A Break

It's hard to believe that we've been in this "new" state of normal for almost two months now. And while we've created new routines and some things have become easier, there is still much that we struggle with, much that we don't understand. And we try to prepare for some sort of new future that we don't know what it will look like or when we might see it. 

It's exhausting. And heartbreaking. 

And it doesn't help that those feelings only exacerbate all the other fear and pain and sadness you were already experiencing. It's a lot for anyone to deal with. And what's worst is that we often feel as if we're dealing with it all alone. 

But nothing could be further from the truth. I listened to a really good sermon yesterday that reminded me that no matter what, God is already here. He is already present. He is always by my side. Instead of seeing him clearly, I let my fear and pain and sadness cloud my vision. 

I've been struggling with some things lately and today I decided I needed a break. A mental health day. And I'm grateful for family and a boss and a job that will allow that to happen. I spent the day off my phone, off social media and instead spent it feeling safe from the world in my room. I spent it talking with God. I spent it getting lost in a TV show. Any by dinnertime, I was feeling better. 

I still had no more answers that when the day started, I still had all my struggles and fears. But I also felt the comfort of His presence. 

After dinner, I opened a book that I've been reading on and off for some months now. And it has been months since I've picked it up. And on that very first page, the author talked about living in a season of slow, often due to pain or suffering. But that when we live in a season of slow, "you quiet down all the outside noise so God's voice can become the loudest voice in your life." (Lysa Terkeurst, "It's Not Supposed To Be This Way") She goes on to talk about how she took a break from social media, from reading the newspaper, from certain activities. 

It was exactly how I had spent my day. And I realized that maybe this has to be more than a one day thing. Maybe I need more of a break so that I can slow down, so that I can be quiet, so that I can connect with God and listen to what He has to tell me. 

And so I'm going to try. I'm going to take as much as a break as I can from this world and live in the quiet. Now, I realize that as a Marketing Director, I'm not able to stay off social media entirely or avoid what's happening in this world. But I can limit it. 

I'll still do what I need to do in order to do my job. I will still use social media to connect with my family and friends. But I'm not going to spend endless hours scrolling and getting caught up in what others have to say. I'm going to be more mindful of these slow times we're living in right now to spend that extra time with God. 

Please know that I still want to connect with all of you. Especially during times like this, we need those connects. So please, keep sending me your Snapchats, posting pictures on Instagram. Keep Facebook messaging me and let's keep doing those video chats. Or even send me a text or give me a call. I might be a bit slow to respond, but I will. 

 

One Year Later

It's been one year since you left us forever. 

There was no warning.
No goodbyes.
No explanation. 

When I think about this date one year ago, it seems that the year went by incredibly quick. But when I think about the past year, it seems nonexistent, like time stopped all together. 

When you left, it brought a painful end to a number of struggles. But it also brought a painful beginning to new struggles. 

Over the past year, I've had thoughts and feelings and emotions that I didn't know where possible to have. I experienced grief on an entirely new level. I've been reading books and articles on grief and they comfort me because I don't think anyone can truly understand what it's like to really understand grief until they experience it personally. It's a strange thing. 

One year ago, our lives changed forever. One year ago, I can remember clearly when I found out, yet the next few days, weeks are fuzzy. One year ago, I started asking questions knowing that I would probably never find the answers. One year ago, I had to tell the sweetest four-year-old that you were gone forever. 

There is not a day that goes by when I don't think about you. Probably not even an hour. 

Sometimes I still feel shocked that you're gone. There is always sadness and pain. And I've also felt a lot of anger. The grief can be all-consuming. 

I've waited over the past year, prayed, hoped, wished for some sort of closure. Maybe a letter from you will show up in the mail. Maybe it wouldn't provide all the answers to the questions I have, but would give me something. I'd be lying if I said I still don't pray for that some days. 

I've struggled to understand. To understand why. To understand what you were feeling. To understand why you felt this was your only way out. To understand if there was something more I didn't know. To understand how you could leave Jacob and me. One year later, I still don't understand any of it. 

You've been gone for one year. Although, if I'm being honest, in a way, you were gone long before then. Yet I couldn't tell you if that makes the physical lost of you harder or easier. 

One year later. I'm still not okay. This is not okay. I'm not sure this will ever be okay. 


--
I believe that the first anniversary* of a death is always going to be extremely hard, yet this week has been more than I imagined it would be. In some strange, cruel twist of fate or irony - I don't know - I have been forced to essentially relive these three days or so from exactly one year ago. 

