He's the youngest now-A loss is not just a moment in time: the loss of one child and life with his siblings

 A lot of things hit differently with our loss of Michael, in relation to our other kids.

 This picture was taken back in 1998, when we joined my grandma, some of my cousins, and their kids on a float honoring our grandparents for a small-town parade. (And yes, little thirty-year-old me was pretty proud of how those costumes turned out) The "corn" has now been married for ten years, the "pea pod" is getting married this Fall, the baby "turnip" is married and a mom of two, and the "raspberry" was our Michael, gone too soon.

When he died, he was halfway past twenty-six. He was the second-oldest of our four kids, and six years older than the youngest. She's now twenty-seven. He seemed so much older and grown-up back then, but now...they're all, even the "baby," older than he'll ever be.

We've had two weddings and will have another later this year. Without him. It's hard and awkward and painful, hand-in-hand with fully joyous celebration. I had a hard, beautiful, searingly tender moment at our younger daughter's wedding a few years ago, when at the last minute we thought to ask Michael's oldest friend to walk me down the aisle. We both looked absolutely stone-faced in the pictures, as we struggled fiercely with tears. It was wonderfully right, and tremendously meaningful, and also...so hard.

Michael now has a nephew who will turn two next week, and a niece born this Spring. I'm glad he got to be an honorary uncle to his friends' kids ("Unca Mitch" to the littlest, who couldn't quite pronounce Mike), as he didn't live long enough to be an uncle to his siblings' kids. They'll never know him. He'll never know them. How, and at what age, do you tell your small child that there was another uncle, but he died? At what age can a kid handle knowing that their other uncle died by suicide? Our kids who have children will have those difficult conversations to navigate, someday down the road. That won't be easy.

So how do I, how do we do it? We try to pay attention to our feelings in these important situations. We talk about it when we need to. When such a thing comes up, I check in with that child, like recently asking our son, "How are you doing with not having your brother in your wedding party?"  I'm not there to advise or correct, just to listen; to given them an opening to talk about it if they want to.

When I meet our kids' adult friends, new friends made since 2018, and I tell family stories, I carefully don't mention Michael, or things like having had four kids. The stories of their brother and his life and his death are theirs to tell, when and how they choose. I don't "out" their loss and pain to people they may not be ready to share it with yet. Each person has their own journey with loss, and I think it's really important to respect one another's comfort zones and ways of coping.

A death is not a moment in time; a fixed point from which everyone, eventually, moves on. It continues to hit and ripple, throughout the rest of life, for those left behind.

Not dumb...sad

 It's easy to feel dumb when you're grieving.

The first few days after my dad died on January 17th of this year, I had compassion on myself. I gave myself grace. I understood my blunders and held them tenderly. 

The day after he died, I lost something dear to me. A couple of years ago, my husband gave me a set of earbuds as a gift. They're beautiful; white and rose-gold, and I have loved them. They were exactly what I needed, though I hadn't thought to want such a thing. I have used them constantly and kept them carefully all this time, because they're perfect, and because that dear man saw a need in my life and filled it with something lovely. And then, suddenly, they were gone. Oh, I had the case for them, but it was bewilderingly empty. We hunted high and low, in every reasonable place, and some that weren't, to no avail. They were simply...gone. 

 

About a week later, I found one on our bedroom floor, oddly damaged. The only explanation I can think of is that it was somehow in the way of the bathroom's sliding door and got bashed...? The other one showed up a couple of days later, in the jumble of my husband's boots in the living room. ...Why?? We have no idea how either of them ended up where they did, especially the one among the boots. It's a pure mystery.

As sad as I was to have half of that dear gift damaged beyond use...I was kind to myself. I knew that my shell-shocked, freshly-daddyless self needed grace and I gave it generously. My sweetheart was also tremendously kind and compassionate over the loss. He had a new set of earbuds he'd gotten for himself and he just gave them to me, very kindly, and helped me keep searching. We both met my brain's floundering with love.

And then...I sort of forgot. 

It's amazing how quickly I forgot.

A few days ago, I made some dry, disparaging remark about people with simple minds, like me, and my husband looked at me and said, with direct, love-infused seriousness, "You are not simple-minded!"

Oh.  

Ohhh. Riiighhht. The grieving thing.

It had only been two weeks, at that point, since I lost my dearly loved, complicated, wonderful dad...and I had already forgotten to be gentle with myself. I had already, without realizing it, fallen into the habit of disparaging any fumbles in my inner world and believing the lie that I'm dumb.

I'm not dumb.

I'm sad.

I'm maybe a little bit in shock.

Because even when death is not a surprise, even if it can be called a mercy...it is still shocking to our hearts and souls.

Grief sort of numbs our minds and short-circuits the functions of our brains, and that is completely normal and absolutely to be expected. It won't last forever, but it may last for a while.

For a while, I'll experience times of this part-frozen, stutter-stepping or simply blank state of mind.

The most important people are, and will be, tenderly kind about it, and very understanding.

I want to give myself the same grace and care that they do.

I'm not dumb.

I'm sad.

