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"The searing pain that accompanies loss can feel suffocating. The reality is that grief is not something that most people get “through” (this implies that there is somehow a finite ending point). Similarly, to suggest to someone who has experienced loss that it is something that he or she will “get over” can add excruciating insult to injury. Rather, loss is something that we assimilate to. It changes and transforms us. Some losses leave an indelible mark on our hearts and alter the fabric of who we are and how we move forward with our lives."

Joy Lere, Psy.D.

Who I'm becoming is slowly unfurling. The dust has settled and I'm starting to link the moments, the mistakes, the happiness, the passions, the regrets, and the agonies from the years I've lived so far. Carefully connecting the past into what I want my future to be, taking the hard lessons and the memories I breezed by because I thought they were less than, because I couldn't see the importance in simplicity.  

I'm curating a new existence for myself. 

Over the past 33 (in a week 34) years I've lived many different lives. If I met any of my former selves today, they'd be strangers. This time last year I would have been able to pin point every one of them. I could have told you with an assurance  this is who Lindsey is because of who this Lindsey is and this one and that one. 

I categorized myself into compartments, only revisiting them when I needed to. When it suited me to feel what needed to be felt. 

Before death, I convinced myself that this was necessary. 

After death, all bets were off. 

Even our timeline as human beings. Our evolution as a society is marked by before and after death. 

How could I miss the poignancy?

My life has been irrevocably changed by death. I write these words and these thoughts because it allows me to open the box of my life before. No longer in compartments but a big jumbled mess of me, of who I am. The words flow out of me and a memory sparks. A feeling or idea that gives me hope for my life after death. Or brings me to my knees, some days the memories are just too much. Accepting and knowing that this is my life now, it was traumatic at first, but now has ignited a fire inside me that I can't put out. I live to understand, not compare or contrast, but to truly become vulnerable to others and their experiences. There is no room for comparison in grief. 

Just as my life, is mine. My grief is the same way. 

I don't talk about my children and their grief often because I feel that it is their own story to tell. And because I have no idea what they are feeling. They acknowledge and comprehend what has happened, some days are bad but mostly their lives are happy and content. I can't compare our losses, I just try to empathize with theirs as they continue to grow. 

They are young and resilient. 

Wise and in some ways all knowing but one day those views will change and the hurt may be an obstacle. A lot of my grief and heartache is because I know there is a void in their lives that they will always endure. As a parent you want to protect your children and this loss is a ravenous beast at times. I want them to know that they are not alone. I want them to be comfortable opening themselves up. Allowing the rawness to sweep over them at times, mindful it won't last forever. 

The void, that will never go away but they'll learn to live with it just as I am. 

Pure and kind. Confident in their decisions but grasping that mistakes are just that, they don't encompass who we are but only guide our future choices. 

One day they'll be old enough to read these words and understand the gravity of my loss. 

A wife. A best friend. A lover. A connection. A human. 

Old enough to realize there is more to the story than just grief. There is and was love.

Enough to fill the sky.

I want to document my life with the man that is a part of me.  

A part of them. 

Such a tragic love story. At least I get to choose the ending. 

I'm afraid to answer the door

Onto greener pastures.

I'm done being the grieving widow. I have felt this way for a few weeks now but today I gave myself permission. 

My therapist and I go through the time lines, the conversation is not always in sequence but today we finally arrived at a crossroad. 

1. Grieve longer (maybe even forever)
I think those who knew Christopher and I, and hopefully, by reading these words you can understand/have understood the depth of love that the two of us share(d). It would only be natural for me to continue grieving. Carrying this heavy weight and hurt around. He was my true love. My everything. Everything I was depended on him. His love, his friendship, his thoughts, his advice. Everything I wanted to be, involved him. Sometimes to the point where I could easily lose sight of who Lindsey was. He never expected this or asked me to do this, it just happened over the course of our relationship. It happened way before I even met Christopher. 

Remember, Jim? 
Yeah. 

The shift came when we moved to Colorado. Finally.
I belonged somewhere. My people. My vibe. I found Lindsey. 

She was just hidden in the curves of the mountains. 

Side note: Go to Colorado. Go out west. Soak it all in. 


Christopher deployed in March, we had just moved there in August so I had the warmer months to get settled and find my groove. 
Maneuvering our new adventures with two kids and adjusting to the geographical single parent role. We made friends. We hiked. Foraged. Built a life in this hippie Mayberry-esque town. 

Then life. 

I could grieve forever and would have every right to. 

