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. 

Jacob and His Bike

I bought Jacob a bike. I've been feeling rather behind on this childhood milestone for awhile now. What five year old kid doesn't know how to ride a bike? Or even pedal? Mine, apparently. 

Jacob, for his part, kept asking why we couldn't just go for bike rides where he gets pulled along in the bike trailer. He kept insisting this way was best. 

My answer stayed the same. "You're getting too big for the trailer and I'm not strong enough to pull you." You see... it was always his dad who would pull the trailer. I think another part of me didn't want to take this memory away from Jacob. It's one of those memories he might actually remember well about his dad. 

Austin was so excited to get Jacob on his own bike. We almost bought him one for Christmas but Jacob was showing little interest in them so we didn't. I wish now we would have bought one then. Now, Austin will never get to see Jacob on his bike. He wasn't there the first time he climbed on. The first time he thought he was going to fall over before the training wheels caught him. The first time he managed to pedal across the driveway. He won't be there when those training wheels (hopefully) come off one day. Or for the many adventures Jacob will (hopefully) have while riding bike. 

I knew one of the things Austin was looking forward to so much was teaching Jacob how to ride a bike. I was excited for him to teach Jacob. I knew it would be such a great father/son bonding experience. 

But that's no longer an option. And with Jacob turning five, knowing that this birthday would have been the one we probably got him that first bike, I went ahead and purchased a bike. And Jacob. Well, Jacob cries every time I make him get on the bike and try to ride it. I'm not sure if he really just doesn't want to ride it, or if he can pick up on my emotions trying to teach him: "this should be your dad. your dad should be here." It's bittersweet every time I force him on that bike. I hate seeing him cry. And I hate seeing him struggle. But I also hate the fact that Austin isn't there to see it all too. 

Jacob and I will keep on truckin'. I'll keep forcing him to get on that bike. I'll make sure he learns how to ride. But I'll also make sure he knows how much his daddy wanted him to ride a bike and how much he would have loved going on bike rides together. 

And to end this post on a slightly more humorous note... One evening my dad and I were trying to get Jacob to bike across the driveway. He was crying and screaming, tears running down his face. He struggled to pedal. My dad said, "Jacob, you've got chicken legs!" And Jacob, bless his heart and through his tears, started clucking like a chicken. 

M&J Adventure: Sea Life

One of my goals or priorities of self-care is to take some quality time with Jacob and go on some adventures! Mommy & Jacob Adventures! It's surprising almost how many amazing and fun things there are to do within a 3 hour drive! I've a got a list ready for the summer so we'll see how much fun Jacob and I can have! 

Our first adventure was to visit Sea Life at the Mall of America. Neither Jacob or I have ever been. Jacob was excited the whole drive up for his adventure - he didn't yet know where we were going. Once we go there, he wasn't quite sure what to think but got excited again when I said there sharks!

He loved watching the sting rays, following them with the camera viewfinder. He loved the jellyfish and this one tank that had seahorses and a crab. He loved seeing the sharks in the tunnel but after a while just wanted to keep walking. I think I could have stayed there for hours watching all the fish swim by! 

At the gift shop, because I'm a sucker, Jacob got a snapper shark toy (pull the trigger and it open and closes it's mouth). He loved it. 

We had some food at the Rainforest Cafe and Jacob's favorite part of that by far was when a "thunderstorm" would happen. Oh man, he loved that! 

It was a fun afternoon adventure and we got some fun pictures to remember our visit! 

My Not-So-Perfect Life

I just finished reading a book. Like, it's 10:30pm and I should be in bed sleeping but I just finished this book five minutes ago and can't turn off my brain so I'm sitting in the dark blogging. It was a novel - My (not-so) Perfect Life. It was a cute and fun read.

Warning - potential spoiler alert! Basically, the book is about this woman who tries to make it seem like her life is perfect when clearly, it isn't. Mostly done by posting glam'd up pictures to Instagram. In the end, she creates an Instagram account called "my not so perfect life" and posts *real* every day pictures.

At the end of the author's acknowledgements, she writes, "I hope your life lives up to your Instagram posts..." or something to that effect. But I think she's got it wrong. I think we should be saying, "I hope your Instagram lives up to your life." (me attempting to be a philosopher - HA!)

We all do this. We all look at someone else's social media posts and pictures and think, "Wow. They have a perfect life." We look at their pictures and think they've got the fancy house, they go on the fun exotic trips, they've got a big loving family, they've got the ideal job, etc. And in turn, we take a look at our own lives and can only see the struggles, what's wrong, what we don't want but have.