I'm not dumb.

I'm sad.

I'm very, very sad.

And that's okay.

I went to a costume party as my old self

 In our small (very small) town, there is a group called Birthday Girls. Any woman from the community can be part of it. It was started several decades ago by Zonia, who is now in her eighties, and as colorful and creative as ever, to bring women together for a bit of fun. 

Many people, in adulthood, don't get celebrated...ever. I love that, with this group, any woman can come and be celebrated. It's lovely.

For October's gathering, we had a costume party and potluck lunch. Almost every lady dressed up, which made it fun. There were two ladies and a baby in pumpkin costumes, a Flower Child, a 1940s lady, an American Conspiracy Theorist, a bumblebee, two clowns in full makeup, wigs and appropriate red noses, some kind of alien monster bug, and a leprechaun (my own mom, who took home the prize for best costume). I looked vintage, like I'd stepped out of the 1920s or thereabouts. 

 

I spend most of my days dressed down, with a high value on comfort. I haven't dressed like this in years...in six years, actually...six years, four months, and four days. 

That's the thing; while I looked vintage, I was really just dressed as...my old self. That old self, before our beloved Michael ended his life, loved whimsical clothes. What I wore for church danced on the boundaries of "costume" at times. Not like...silly or flamboyant, but...like a character in a play, or like someone who had stepped out of another era. This outfit that I wore for the costume party today? It's truly just what I used to wear to church sometimes. Not that we went to a dressy church...at all. On an average Sunday, if there were, say...a hundred and twenty people in attendance, there might be me, the pastor's wife and maybe one or two other women in dresses. I didn't blend into the crowd, but that was fine with me. I just really enjoyed dressing up and adding a playful edge. 

I have not worn this hat in six years. I couldn't, not only because of the logistics of travel-trailer living and limited space, but because...I'm no longer the person who wore this outfit as part of regular life. Until April of this year, I would have bet money that I would never wear this outfit again.

That sense of light-hearted whimsy died when Michael did, and I was pretty solidly sure it was never coming back. If you've read the post before this one, you'll know that big things changed in my heart this April, and that a lot of healing has taken place. 

When I thought of what costume I might wear to the party, I thought of this outfit and...it felt right! It took some dedicated time, digging through our things in storage, to find it all, but I'm so glad I did. It was so fun to put on this dress, which I loved, and these shoes, which I loved, and this hat, which I loved. I missed them. I missed...me...the me that I used to be. 

It's one of the pervasive truths of grief and loss that, no matter how much we, or anyone else, wants it, we will never again be the people we were before. There is no "getting back to our old self." It's simply not possible. Trauma and loss change us, and there's no getting around that fact. Not all of the changes are bad. Often there are gifts of grace in the dark night of the soul that are truly beautiful. Whether the changes feel like devastating scars or the sweet beauties of a deeper heart-life, the fact remains that we are...forever...changed. 

What a surprise and delight, then, to discover that this part of the old me is not gone forever, or at least not entirely. I really thought she was. Now, I'm not sure I'll go back to wearing dresses and heels for church- I'm not sure my aging feet would forgive me. And I'm not sure I'd casually walk in wearing a hat with a whimsical poof of feathers on it...or even one without the feathers. It's an even smaller church than our old one, and mostly very casual, and...I'm still not the same person who dressed this way. But...we'll see. 

I don't have to know the answer right now. 

For now, it is enough to know that I dressed up as my old self...and it left me smiling.

No New Favorite Pictures

When we passed the five-year anniversary of the death of our son Michael, in June of this year, I flinched away from sharing a collage of favorite photos from his life on Instagram or Facebook.

It suddenly hit me, with painful clarity, that they would be the same exact pictures I'd shared for the fourth year, and the third, and the second... They're wonderful pictures, from various moments in his twenty-six years. I treasure them.

What stopped me? 

There will never be a new favorite picture of our son.

This is it; this fistful of most-favorite moments. The stack will never grow taller or wider. 

If I share favorite photos every birthday and deathday, they will be the exact same pictures, over and over again, because the chance for capturing new moments died with him. 

Having that painful truth hit me from this fresh angle made it impossible for me to even go look at my desktop file of his pictures. It has, in fact, taken almost three months for me to be able to look at pictures since this realization hit me.

The pictures are so precious. I love them.

There will never be more, and that is...hard.

Never the same, never, never...

When I think the words, "Never the same," I hear it like this refrain of the song Never Enough from the movie The Greatest Showman.

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                No matter the cause of the trauma, those who have experienced great disruption of their lives are never quite the same afterward. Our lives have this sharp point of demarcation between Before and After. We may look essentially the same to others, but in profound and fundamental ways, we are forever changed.

This may show up in a variety of ways: mental health, physical health, stamina, temper, capacity. From conversations in an online grief group, I learned that many who have experienced a sudden, shocking, and/or profound loss find themselves dealing with  degrees or kinds of depression, anxiety and health problems they never had before. 