That Thursday night one year ago, it was Kindergarten Round Up at school. We had pretty much decided that Jacob wasn't going to go to Kindergarten but planned on attending the evening to learn more about the Knights Plus program. This Thursday night, Jacob and I attended the Kindergarten Round Up as he prepares to enter Kindergarten next fall. 

Last year, I don't remember exactly, but Jacob stayed home. I think he wasn't feeling good. When I talked/texted Austin, he decided he wasn't going to come or I told him it wasn't necessary since Jacob wasn't with me. He also might have been stuck working later than he originally thought. I think that was the last time I talked to him. I can't remember if he called later that night to say goodnight to Jacob, as was our ritual. I want to say he did. 

I can't stop thinking about what could have happened if he had come with that night. Would I have been able to see his struggles? Would I be able to tell something was off? What if Jacob had come along? Would seeing Jacob that night made a difference? I logically understand that the outcome was probably never mine to change, but that doesn't stop the thoughts from coming. 

Then Friday. What should have been a normal and uneventful day at the office until everything changed. I almost found myself constantly looking behind me, waiting for a co-worker to come and tell me that the sheriff deputy was there and wanted to talk to me. I left work early; I couldn't be in the building around that same time one year later. I also had a doctor's appointment scheduled, a yearly check-in. Last year, this happened the Monday after it happened. I remember going, feeling like a hot mess of emotions. This year's appointment felt no different. Although there was more anger. Anger that I had to be having these conversations about my mental well-being at literally the worst time of the year.

And Saturday, the actually anniversary date. Last year, there was nothing but fog and sadness. I remember basically nothing. Will today be the same?  

It feels like I've been watching and performing in some slow-moving movie where I know what's going to happen, but can't stop it from happening. It's felt a bit like torture actually. 

This is hard. This is nothing like anything I could have expected. There are so many feelings it's hard to adequately describe how I feel or tell you how I'm doing. I just know that for right now, I am not okay. But for right now, that's okay. 




*Why is there not a better term for the annual recurrence of events that are not happy or celebratory? Can we create one? 'Anniversary' just seems too happy. 

Grief

Last night the tears came hard and fast. I hadn't been myself. Apparently, I have appeared down. But I couldn't quite put my finger on it right away. 

Then it came. The grief. The overpowering sadness. The realization that he's gone and can't come back. The unfairness of it. It all arrived quickly and knocked me down. The tears wouldn't stop. I struggled to catch my breath. 

There didn't seem to be any noticeable trigger. Instead, it appeared like a sudden downpour on a cloudless day. It felt raw and fresh. I'll admit, I was surprised by the intensity. The ferocity of pain and sadness.

I wanted to wrap myself in something of his. A sweatshirt or a t-shirt. The loss felt so distant and I craved to be near him again in some sort of sense. I had to stop myself from crawling into bed with Jacob and holding him as I cried, the one thing that will always connect us. 

And on top of all of that, the knowledge that it will never get better or easier. It will become different. The pain may be spread farther apart, but it will always be there. Lurking just below. 

Even today, it continues. A grief hangover. My eyes puffy and red. There's a heavy lead something in my chest, holding me down. Even my arms and legs feel hot and heavy. 

I feel alone on my island of grief. But that's okay. There's seems like nothing anyone could say or do to help me through this wave of grief. It'll pass and it'll come again. I feel like I need to just experience these emotions when they come. I don't need your pity. When I need your comfort, I'll come to you. But this pain and grief feels like mine alone. And mine alone to work through. 


I think with Father's Day on Sunday and Jacob's birthday around the corner, I'm stuck in a place of ... I don't even know. Sorrow of what he's missing out on. Mourning what Jacob is missing out on with him not around. And fear that I alone am not enough for Jacob. 

So no, I guess I'm not okay. But that's okay. I don't need to be okay right now. And I hope you can be okay with that too. I ask that you just keep letting me process my thoughts and feelings as I need to. I ask that you just let me be not okay sometimes. I promise that if it gets to be too much, I'll reach out. Maybe check in sometimes if you feel you need to, but try not to be upset if I only give noncommittal answers. Sometimes, that's the best I can do. 

I've often thought in the past few months that even when I wasn't doing okay, it was better to just act like I was. Easier for people to think things are fine. Easier than trying to answers questions about how I really feel when I can't even explain it to myself. But I'm just not sure I have the strength to do that anymore. 

I'm realizing just how tricky this feeling of grief can be. I will probably never understand it. But it is completely a part of me now. And I guess I'm just trying to figure out how to be okay with that.