We get trapped in this spiral of jealousy and desire. We get stuck thinking about how our lives are so awful and not what we expected and how does everyone else get so lucky to have it all? But in reality, that's not true.

"Every time you see someone's bright-and-shiny, remember: They have their own crappy truths too. Of course they do. And every time you see your own crappy truth and feel despair and think, 'Is this my life?', remember: It's not. Everyone's got a bright-and-shiny, even if it's hard to find sometimes."

A quote from the book.  Seems so simple but so incredibly hard.

Let me tell you, I've been stuck there before. I've been stuck there too often. I let myself become trapped. And I didn't want to escape that mindset.

But here, in the dark, at 10:47pm, a light goes on in my head. I literally wrote about this in my Word of 2018 post. And my word for 2018 is HOPE. I need to look at my life with HOPE.

HOPE that things will get better.
HOPE for God to give me strength and comfort.
HOPE in trusting God and His overall plan.
HOPE in understanding that I am beyond blessed in my life.
HOPE in knowing that the tomb didn't stay sealed and that Jesus has Risen!
HOPE as a confident expectation of future blessings based on facts and promises.
HOPE IN GOD.

One thing that honestly helps when you're feeling trapped in self-pity and despair - write down at least three things you're grateful for. Or write specifically about something you're grateful about from just that day. I know this works.

And I need to take my own advice and start doing this again. But in addition to writing down something I'm grateful for, I should start adding something I'm hopeful for, as a reminder to keep that HOPE. To understand that HOPE is the same, whether the day has brought joy or sorrow, triumph or tradegdy,  bright and shiny blessings or the quiet, hidden blessings.

Back to Instagram and social media. Maybe don't post only the perfect, edited pictures. Maybe don't strive to make it appear you have it all together. Post the struggles, the heartache, the frustration. Post the silly and undescribable. Post the love and the blessings. Post a little bit of everything. And maybe one day you'll be able to look back at all those posts and think, "Wow. My life was so much more, much more full, than even these posts can show." 

Holy Week in Grief

Holy Week. It comes every year. Lent is always one of my favorite seasons of the church. I appreciate the idea of embracing the darkness because in the end, Jesus will save us all. His light shines brighter than any darkness. No matter how bad you think things are. He will always win.

I've never experienced a Holy Week like this one. Ironically, it's not the first Easter surrounding the death of a loved one. Just one year ago, we lost my Grandpa during Holy Week. But we also knew that his time had come. I understood that his pain and suffering would soon be over, that he would be reunited with my Grandma again and stand in the presence of God. There was grief. But not like a shocking grief.

This Holy Week. There were a lot of feelings. A lot of thoughts about Austin. A lot of thoughts about what it all means, how it all works.

The message on Maundy Thursday was one of love. Throughout the last supper and that last evening, Jesus showed the same love to every single disciple, even Judas, who he knew would be betray him. Jesus tells us, "Love one another as I have loved you." His final commandment.

We will never be able to love as truly and deeply as Jesus did, but that doesn't mean we shouldn't try. It's not our place to judge others. Our job is to LOVE. All. Always.

I know this message. I think of it often. I remind myself of it when life gets hard and frustrating. But on Thursday, I felt ashamed because of that message.

I thought of Austin. The last few months we had. We had our differences and disagreements. I would get frustrated and angry. I wasn't living out that commandment. I should have been showing Austin love. He didn't deserve to be treated any differently just because we were having issues. He didn't deserve to be judged. Obviously I didn't know all of his struggles. I should have at least shown him God's love.

But I can't change that. And I'm ashamed of some of my actions. But what I can do is resolve to do better in the future. To treat those I disagree with or get angry at with love. Show them God's love and grace. "Love one another as I have loved you"

Good Friday. That was hard. I couldn't help but think of Austin at his ending. What led up to his ending. Did he feel abandoned? By those he thought loved him? By me? By God? Did he feel alone? And I think that he must have. He must have felt those things. And I can't imagine that pain.

I also thought about those of us who love Austin and who were left behind. "No chance to say goodbye. No way to ease the pain of parting." And this prayer: "For the times when we have not loved, even when we could, failing to carry out the simplest act of mercy, we ask the Father's forgiveness."

Then Saturday. The day that doesn't really get talked about. Unless your life is currently stuck in Saturday. Sometimes others will write something that so clearly states what you can't put into words. A friend, Kayla Becker, wrote something on Facebook that did just that: 

I’ve never really identified with the “Saturday” of Easter before. That silent day in between “Good Friday” and Easter Sunday. The day between the shocking grief and the stunning reality of what His brokenness healed. This Easter I’m stuck in Saturday.