Our emotional bandwidth, especially in those first months and years, is substantially less than before. Our stamina in  all areas- physical, emotional, mental, social- is dramatically less. Our interests, our enthusiasms, our capacity for creativity...all these things take a severe blow. Some may recover, in part or fully; other may never return. 

In those first early days of our great grief, I remember thinking that I felt like champagne suddenly robbed of its bubbles and froth. I felt flat and dull and devoid of sparkle. I wondered if it would ever return.

There are times when I seem like my old bubbly self, but they're rare and somewhat of an illusion. Even at my most excited, I still hold a grave ballast that never leaves. 

Though I trust God whole-heartedly; though I choose to live riveted on hope and joy...I am still... never the same. This is not a personal failure; it's simple fact. Great loss changes us, permanently.

For the grief-adjacent-  those who are close to people who have weathered great loss- this is important to know, and to never forget. Please, leave room for the grieving to be who they are now, with no pressure to be who they once were. There is no getting back to who they were before. That's simply never going to be true. 

Please, don't put pressure on others to ease your sadness, discomfort, and concern by being who they used  to be. I know it's unconscious, but people have this longing to see their loved ones "back to their old selves," back to being okay. That is unfair, unrealistic and unkind. 

There is no going back. 

There is only finding livable ways to go forward.

Please, leave space for others, and for yourself, to figure out who they are, who you are, now.

The changes are not all bad. Often, there is greater compassion, courage, and tenderness. There is often a new determination to love well and to live boldly. There is greater wisdom in handling relationships and in not wasting the time we have with our living loved ones. 

There is loss, and there is gain, but both reflect permanent change. 

Those who have lost are...never the same. 

 

 

Grief is weird...a.k.a...My address book is a mess.

 

Who would have thought that a simple tool could hold such emotional weight?

I'm sure we've all been through that moment when we go to the address book and see the name of a dear one who is gone and feel yet another edge of that loss.

This is always a sad moment, but after our son took his life in 2018, flipping the pages to check the addresses of family members became almost unbearable. 

I could certainly not erase his beloved name from the page. 

I may never be able to do that.

I also could not keep having my heart lacerated every time I wanted to send a card to any of our other family members.

It was too much.

I found a little pocket-sized address book that I think my mom gave me one time and decided to use it. I went through the pages of the old book, transcribing names and addresses to the new one. Our last name falls early in the alphabet, so I was in rough shape for most of this project.

This is why the book is a mess.

I was still in shock, exhausted, and battered by the pain of passing by Michael's name; not carrying it forward.This was, of course, the whole point of what I was doing. It was still heavy and hard.

In the four years since that day, I have found strings of names in the wrong sections, and worse, names and addresses I somehow failed to transfer. I have had cards to dear people come back to me, because I'd jumbled the address in the new book. I lost the addresses of two long-term friends, and only re-found the through roundabout means in recent months.

I look at the mess I made of this much-needed information and I feel frustration, but also...compassion for the sad and battered self I was on that day.

Grief is messy and hard and it complicates our lives. It shows up in weird ways, throwing wrenches in unexpected gears.

May we extend gentle grace to ourselves and to others in similar state.

When broccoli feels aggressive

[I wrote most of this post last year, on June 25th of 2022, the fourth anniversary of the day we learned of our son's death. As it turned out, I did have Covid- for the third time- and it laid me flat. I didn't have the mental or emotional wherewithal to come back and finish this post at the time. Now I do, and I have, and I think it's worth sharing. As I post this, we are staring down the straight stretch at a weighty fifth anniversary of our loss. It is a good time for me to revisit what I learned last year. May we be gentle with our own hearts, and give them room to just...need what they need.]

 

Is it because I'm sad?

Because I'm sick?

Either? Both? 

In the face of this fourth "deathiversary," four years since our beloved son took his life, being sick feels just plain insulting. 

Yet here we are.

My dear husband has Covid again, given to him by an inconsiderate co-worker. (People! Seriously! Stop going to meetings and events, feeling ill, and *then* going to the doctor!) I have had three negative Covid tests, but I definitely have ...something. Maybe a cold? Not sure. 

I already have feelings about what food to eat when I'm passing a heavy emotional milemarker. These foods need to be gentle...comforting. Comfort food is a gift. It is a simple, tangible way to be gentle and kind to our physical bodies as they carry the weight of our emotions.

Knowing that this deathiversary was on its way, I planned ahead for what I would cook; gentle old favorites, made ahead so I could subsist on leftovers through these couple of hard days.

Chicken soup with gluten-free noodles. Homemade biscuits. Creamy noodles with broccoli and ham.

Leftover from earlier in the week, everything-free waffles with link sausages.

 

That all sounds delicious, doesn't it?

Well...not anymore. My waffles, made from a recipe of my own development, are one of my favorite foods. In fact, four years ago as we reeled in shock and pain over the news of Michael's death, my waffles were one of the few foods I could (barely) stomach.

They seemed like a shoo-in for this week. Nope. Yesterday morning, I had to force myself to finish my breakfast...because I am sick, on top of sad, and my body objects.

