my skin on a blaring hot summer day. They sting my mind, and my heart, every time I close my eyes.
I wrote once in a letter to my Aunt that I am a product of my past, and a testament to my future. In order to understand that statement, you would have to understand that my life is punctuated into chapters. Different people played the lead in each. I have no idea who the girl was in the first few chapters, through childhood and teenage years. I have no idea who the woman was who was married in the mid chapters. The woman who birthed two perfect children is a complete stranger to me now.
The woman who lay on the pavement, holding my lifeless child, is who I am now.
That's where this has to start.
I know it. God knows it. My baby knows it.
That's where this starts. At the end.
Thursday, July 18, 2013
#1. The Prompt to Write
- I drafted this letter to a dear person in my
life....she encouraged me to write. I have relented only because I may be able
to help someone...in some way. -
Only a true person with true life experience could
see the hurt within a contrived and well placed picture.......I try very hard
to hide it, not because I'm ashamed, but because I don't seek comfort from
anyone. No one understands. It is my purpose to offer comfort; I know a true
depth of hurt and people find that comforting, oddly enough.
Where I am?.... well, I've ran from intimacy, hid
from love, been disgraced and discouraged, beaten and abused...I've been lied
to, cheated on, discriminated against and let down. I've had my heart broke,
and I've broke my own heart. I'm a product of my history and a testament to the
future. I live in the moment because I don't believe in tomorrow.
But I've learned to love in the face of sheer
terror....I've learned to walk through fire with no fear. Worry less. Pray
more.
I found that I not only love with my whole heart,
but respect the human spirit and capacity for connection more than anything.
And I've found that to be the difference between long term and short term
relationships and interactions. I've coped in ways I didn't know were possible
and found new paths for surviving. I am a rock and although I stand on my own
two feet, I know I have love there supporting me, and ready to catch if I fall.
Footprints in the sand.
I'm at this weird place right now where I battle
between happiness and guilt. I'm a deep believer in signs from the universe and
messages that aren't always as clear as we would like them to be.
I've looked for my former self, and tried
tirelessly to reconnect with that person, and to no avail. I'm moving away from
that notion and have found that a gentle progress of a wild bear trollops the
concept of the majestic beast caged and on display. So forward I run, stumble,
and fall....in love, deeply. And for the moment, I'm safe and sound.
With love,
Little Sister
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