2. Fight for answers
I can't answer my front door. I have to give myself a pep talk to do so, even when I know a delivery or someone is going to be there in 30 minutes or less. Anxiety and fear sink in and I make someone else answer or just won't at all. This is because of all the unanswered questions and speculations left lingering about. The closure that I still haven't received. 

One day he was fine, the next "pilots are at the door". 

Debilitating. 
Can't move on because everyone has lied. 
Everyone. 
From the beginning. 

I could fight. Blow up. Demand answers. 

Demand answers from people that have lied to my face, who have watched me scream and wail over my husband's casket. 

3. What I've chosen to do 

Move forward. 

I'm going to brag a bit and share what my therapist said today. 

"You are transitioning in and out of grief beautifully." 

I knew it was time. 

She knows everything. All the darkness. All the light. She's kept me balanced and honest. And honesty hurts. It is painful but it is necessary to move forward. I gave myself permission today. The last painful hurt,  the last amount of guilt and anger was shed. I released it to her and I didn't explode. She accepted me. 

"Most folks would rather believe in comforting bullshit than face scary reality. The sad thing is, you face scary reality, and things can actually begin to get better." 

Waylon Lewis 

I'm always going to miss my husband. There will be days, painful days but there will be more joy and more happiness than there ever was before. We understand how much it means now. The three of us have endured and will endure a hurt that most people won't go through till much later, if at all. 

It has changed us. 
It has softened me. 
It is ever evolving. 
I'm just going to keep flowing. 

I still have no clue who I am or what I want but I'm figuring it out. I also no longer need Christopher to make me feel loved or accepted or like I matter. 
I know what we had and what we shared and I will cling tightly to that. 

I'm also learning how to love myself. 
That I am a really good human being.
A being. 

The appreciation of my existence no longer depends on the love from someone else.  

I can love myself and in turn can love others purely. 
As it should be. 

Addendum. 

Otis Redding
Good to me  

I have to

I make people uncomfortable. 

As honest and open as I am here, I'm the same in person and that makes people cringe. Not everyone but I have a pretty good knack at reading people, observing their behavior and mannerisms, noting when they are queasy after they've digested a bit of my reality. 
This habit (gift) especially picked up after Christopher died. The majority of people I have encountered in the past 8 months have been strangers, acquaintances, people I haven't seen or spoken to in years beyond the realms of social media. In these meetings, it goes one of two ways, we are an instant connection or we aren't. 

To the ones that I have made uncomfortable or uneasy, I'm sorry. 
I know I'm intense. 

My life is intense.

I say things without regret, and I try to live my life this way now. I'm sorry my pain and hurt is worn with ease. I've grown accustom to this hurt and instead of wearing it as a hooded cloak, I wear it as a cape. 
You see, I want my two children to know that their pain, their agony is not to be determined by your comfort level. I want you to know that one day you're going to experience this level of pain and that you can still live a beautiful life. Side by side. Pain and joy. They can exist together. 
That one day you may be just as intense as I am. It can happen in an instant. I don't say these things out of malice or ill will. 
I was abruptly reminded of how quickly life can turn a corner and want to share my journey so if you ever go down this path, you'll meet a kind, friendly face. 
Actually, you'll meet multiple friendly faces. 

This is what I do know to be true. 

Our paths won't be the same, similar but never identical. The hurt, the pain, the longing, the intense, overwhelming sadness that you thought you were immune to. That will be the same. 
It comes, it goes but it will always be there. The quotes, the mantras, the books, the glimpses of grief that have been shared, it is all true. 

Wear it proudly. 

No shame or regret, after all "where there is deep grief, there was deep love" and as uncomfortable as that makes some, I will never stop speaking or sharing my deep love. It is vast and wide and we've only skimmed the surface. 

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. 

And so it is

I am continuing to evolve. Every day is a new thought, a new process. My life isn't as dismal, there is no light at the end of the tunnel. There are lights all over.

The journey. 

That is what I'm focusing on. When you start to focus on the now instead of the past, the here instead of what could be. Who do I want to be today? What can I do to make that happen? Is it kind? Will it make my future, my tiny people, will it make their futures better? 

It is time. It is time to explain some things that have been held inside me, so tightly wound, I think I may explode. Christopher made a choice in his death. Call it what you want. The army isn't calling it what society does. 
The choice he made that day, the decision, the hurt, altered everything. Changed everything. One choice after a lifetime of pain. I was mad, some days, I'm still angry. I have read and deciphered every message, email, every word that would lead me to some answer as to why? Why would he, how could he? Why us? Depression, trauma, a  pain so deep that he only saw one way out. He only had one answer. His choice was that life for us would be easier this way. 
Without him. 