The idea of protein right now, or vegetables, is not only unappealing. It feels...aggressive. My body is deeply offended at the very idea of sausage or chicken (or heaven forbid- beef!) and the thought of broccoli? One of my all-time favorite veggies? Horrible. 

 My body assures me that any attempt at eating broccoli will be taken as an act of aggression. It has issued a firm request for what earlier generations would call "light fare." Since toast is not an option for me, this will look like...broth. With gluten-free noodles. And fruit. Fruit sounds acceptable.

People have asked me how the anniversaries of Michael's death go; how we observe them and how they feel. Here is my answer: inconsistent and reliably unexpected. 

I can plan and prepare. I can consult the deep places of my heart and arrange my world around what feels comforting and safe. 

For all my planning and care, though, there is no way to prevent "life" from rudely intruding into this sacred space. 

Three years ago, on the first deathiversary, my dad was admitted to the nursing home. He still lives there. The weight of that, on an already painful day, was a lot to carry. This year, it is the nagging weight of illness, and all its added implications and stress, that has twisted these days out of shape.

These hard anniversaries, like death itself, hit in unexpected ways.

I think we all, as our own hard dates approach each year, try to anticipate what will be the "right" way to handle them. Some plan heartfelt observances, or parties overflowing with love and memories. Others plan seclusion and rest. What I have learned these past four years, and especially this year, is that, no matter how well we know ourselves and our grief, and how carefully we plan, the reality of the hard days can still come at us sideways. 

Sometimes, waffles are soft comfort. Sometimes, they feel like soul betrayal. The best we can do is listen to our own hearts, prepare for what we think might help...and be ready to roll with what we actually end up needing. A gentle willingness to adapt is one of the best gifts we can give to our own hearts.

The "yes-and" of holidays and grief

 Holidays bring into sharp relief the "yes-and" nature of living with grief, the hard, now uncomfortably familiar dance of holding joy and sorrow simultaneously. 

On a large scale, every holiday shines a light on the one who is missing and prods that deep, sore wound.

On a smaller scale, the wretched weather pummeling the Columbia Gorge has prevented us from gathering with our other children to celebrate Christmas.

The yes-and of this Christmas is layered. It holds the same sharp edges of the past four years, of feeling the heavy loss of our elder son while also celebrating and savoring with our other loved ones. It also holds this added weight of sadly longing to be with our other children...while treasuring having spent Christmas day with my mom and stepdad, who are 81 and 92 years old. 

Yes, I am heart-sore and teary over the frustration of our happy plans with our kids...and after decades of living too far away for this, spending a winter holiday with my mom is absolutely priceless. 

One way I cope with this awkward juggling act is something I've written about before: I do something tangible...physical...visible...to acknowledge the hard things. This is nothing big, that would be obvious to others. It is just the way I make room for the true story going on in my heart. When I give real space to the hard and painful weight I carry, it actually frees up room for...joy. 

Today, this looked like the careful choosing of jewelry.

This has been, from the first early days of our loss, the most common way I honor my heart's suffering so I can function. Instead of just stuffing the feelings down, I give them official, private recognition. 

I had the joyous opportunity of going to Christmas morning church today, with my husband, mom and stepdad. What a precious joy that was! Also...we were supposed to spend today with our younger son, our younger daughter and her husband, looking forward to our elder daughter and her husband joining the party tomorrow. It is hard to lose that. It is precious to be here.

Here is how I told my heart's story today:

The colored bracelet and the black one with the heart are about our children; the one who is gone and the ones we planned to be with today. I carried all of them very much in my heart today. The little gift-bow earrings were a deliberate choice, reminding my heart to not dwell only on what I don't have. I sometimes need a reminder to also be happy; to let the joy be big and real, too. The other earrings are small black crosses that I bought in the first wave of our grief. I often wear them when my heart is heavy. The bracelet with the silver feather  is my "hope" bracelet. You know the poem that says, "Hope is a thing with feathers...?" The feather on this bracelet makes me think of hope. I almost always wear it when I wear the silver heart bracelet, a reminder to myself that while our loss is devastating and real...hope is also powerful and true. 

If you are also walking this hard yes-and of grief in this season of special holidays, I just want to say that I see you. I see the weight on your heart. I feel the energy it takes to smile and to celebrate and while you truly love this special time, the extra effort it requires leaves you exhausted. I see the careful dance you do of making sure your special people know how you love being with them, while also holding the deep ache for the ones who are not there. 

Hold on, dear ones. 

This is hard. 

You are doing a good job.

It is okay to feel happy in spite of your sadness.

It is okay to feel sorrow in the midst of happy celebration.

We hold both joy and sorrow at the same time.

It is difficult, but it is what we do.

Dawn of Slow Healing

 

Four years, four months since that horrible day.  

On June 25, 2018, we got the shattering news of the death of our son Michael. He had taken his life the day before, on a Sunday morning. A friend of his, also a co-worker, went to check on him after work on Monday, because he hadn't shown up and wasn't answering his phone. We got the news soon after.

