My human experience

The house is quiet. 
One noise maker is at school and the other is still asleep, dreaming. 
In these quiet moments my mind races from one thought to another. 

Daily tasks. 
Did you text/call this person back? 
Is the laundry ready for baseball? 
I need to call someone about life insurance. 
How the hell am I going to keep this up? 
I'm a failure. 
No, you're strong. 
It hurts so much. 
I know. 

What did I think about in these moments before this life began? I can't remember. It is as if that life, that person, never existed at all. Just memories, what I would give to go back to just one of those memories. I search for answers, for any resolution for the gaping hole inside me. Someone has to have an answer. 
God? Buddha? Aristotle? Merriam-Webster? 

The Roman philosopher Seneca said 

"Therefore it is better to conquer our grief than to deceive it."

I read these words, ask myself how and the answer just comes. 

By living. 

I am only in control of my thoughts, actions, behavior. Trying to control or understand the rest is just futile and can drive one mad. 


"We are not human beings having a spiritual experience. We are spiritual beings having a human experience."

Pierre Teilhard de Chardin

Life is painful. Life is beautiful. 
A gamble we take daily. 
Yes or no, right or left, blue or red. 

I don't know if your answer will satisfy my question. Maybe, I'm not asking the right question. Or maybe I'm just meant to live the rest of my life with a piece of me missing. That's what Christopher was. He is a part of me and I him. I feel selfish for wanting him back because I know that some people will never love like that.
Be embraced, cherished, connected with someone that was made for them. Call it cliche, call it what you want but unless you've truly loved someone, it won't make sense. 
Everyone has heard "home is where the heart is" and I guess I feel so lost because I'm homeless now. My heart resides in Christopher, it won't be whole till we're together again. 

I will keep living though. Choosing to be a light and not succumbing to the darkness. I want to be blinding, not a shadow. 

You'll heal over time.

"Time is relative; it's only worth depends 

upon what we do as it is passing."

Alber Einstein

250 days later

I spend a lot of the day thinking about time. After death, the world keeps spinning. Appointments have to be kept, stores open and close, hour upon hour, seconds clicking along and thrusting into minute after minute. I'm frozen. The world I used to exist and function in now looks like an alien kaleidoscope. Don't get me wrong, I'm managing. I just no longer understand the purpose, or can pretend to. 

I'm lost in what I call the in between 

I'm still here, physically present and accounted for but my mind, I'm trying to figure out where it's gone. I haven't lost it (thank you very much) but a doorway has been opened. As I sit and type these words, it seems crazy, crazy that I'm even entertaining thoughts like these. 

But here we are. 

Here I am. 

Where is Christopher?

The doorway that has opened hasn't given me any answers, yet. There is a synchronicity that has been occurring over the past months though. Numbers, words, animals, but mostly numbers. When it starts it is slow but then it's all I see. 

11:11

2:22 

4:44

5:55

10:10 

Blaring silently, notice me. Something is happening and you need to pay attention!!!

I'm paying attention. 

We tend to fear things we don't understand. I'm no longer afraid of many things, so I'm focusing on having an open mind and heart. Allowing myself to be open to the possibilities of what I can't explain, going along with it, unorthodox and proud. 

Groundhog Day

This is it. 

I feel it in my bones. 

The rebirth has begun. If you aren't sure about what I'm speaking about, it's the awakening. 
That moment where everything clicks. I can see things for what they are and the bull shit doesn't matter anymore. 

I'm alive. 

I haven't felt this way, ever. I didn't know I could feel this way. I had no clue that feeling this way, after everything I've been through, was even possible. 

It is. 

If you don't believe me, let's sit down, have a conversation and you'll start to. 

The whole 

"Life is possible after death." 

guru, mantra,cat swinging from a tree on a motivational poster. 

It's real. 

There is deep, deep grief. There is pain. There is a heartache. 
Heartbreak. 
That I'll never be able to put into words, but it's there. I'm just owning it. I've "leaned into the struggle" as my therapist calls it and it is working. 

I'm realizing the more I lean in, the more I pay attention and respond to those responding to me, the better I'm getting. This is what my life is now. I can't change that. The old Lindsey is gone, dead, nada. And that's okay. 

I like

I love 

this version MUCH MUCH better. 
Even with the pain, even with the struggle. It's real and I'm real. 

I'm alive. 

THAT is what matters.

I didn't always feel this way, I also realize that the pain, it's going to return. Death, sadness, heartache, disappointment. Those all come along with the territory. 
Love, imagination, devotion, sincerity, honesty, mindfulness, giving and receiving those feelings. 
Even if for just a brief moment.
Those are all worth the struggle. 
If it takes walking through hell to come back, feeling this way, and getting to live and love as much as I have and have been in return. I'd do it all again. Just like Bill.

So watch out now, we're about to change the world. 

Let's talk about Jim

I have abandonment issues.

This ones a doozy so get ready. People are going to get a little angry at what I'm about to write but all I can say is wait till I write the book. 
It's REALLY going to piss you off then.

My father is an asshole. Has been this way for a very, very long time. He is one of the most narcissistic people, if not the most, I've ever had to encounter.
Endure.

He left. He took everything I had as a small girl and left. My faith in men, my trust in humanity, my belief that there were other people out there not like him.