He was wrong. I swallow this truth every day. 
My life is now a testament to his. A testament to our children, because one day, they aren't going to understand. 
I hope that I can guide them, show them that even through tragedy, even though people make bad choices, it doesn't sum up our existence. That their father was more than his last decision. He fell down the rabbit hole and it was too much. My wish is that by my words and my actions, I can teach them a level of empathy that I'm only beginning to understand myself. 
This is what life is, a string of lessons, ultimately leading us to our own truth. My husband's life on this planet may be over but his impact on those who loved him, on those who encountered him, he can live forever. 

Love is all that matters. 

I'll continue on. 

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!

All I want for Christmas

There's an elephant in the room and he looks a lot like Christopher. 

I get it.

Trust me. 

I get it. 

I wouldn't know how to act around someone going through what I'm going through either. It's difficult. It's messy. I'm all over the place. I may want to talk to you, I may not. I may smile, I may hide. It's awkward. You're uncomfortable. I'm uncomfortable (this elephant is heavy) and you don't know how to behave around all this uncertainty. 

I get it. 

Just stop ignoring me. Stop pretending my husband didn't die. He did. He's dead. Not your husband, mine. You get to go home, to your life. This one's mine, and I've accepted that. You need to accept it as well. 

Talk to me. Ask me more than "how are you?" and then just stare at me blankly, waiting to see if I'm going to break down. Tell me a joke. I can still laugh and rather enjoy it. Talk to me about my husband. 

Not his death.

Not the pain. 

Not the circumstances of our unfortunate events. 

Not all the bullshit you've told yourself I must be feeling because guess what? You have no idea how I'm feeling. This not being said as some "everyone grieves differently" mantra but because you don't. If you would take some time and reach out, then maybe? But everyone assumes and then... well, you know the joke. 

Be present. Quit pretending like you care if you don't. 

Sincerity, that's all I want. I want to be treated like I'm more than just my husband's death. It's not too much to ask for and you may be surprised at what you'd learn. 

I'm not as broken as you think. 

I'm more capable than you could ever imagine. 

I laugh, I dance, I sing, I cry, I cherish every moment. 

I'm creating a life that once put back together you'll wish you were a part of and I want you to be there. 

I'm human and I still need other human connections. 

It's why we're all here, right? 

Puddles or cliffs

There is a shift happening. An ebb and flow. I can feel myself working with my grief and not against it. This harmony transcends the pain. Knowing this has helped me to realize that this is what I'm here for. 
Accepting that we are here to love unconditionally, that our experiences and suffering is not to manipulate and torture us but to make our hearts expand. I am rejecting the negative and humbling myself, this has made me mindful. 
I'm aware. My eyes are wide open. My thoughts influence my words and my words influence my actions. I have the power to decide what will satisfy my soul. 

Just me. 

This is a huge step forward. A friend told me right after Christopher died that 

"I would be amazed at my capabilities. I am a butterfly bursting out of its cocoon." 

That's what this moment feels like. I was a caterpillar, slowly grazing the earth and then after some time passed I built my safe haven in my cocoon. After years of waiting to emerge, here it is. I'm not completely out but the tips of my wings can feel the sun's warmth. 
I know I'm ok.
I'm ok with where this journey is going. What has led me here has been painful and if I were not capable it would have destroyed me.  

It didn't.
It won't.


I love my husband, I always will. In our safe haven he taught me that I am worthy. I am a dreamer. I am strong enough to withstand any obstacle thrown my way. That I am loved, and love back with a fierce intensity. This is why I am where I am. Christopher gave me a life, a chance, an opportunity. I have to jump. 

Powdered sugar gravy

I miss him. I miss him so much and when I realize he isn't coming back it rips me apart all over again. 

I miss being goofy with him. I miss the happiness that we could create in each other with just a few words. I miss feeling joyful when he was excited about something or thought something was funny. 

Just smiling because he was. 

He had the best smile. 

It was genuine. You could feel the happiness radiating off of it. 

I miss rubbing the back of his neck while he drove to help soothe his nerves navigating through traffic. I miss him coming home and proclaiming "your new boyfriend is here" after getting a haircut. I knew the sound of the car driving up, and those boots walking to the front door. I miss feeling my heart flutter because of that sound.

I wish so badly that I could hear that again. 

I miss his atrocious sense of humor. I miss him chasing me around the house with Alexander trying to tickle me. I miss our long walks where we'd talk and dream about our future. 

We solved all the world's problems on those walks. 

I miss the obscene amount of soy sauce bottles in the pantry because he put it on everything. I miss him requesting his own pot of gravy for meals because he would need that much. 

Especially on Thanksgiving. 