Every month since then, for four years, I've gone into a decided slump as those dates rolled around. This wasn't some private drama I invented but a pattern I noticed over time. The first time I realized this was happening came maybe seven or nine months after his death. My hubby Lee and I were
watching TV one evening and I suddenly felt like I was about to burst into tears. I turned to him and said, "I feel like I'm about to cry, but I don't know why." 

Then we realized what date it was, and the time. It was the twenty-fifth of the month, and almost the time when the officer knocked on our door to deliver the news.

After that, I recognized the pattern. Every month, as the dates of his death and of our receiving the news rolled around again, my physical energy and emotional reserves would take a dive. I learned to build my schedule around this cycle, keeping my calendar clear around those dates. I learned to be extra gentle with my grieving self through those days. Even on the few months when I didn't realize the date, everything in me downshifted to a low, heavy idle. There's a saying, "The body keeps the score," and I've found that very true. Even when my conscious mind was not paying attention, my body and my emotions were very aware of and very affected by the return of those dates.

...until recently.

I didn't say anything for a while, even to my closest people, because I though it might be a fluke; a temporary reprieve. 

It wasn't. 

It has now been four months.

June of this year, the fourth anniversary of Michael's death, is the last time I got pulled into dark, clammy quicksand on those dates. I am...cautiously celebrating. After four years of living through that downward pull and the slow climb back to the light, I'm a little afraid to jump for joy quite yet.

Still...for four months now, those dates pass, and I am...okay. I'm actually fine. 

Let me clarify: I am still, forever, intensely sad and miss our beautiful son deeply.

I'm not saying that I'm done grieving. 

What I am saying is that the monthly cycle of exhaustion and depression has...lifted. 

That bone-deep weariness has not hit me a single time since June. 

I have not needed to retreat to my dark corner of our bedroom for two days straight, to sleep for hours and to stare bleakly at shadows as I did early on. I have not struggled (or failed) to carry out the most basic of tasks, like eating, taking a shower, and getting dressed. Though still a little more tired than usual on those days, I have had the physical and emotional energy to carry on with normal daily life. Rather than my sailboat of life nearly capsizing every single month, it has stayed upright and gently on course.

I am so grateful.

You are not alone.

The past week:

On Wednesday, we learned of some heartbreaking things happening in our family.

On Thursday, I heard of a serious situation in the life of a young person who is like family to me.

On Saturday, at four o'clock in the morning, I was driving a family member to the emergency room.

On Tuesday, we got the news that a long-time family friend had suddenly died.

And that a family member's brother had died.

All of this...in just one week.

It's a lot.

 

Last summer and into the Fall, we got news of a death among our family and friends at least once a week. In the space of six weeks, six women that I know lost their husbands. 

This constant news of death is heart-breaking and heavy.

Also...we're not unusual. 

If you're feeling weary...you're not alone. People speak of "compassion fatigue." There must also be such a thing as...tragedy fatigue. For many of us, these past two years have been a nearly non-stop stream of tragedy and heartbreak. 

News of a trauma or death is like taking a body blow. It hits, and leaves a mark. Some blows are lighter, while others bruise deeply. Over time, we heal from such blows. These past two years have been like being stuck in the ring with the world heavyweight boxing champ, in a bout where the bell never rings. For many of us, the blows just keep coming, with  little chance to catch our breath, let alone heal.

It is taking a toll. We are weary and sad and our hearts are very sore.

At the same time...this is the marrow of life; standing in the hard places with one another.

In the wake of our son's death three and a half years ago, people were lovingly careful of me. They did not come to me with sadness or hard news. I was deeply grateful for their thoughtfulness. I was carrying all I could carry. While I am still, always, devastated by our own loss, it is good to see that I have healed enough to walk with others in their pain. I am glad I wasn't sheltered from the news of pain and hard concern in the lives of people I love. I am glad to once again be someone a friend can come to, with a heavy heart, asking for prayer. It tells me that I am, in fact, healing.

If you are exhausted from the endless stream of bad news, you are, sadly, not alone.

Also- good news! You are not alone! My friend, you are not alone. 

We can either plod along in a stunned parade, staring blankly at our own inner wastelands, or we can put our arms around each other and walk together. I think of soldiers from some old-time war, making their way back from the Front. I picture one guy wounded in the leg, while the other has an arm in a sling and a bandage over his eyes. The one guy puts his arm around the shoulders of his friend, to take the weight from his injured leg. In return, he acts as the "eyes" for his friend, so he doesn't run into obstacles.They could each struggle along alone, but instead they make that trek together. 

Our "wounds," and the heavy loads we carry may be different, but we can help each other along. We can, at the very least, help each other to feel less alone. When we're able, we can put a shoulder under the burden of our friend and help bear the weight for a while. 

Sometimes, all we can carry is our own suffering.

Sometimes, we are able to help carry the suffering of another.

Always, it is good to remember that we are not alone.

We are not alone in our suffering and in our care for the suffering of others.

If you are in a hard and heavy place today, and feeling alone, may I just say...I see you there. 

My heart goes out to you, with all that you are carrying. 

I see you.

And I pray that the peace of God will gently gather you up and carry you.