We wear our grief like a cloak now. We’re no longer shocked and disillusioned. The weight of loss is just wrapped around us. And we are reeling as we try to put our lives back together around the trauma of loss. And I understand Saturday in a way I never wanted to.

We know the whole story. We know eventually the stone rolled away. The wounds became what healed us.

For as long as I’ve known the grief of the Friday of Easter I’ve also known the joy of Sunday.

But as for the ones actually written into that story, they didn’t know Sunday was coming. They didn’t know the stone would roll. The only knew the enormity of their loss.

In the blur of the visitation and funeral there are a few things people said that I remember vividly. One more than any other. Dear friends of ours wrapped their arms around me and said with more compassion and grace than I can muster...

“We know loss.”

And it was so simple. And it was so profound. When your heart is breaking, sometimes the most beautiful thing another human being can give you is the knowing. They were not indifferent to our pain.

And here they were years from the initial shock of it. And yet, it was still written into them. The knowing.

But in their knowing, I saw hope. They were not unscathed by their grief. They were not the same people they had been before loss. They did not pretend to be. But they knew something we didn’t yet. They knew Sunday was going to come. They used their wounds to heal.

And hasn’t that always been the way… brokenness is what heals. It’s the bridge between Saturday and Sunday.

I have not yet known heartbreak like this in my entire adult life. I am devastated. And I refuse to lie about that.

I won’t pretend this hasn’t rattled us. His death was traumatic and unexpected, and in ways we feel like we’ll never recover. I won’t pretend we haven't asked all of the hard questions. We lie awake at night, our faith deeply shaken.

I have exactly zero answers for all of the painfully difficult questions being asked. I won’t pretend that I haven’t questioned and tried to make sense of it. But it doesn’t make sense. It feels cruel and unfair. It feels painful, awful, and impossible. Because it’s still Saturday for me.

But the impossible beauty of living on this side of the Easter story is that I know eventually Sunday has to come. Even if I’m still living in Saturday. I know.

We might be shaken. We might be a bit like Thomas, begging to touch the wounds so we can believe it’s really true.

Sunday will come.
Wounds can be used to heal.
God is not indifferent to our pain.

Jesus is the bridge between the Saturday we’re in and the Sunday we believe will come.

And I don’t know if I’ve ever really been able to celebrate Easter in the way I will tomorrow.

Sunday will come.

As I was doing some reading, I learned about a Seder tradition of leaving a place set at the table for the prophet Elijah. "We have faith in his eventual return at the same time we acknowledge his absence. The empty chair at the table is both lament and expectation. His absence makes a very physical presence."

The presence of love and the presence of grief. Together. Acknowledge both. Welcome both. Leave the door open. Allow the emptiness a place at the table.

And then. Sunday. Easter. A day of celebration. Of rejoicing. To be honest, it felt odd to celebrate something so amazing as the resurrection of Jesus when I was still grieving the loss of Austin. Throughout the morning, I realized that I need to focus on where Austin is now.

In heaven! For eternity! For Austin, there is no more pain, no more tears, no more sorrow. There is only the absolutely joy of being with God! And that's because of the Easter miracle. The suffering has ended."The great promise of Easter had prevailed." Truly. Easter makes all the difference. And I can celebrate that.

He is Risen. He is Risen indeed.

Memories and Letting Go

It's been one month. One month since he's been gone. One month since every single thing in life was changed. 

Thanks to social media apps like TimeHop, it's easy to remember what happened on this day one year ago, two years ago, etc. A couple of days ago, this picture showed up in my memories... 

There was no caption, but I remembered exactly when this picture was taken. It was on our way to South Dakota. To drop Austin off at an inpatient treatment facility. I remember wanting to get a picture of Austin and Jacob playing so that Jacob would have something to look at while his dad was away. 

And then yesterday, another memory, an old blog post. Again, from one year ago. The Struggles of Addiction in the Family. You see, it was just one year ago that there seemed to be this shift of change in our lives. Although, we had no idea what was coming. 

When I shared this post on Facebook last year, I said it was a raw and rambling post. And as I re-read it, I could feel those raw emotions open inside of me again. Only this time, they were tainted. Tainted with grief, with unimaginable sorrow, with the knowledge that our story did not have a happy ending. 

Re-reading that post was painful. Painful to think about everything that happened next over the course of 12 months. Painful to think about things that were said or done out of anger. Painful to think about how much could change in just one year. Painful to think about how it all ended. Just one month ago. 