I miss his warmth. He was hot natured and put off so much heat which was great for cold nights and so I called him the "furnace". I just want to feel that warmth again. 

I miss him. Every single moment. Every single one. 

I can feel myself getting better. The days keep passing and I'm still here. 

One small step, day after day.

But I miss him. I miss him so much. 

Day 88

The reality that Christopher is dead is weighing heavily on me now. I'm used to not talking to him but it's when I realize that it's been almost 3 months since I last spoke to him I feel that gut punch. I spent 5 hours yesterday in a conference room writing and signing my will. Discussing the most morbid scenarios so I know if something happens to me our kids will be taken care of. 5 hours of death drilling into your skull. 



I read an email last week and was asked to write down a list of my attributes. Reminding myself of the person I was before all of this, and what still remains after. I haven't done it yet.
I'm not good at loving myself. I have always felt like I lacked something that everyone else had. That I was different. I know I'm not a bad person, that I'm actually a pretty damn good one, but the self doubt always finds a way to creep in. 

I've been in therapy for years, my father is/was not the best. He is a narcissist and has been this way since way before I was born. Unable to love anyone beside himself, unable to give to others what has been generously given to him, unable to be the father that I needed. 
In therapy, I discovered that my drive to please others, to do whatever it took to make them happy was because of the relationship I had with him. He holds his love over my head, teasing and toying with me. Giving hope that if I do this, or that, then he would love me. It has always been a conditional love. This lead me to believe that all love was conditional, even the love I have for myself.

It's bogus. It makes no sense. It's a behavior pattern that I have been doing my entire life. 
When you feel like you've been abandoned in your life, repeatedly, it's natural to only want to shun away from connecting with someone. I constantly feel like I have to be in control to keep me from relying on others because I fear they will disappoint me or if I begin to rely on them too much they will disappear. Knowing this has not kept me from doing it to other people though. 
I've caused pain and hurt in people, said things that were vile and rotten just because I knew it would hurt them. I've left relationships, pushed people away, vanished. I've also tried to learn from my mistakes, make amends for my actions, apologize for the pain I caused because I know what that suffering feels like. I know the pain of being rejected. 

Cut out.


Deleted.

Like you never existed at all.

I've made drastic efforts to change this. I owe a lot of that to Christopher, Alexander and Happy. Their unconditional love for me is a constant reminder that I'm worthy of being loved. 
I mess up though. I slip. I fall. I tend to my wounds and get back up. It's survival. I can't fall down the rabbit hole although there are many days I want to. I have more good left inside to give. I remain mindful of that. Mindful that everything is connected. My actions and reactions have a cause and effect.

And affect.

Be thankful for the good. For the moments that are pure joy. 
Use it as a force against my fear of being abandoned by those I let in. Or befriend the monster and accept that it's not going anywhere.  

We need some Kraggle

Quieting the mind is no easy task. The whys, what ifs, hows, should haves they are trying their best to drive me insane. The only solace I can find is while running and the few precious hours I sleep. 
The three of us are no longer sleeping in the same bed, separate rooms even but Happy wakes up screaming and crying, yelling for mommy. 

EVERY MORNING. 

I lost it this morning. I'm not pleasant when I wake up, Christopher was always the cheerful riser. Even after only a few hours of sleep or years of having to wake up at 3 and 4 in the morning, he was always in a good mood. He made waking up easier for me, so I wasn't a grump for long. He would bring me coffee and his first random thoughts of the day. There would be many more to follow.

God.
I miss him.

But this morning after only getting to sleep for 4 hours, I blew up. It hasn't happened often, I would love to scream and hit and be vicious enough to make someone feel this way too. I just can't. I'm not wired that way. I want to be better. 
I want to thrive. I don't want to hate the world. But I don't know how to stop wanting that. 
I'm doing everything I'm supposed to. Therapy, praying, exercising, eating right, trying not to isolate myself, reading, but it doesn't feel like it's doing any damn good. Alexander and I pray at night to find the broken pieces of our hearts so we can start super glueing them back together. 

This is rough. We are in a tough spot, pushing and dragging ourselves along because none of us want to feel this way. 

Christopher. 

He wouldn't want us to feel this way. We have to live up to his legacy. It's our only option, nothing else will do. 




This weekend is our wedding anniversary. I've booked a hotel out of town for my sister and I. Forcing myself to go have some fun. Feeling anxious and guilty about leaving my kids, even if I know they will be fine. Worried about breaking down, not knowing how to cope with the fact that he isn't here with me and we won't be able to celebrate together ever again. But I'm going. I have to. 
And then I'll get to sleep and that may be all that I do.