I pray that you will feel his loving comfort, so tender with our wounded places.

I pray that you will know that you are seen and loved, and that you are not alone.

The Spear That No-one Sees

There is a spear shoved through my middle,
jagged, splintered, rusted, rough
skewering me to a moment in time:

The sober-eyed officer standing just inside our front door,
kind in his terrible duty.

"Michael has been found deceased...
It was suicide."

I am impaled, forever suspended
in the thick of that crushing moment.


A savage blade
shoved violently,
twisting and tearing,
through my heart's core.

And yet...

Because I seem so outwardly fine, so normal...

I move, talk, breathe, chat,
cook, smile,
write, love, laugh,
find joy in simple daily things...

Few may realize how,

...every moment of every day...

I still struggle to understand
how to live in a world

where our son is dead.


Sometimes,
even I forget

the jagged shaft
protruding
from my body;
it's heaviness and heft,
the relentless pressure
as it shoves aside my heart and lungs,
leaving me aching and short of breath.

Every moment.
Every breath.
Every beat of my heart.

In those rare moments,
I frown upon myself for being less,
not doing more.

Forgetting how
behind it all
sits Michael's mom,
shaking her head

...shaking...

Bewildered.
How can it be true?

Pierced to my bones
Frozen
Trapped in the echo

"Michael has been found deceased...
It was suicide."

Seeing life in Depression hair

I've been frustrated with my hair recently.

No matter how carefully I gather it up, and bind it into my braid, there is this chunk that falls down and just hangs there. It reminds me of that famous photo from the depth of the Depression years: the worn, exhausted mom with her waifs of children. They're all shabby and smudged, and pieces of her hair are straggling down. That's what I think of when I catch sight of myself with my hair wisping and falling down. It's frustrating. I don't want to look all bedraggled. It looks messy, and it makes me seem tired and sad. It makes me look like someone who is not doing well.

A while back, I was looking in the mirror, about to fix that hair flop yet again, and I had an epiphany. For once, rather than just being frustrated, I actually looked at the piece that keeps falling down. And when I looked, I realized something important. I realized why this piece keeps falling down.

It's much, much shorter than the rest of my hair.

I held that chunk of short hair in my hand, puzzled, and then all the lights began to dawn.

The rest of my hair is down to the middle of my back. This is only six or eight inches long. This is new hair, growing in.

In the months after Michael died, I lost a lot of hair. So did our daughters, my mom and my sister. The intense emotional stress and shock of his suicide caused all of us to lose hair. Stress will do that.

This falling-down hair, that has annoyed me so much, is actually a sign of life.

It's a sign of healing- of restoration.

This is my hair, slowly coming back- a quiet, hidden proof that in spite of all the trauma, I am still here, still alive.

My messy hair now makes me smile tenderly, as I gently tuck it back into my braid.

It's a symbol of hope.

Beginning and Ending With Thanks

My greatest battles take place inside my own head.

The giants I wrestle with most often are hurt, resentment and a complaining attitude. It is so easy to fall into those traps. My mind can be spinning in toxic spirals without my even realizing that I've gone there, yet again.

So... how do I fight the battle for my mind?

The stock answer would be, "Just pray. That will solve it."

But it's not always that simple.

Prayer can take many tones. There are whiny prayers, and resentful prayers, and angry prayers. Praying angrily or resentfully does not help to pull my mind out of its unhealthy track. Toxic prayer does not heal.

I have a long journey with this struggle, and I have learned a few things. Many would say that if you're having a bad attitude about someone, you should pray for them. That can work, or it can just be a continuation of the same destructive thoughts, dressed up in spiritual clothes. Complaining about someone in prayer is no different than complaining about them in my own head. Praying angry prayers about someone can feel like flinging sharp rocks at their head. Spiteful prayer is ugly.

Angry, resentful, complaining, whiny prayers do not help move a person to a more healthy inner space.

What does help?

Here is what I have learned:

When I am in that space of toxic spinning, the only thing that will stop it and send me in a fresh direction is to focus entirely on God. Talking to Him about my resentments does not help if my attitude still stinks. Talking to Him about the beauty of His own character helps tremendously!
Singing worship songs, even silently in my mind, helps. Recalling Bible verses about God's love and faithfulness helps also.

In my struggles with sleep, I have learned that the moment my mind goes still it will leap to upsetting places. It will either fling me into some painful place about the death of our son, or it will dig up hurtful words and dismissive actions that have come my way. Either one is sure to kick my adrenaline, which guarantees that I will not sleep for a couple more hours. Reading the Bible just before I go to sleep often helps to circumvent this cycle. I have the Bible on my Kindle, which sits next to the bed. If I put my thoughts on God's Word just before I sleep, that puts me in a better frame of mind and helps me to downshift from the day.

There is still the moment after I've put down the Kindle, when I'm settled and ready for sleep. What I'm thinking of as I drift off makes all the difference. For me, if I start praying about issues or for people at that point, it can wind me up all over again. The one thing that works is...gratitude.

The same is true in the morning. If I can plant gratitude in my mind before it has a chance to take any other tack, it sets a better tone for the entire day.