Just like Jim.

I've always thought I am an alien. At first, adopted. I had this feeling like something just didn't add up but then I found the prints of me coming into this world. Ugh.
I'm definitely my parents' child.

But things shifted as I got older and began to read more. The  possibilities of me maybe being from another planet began to sit inside me. 
It's never left.


I love my dad. I used to love him a lot more. I used to be his go to  person when he ran out of adult resources. I always ran to him because I thought 
He needs me.
He loves me.
He will change. 

This time.
This time.
This time.
This time.

Never.


I spent the first two and a half decades of my life trying to fix him. He's broken. I failed. Well, he failed. I gave up.
He has drunk, drugged, abused and used himself into a pit so deep that he's convinced himself he's a good person. 
He's insane. No doubt about it.

My brother and Christopher went hunting with Jim once. Chris had met him before because despite my feelings towards my father, every daughter should introduce the man she's about to marry to her father. 
Father.
Our Father. 
I've always been terrified of that prayer. 
The repetition. The abandonment.

Jim had no idea who Chris was. Chris even told him that he was married, with a son and in the Army, stationed in Kentucky.
Not a fucking clue.
His children don't interest him unless he benefits from it. 
He called me the day we were leaving for Mississippi. I was enduring Christopher's unit memorial at Fort Carson, about to drive across the country because my life had just blown up and I missed his call. 
Except I didn't know because his number is blocked on my phone. It wasn't until a couple weeks later when I heard the voicemail say, 

"I told Dee you wouldn't answer the fucking phone."

That is the first thing he's said to me in almost 3 years.
I have it saved if you want to listen. I have to keep it because when I tell people, it's so unbelievable I need proof. 

I found love though. And now I'm going through all of those same abandonment issues again.
Fun fucking times. 
There's been more than just this. 
Way more. 
Christopher's death was just the grand finale.
And I'm just getting started.

Beam me up, Scotty.

So many trees wasted

Christopher is here.

Not many people know this but when the mania of retrieving Christopher's body, in another box, was over,
I ran to him.

From the day I found out he had died, I was in "go mode". Every part of me, every nerve, every cell, every single part of Lindsey was, this is what we prepared for, deal with the aftermath later. Little did I know that the aftermath was a complete shit show. 
The day the plane landed at Schofield was just that. I had already done this at Dover. 
Another box.
Another day.
Another person to feel sorry for me. 

And on top of every thing else, the media and cameras, helicopters, strangers, all here. Peering, lurking, exploiting, loving, empathetic reactions to what we are, were, experiencing. 

It's such a strange feeling to have gratitude for those who took the time to care and hate every second driving past those who took the time to care. 

I ran to him. 
No sleep. Exhausted, done with the day's tasks of signing this paper or making this decision about how my husband would be memorialized. 

I don't want to do this.  

This is not us. Thanking people for attending the death of my husband? Hearing his ex girlfriend tell me "this is her worst nightmare"? 
Are you fucking serious? 

But I did. I shook their hands. Accepted the condolences. Hugged them back. And no, I didn't slap her. But I wanted to and kinda still do. Social media is a "see you next Tuesday". I'm better than that. This is not us. This is not happening. People are strange.

I ran. 
I ran.
I ran.

Everyone was done. Napping, dealing with their own lives, everything they put on pause to come and help. To just be with me. 
I hadn't slept and I wasn't going to nap.
So like Forrest and to be "that person" 

"I just kept running."

There was another family suffering a loss and I swear the entire town was in attendance. 
Don't care.
Keep going.
He's there.
You can touch him.
He's home.
He's home.
He's here.
He's home.


I was stopped at the door. The funeral directors didn't recognize me. I was sweaty, exhausted, heartbroken. I had stopped playing hostess. I just wanted my husband. This is real. This is what a life crumbling before your eyes looks like. 

I'm Lindsey Wilbur. My dead husband is in there. Let me in. 

I'll huff and I'll puff. I'll blow this motherfucker down.


It was a full house so they had moved Christopher to the hallway, near the kitchen in the back of funeral home. 

Some would be appalled, I was relieved. 

FINALLY!

A moment. A breath. 
Just him. Just me. A coffee pot. A refrigerator. 
Things that were real. That made sense. 
Holding and clinging to a dead man didn't make sense. 
I kept expecting him to wake up. I kept begging him to wake up. 
I did everything I could to get him to wake up. 

He didn't.
So I read.
I read. 
People came and went, hours passed. I kept reading. 
The Alchemist is art. Prophetic and poetic.
I read. 

I held his hand and I kept reading. 
He pestered me the entire time. Probably to say that he hated the book. I felt this tickle. Constant and persistent, I thought I had bugs crawling on me, as hard as I searched there was nothing. Just Christopher. Just me.  
But it was him. In whatever form or fashion he is capable of now, he found a way to let me know that he was there. 
I hadn't felt that since. Until tonight. 
All of our life, our stuff, everything we collected together arrived today.
He's here. He's tickling me again. 

It's annoying as hell. 

But I'll take a lifetime of annoying tickles from a ghost of a man that I know loved me with every ounce of his being, a man that I loved and love more than most will ever experience OVER a lifetime of never feeling anything or just some loser with a sheet over his head.

BOO!