I so wish that Austin could have gotten his happy ending. I wanted that for him so much. I couldn't tell you what I thought the future looked like for the two of us, but I wanted him happy, healthy, sober and to be the best dad he could be for Jacob. 

Instead, those of us who loved Austin are left here to deal with this abrupt change; this abrupt end. There will most likely be so many unanswered questions. So much that we will never know. That is probably one of the hardest things. But at the end of that blog post from a year ago, I wrote this: 

"...let go and let God."

In fact, I even have that reminder tattooed on my wrist now. The only thing I can do is to let go of those questions and unknown answers. Let go of what I don't understand. And let God take control. Let God comfort me. Let God bring peace to me. Let God. 

And so that is what I must do. I must ask God to comfort me. To bring me peace. Because I do know that Austin is finally at peace. I know that he is in a better place. I know that he is in the presence of the Lord. 

*Untitled*

I've written a lot of blog posts. I try to be open and sharing about what's happening in my life. I try to make you feel involved. In the past couple of years, I've written about some hard things. Things that aren't fun or easy to share. Things that are difficult to talk about. But I did that because that was life. It's a constant up and down. Highs and lows. 

But this post. This post is one I never imagined having to write. 

Nearly one month ago, Austin took his own life. 

It was a Friday afternoon at work, when suddenly I was told that two deputy sheriff's were waiting up front for me. After a minute of confusion, I did think about AJ. I thought he might be in trouble. I thought maybe he was hurt. But when they told me he was dead, it was like breath left me. There was shock and confusion. Disbelief. I remember asking if his parent knew. I remember my dad (who had come to the office after my mom called him after the deputy sheriffs had stopped at the house first) going to my desk to get my things and driving me home. I remember giving my mom a hug and finally letting the tears fall. 

My mom had called a good friend who is also a pastor. She was soon at the house and I will forever be grateful for her being there with us then. I remember asking questions. Questions I always thought I knew the answers to but now was suddenly questioning. I remember asking if we could wait to tell Jacob. Wait until - I don't know - we knew for sure? It didn't feel real. I didn't want to tell Jacob. 

Telling Jacob his dad had died was probably the hardest thing I've ever had to do. We had been somewhat open with Jacob about his dad and his struggles. We had told Jacob Daddy was sick. But now I had to tell him that his dad was sicker than we thought and has died. Jacob was confused and asked some questions, but he didn't want to see me or anyone else crying. He switched to his goofy self to try and cheer everyone up. 

And bless his heart, he's been the shining light in the darkness. He demands group hugs from everyone. He'll literally wipe away my tears and tell me to be happy. He'll joke and dance and be goofy to make us laugh. He'll give great big hugs. 

There's so much more that I could tell you. But what I will tell you is that I felt overwhelmed with the love and support from family and friends and people who didn't know me but knew AJ. The outpouring of love was exactly what I needed. People sharing memories that I had long forgotten or never knew. I clung to those. 

Because here where it gets complicated. AJ wasn't my husband. We were divorced. And while we were doing pretty good at co-parenting, our relationship wasn't exactly in a healthy place. And I'm struggling with that. 

The past couple of year, there has been a lot going on. And I've had to deal with everything that was thrown at me, as it was being thrown at me. There was no time to process anything, it was on to the next thing. Like I was trying to hold a million fragile pieces together. When AJ died, it was like those million pieces came crashing down on top of me. I wasn't just grieving his death. I'm grieving all those things that had been lost. I'm grieving the man I fell in love with nearly 10 years ago. I'm grieving our divorce. I'm grieving the person that AJ was before the addiction and mental illness took over. I'm grieving a somewhat strained relationship we've had over the past 9 months. I'm grieving for the loss of his battle, one that I also tried to fight. I'm grieving for the loss of any future that was taken away from us. I'm grieving the loss of Jacob's father. I'm grieving Jacob's future as he learns to navigate this world without his dad. And I'm trying to figure out how to help Jacob grieve on top of my own grief. 

I feel like I was slightly removed from AJ's life. But the force of grieve and loss has hit me like that wasn't the case. 

I don't share these things with you so you can feel sorry for me, I'm not seeking advice, I don't want to hurt anyone with my thoughts. But I'm sharing because this is real. This is my life right now. And maybe someone else needs to know they're not alone in their struggle. 

I am mad that AJ is gone. I am mad that his demons won. I still loved AJ, will always love him. I still cared deeply about him. I wanted him to get better. I wanted him to be the man that I fell in love with, that I knew he was capable of. But I also know that he is no longer in pain. That he is at peace. And while there are so many of us left here dealing with this loss, this pain, this unimaginable thing, he is no longer struggling.