Gratitude is not fancy, but it works. All I do, as I lie in bed, slowly waking up, is to say, "Thank you," in my mind. I do the same at night. When I'm all settled, and drifting toward sleep, I simply think, "Thank you, Jesus. Thank you."  It doesn't have to be thanks for anything specific. Simply saying thank you is enough.

This, making my last and first thoughts be words of thanks, has helped me more than anything else.

I do still deal with skirmishes inside my mind during the day, but it truly does make a difference if I begin the day by pointing my heart toward gratitude.

God loves me with quarters

Sometimes, when we're too lost in our own pain or numbness, we can become a little blind to God's attentive love for us. Sometimes, when this happens, and He knows that we especially need to be reminded of just how loved we are, He does something a little out of the ordinary to get our attention. He did this for me this week, with a handful of quarters.

Remember those state quarters, one for each of the United States? I loved those. I diligently hunted for them, putting together a set for each member of our family. I got the special pasteboard folders for them, and felt such satisfaction when every divot was filled with its proper coin.

And then came the U.S. territories series, and the parks and monuments series. I truly enjoy both the search and the quarters themselves. Many of them have beautiful artwork.

I didn't start collecting the parks and monuments quarters until a year or two after they started being issued, so I missed a number of those early ones. I've kept a list of what I'm missing, and over the years I've found many of them. There were a few, though, that I had never seen. Yosemite, El Yunque and Acadia were the final three that I had never found.

Since we started living in our travel trailer last December, we now frequent laundromats and the laundry rooms of RV parks, which necessitates a stead flow of quarters. I often take a few minutes to sift through each new roll of quarters, hunting for buried treasure. I have found a few to fill gaps, but still, those few early ones eluded me.

In the process of all the shuffling in our moving process, some state quarters had fallen out of our folder, and Michael's as well. I was so frustrated to see that. Too late, I thought to put each one in a large plastic zipper bag. I did that, sighed, and started searching for replacements for the missing coins. I'd been able to find all but two, by the time July rolled around.

In addition to the frustration factor, there is also the emotional element of having lost anything remotely related to Michael. That nerve is raw.

This week, we passed the thirteen-month mark since we learned of our Michael's death. He took his life on June 24th, and was found by a friend the next day, which is when we got the news. Every month, those two days are just hard for me. My heart hurts, and every one of my nerves is on edge. This loss of our beloved child is like no other pain I have ever experienced. The days that mark the count of how long I've lived without him carry an especially heavy weight.

One of the ways I survive those hard days is to intentionally carry on with basic tasks of daily life. This week, that meant laundry. I could have done my laundry on another day, but I decided to do it on the 24th. I thought it would help me to get through the day in a healthy way. The laundry room is a few dozen yards away, so doing laundry gets me out the door, walking back and forth in the sunshine and fresh air. It's good for me, and does good things for my heart.

I had schlepped the first bag over and started the first load, scanning the quarters as I dropped them into the slots. There was nothing I needed, so I started the machine and walked back to our trailer. I thought that, rather than checking each quarter as I used it, I should probably make the effort to check all of them at once.

I sat down at the dinette and emptied the baggie of quarters onto the table. I pulled out the wrinkled little paper with my list of long-sought treasure, and began the search. On the second handful, I smiled. There was the last state quarter I needed to refill our folder. A few coins later, I smiled again. There was the last one I needed, to fix Michael's folder. I whispered, "Aww, thank you," and continued my search. That comforted a small sore place in my heart, being able to replace what was lost.

I dropped each handful back into the baggie as I finished checking it. In all, we had about one or two rolls worth of quarters on hand. On the third or fourth handful, I turned a quarter and my eyes grew wide. There was Yosemite, from 2010! I smiled so big! "Oh, thank you!"  I set it aside with the others, turned over a couple more coins, and froze. There was El Yunque, from 2011.

I sat and stared at that quarter with misty eyes and said, "Are you kidding me?!" Goosebumps prickled my arms as I added it to the pile of "finds." I turned over a few more quarters and there it was: Acadia, from 2011, the last of the long-sought quarters. I looked at that silver coin, buried my face in my hands, and cried.

It might seem silly, but I had been searching for these specific quarters for seven or eight years. Every pocketful of change, every time I emptied my coin purse, I checked every quarter, looking for these missing few. All those years...nothing.

Until this day, when my heart was sad and sore, and my loving Father reached down from Heaven to send a precious message to me. It wasn't really about the quarters. It was about my heart. Finding every single one of the coins I'd longed to find in one small pile, all together, sent me a very clear message.

It said, "I see you. I see your heart. I know you. I am with you. You are so loved."

The odds of those specific, hard-to-find coins all showing up in one single batch are beyond any measure of coincidence.

But God.

He wanted to speak love to my hurting heart, and He did it in a way that I could not miss. He did what He has promised to do, and what we have seen Him do over and over this past year: to love me, to hold me close, to be tenderly with me in the broken middle of my pain.

He is here, holding me close. He sees my aching heart and catches every tear.

I see His hand in the beauty around me, and when I revel in an exquisite sunset I often think, "He paints the sky with glory." But that is not something He does for me alone. I am blessed and uplifted by the majestic, fiery beauty of it, but it's not just for me.

This, though, was about as personal and pointed as it could be.

My God, my Abba (Papa, Daddy), my Heavenly Father, reached into my world and showed me His presence and His love with an unmistakable flourish.

Some might think of this as a sign from Michael, but I've never known what to think about that idea. It never sat comfortably with me. I read an article a while back, where the author talked about these things not as signs from the departed loved one, but as signs of love from the One who loves us most. That felt right to me. That spoke peace to my soul.

So, this week, when my heart was a small sad thing, hurting and tired, Jesus reached out and sent me a love note, spelled out with common coins.

Pizza Stones and Camel Straws

I could have made the title of this something deeply melodramatic, like, "When the pizza stone broke like my shattered heart." My wry sense of humor won't let me go that far, though in a way it's true.

My pizza stone did break. My beloved Pampered Chef pizza stone, dark with years of use, deeply seasoned with memories; all those years of pulling homemade pizza from the oven to feed my eager family.

This morning, I'm making biscuits, and it hasn't gone well. It was nothing big, just that string of petty frustrations that get under my skin. I spilled the dog's water dish, spilled more water down my leg while putting away dishes that weren't quite dry, knocked things over, dropped things into the sink and onto the floor. Petty things, but so many of them, one after another, was getting under my skin.

Hungry and harassed by all these irritating incidents, I stood for a moment, leaning against the counter, head bowed, eyes closed. Praying? No. For just a few seconds, I let it all wash over me. I thought of how, if I didn't have so many food restrictions, I would just give up and ask Lee to take me somewhere for breakfast.

Much as I would love to drive into town, find some cute little diner and sit down to a stack of hotcakes and a pile of hash browns with bacon...I can't.

If I want to eat, I have to cook, even when everything goes wrong.

So...I pulled myself together, pushed back the waves of self-pity and moved on.

We have a little gas oven in the trailer, one that we have to light each time we use it. I got out the lighter and opened the oven door....and saw my pizza stone on the oven rack, broken in two.

It's nobody's fault that it broke. It just happened one day while I was gone.

I stood there with the pieces in my hands, struggling with tears.

Before you think, "Wow, she's weirdly attached to her kitchen equipment," let me tell you about straws.

Not drinking straws, though the whole nation is worked-up about them right now.

I'm talking about the "straw that broke the camel's back" kind of straws.

The whole point of that analogy is that the straw itself is insignificant. What is one single dry wisp of grass among thousands? What is one more petty frustration, piled upon a whole string of other small irritations?

But what about one more small loss, one more small heartbreak, on top of a mountain of other losses and shattering heartbreak?

The thing itself, the thing that breaks me, is often something small and rather meaningless.

Last week, it was a drink shaker.

You know those plastic tumblers with lids, that people use for mixing up protein drinks? That was the thing that made me cry. A drink shaker was my straw; the thing that broke me.

Was there any special significance to the shaker itself? Maybe a little. It was Michael's, and made me think of all the times he must have used it. It reminded me of the years he invested in body-building, and how intently he'd researched fitness nutrition, to give his body what it needed to be strong and resilient.

Still, that would not usually be enough to break me. It's a fairly small thing, on the scale of things that hurt.

Except that, this time, that piece of plastic was my straw. It was that one more seemingly insignificant thing, piled on top of so many others, that suddenly became too much.

For three weeks, I had been reveling joyously in getting to see so many of my precious people...and then having to say goodbye to them all over again. I had been fully immersed in the life that I miss so much. That week, we had emptied one of our storage units back in Oregon and hauled a load up to our long-term storage in Washington. Added to the physical exhaustion was a heavy emotional burden, as a good share of what we moved were Michael's belongings. All of them. Everything that is left of the life he had built.

I had soldiered on for days on end, bravely facing those remnants of his life, handling mementos of his passions and dreams. Lifting, packing, moving. Every piece of that sad puzzle was a small hurt, added a small weight to my heart.

As I sat in my mom's living room, going through yet another box of his things (hunting for the title to his pickup), the pain was building. One book, one dish, one piece of mail with his name on it at a time, the suffering of my loss crept in on me. Finally, when I picked up that silly drink shaker, it all became too much and I broke. I sat on my mom's floor and cried, for all we've lost and all that's ended; all he worked for and dreamed of that will never be.

It's just a drink shaker; just a pizza stone...just a straw.

The point of the camel analogy is not that single bit of straw, but the thousands and millions of straws that came before.

The pizza stone is just a pizza stone.

It is also one more loss.

On top of loss after loss after loss after heart-breaking loss.

After selling our family home, moving into a travel trailer, and wandering a thousand miles from our children, family and beloved friends...after leaving behind community, work and ministry that I loved...after having my entire life ripped up by the roots, torn into a hundred pieces and cast to the wind...after receiving the news that our son was dead, and that death had been his choice...after loss after loss, after letting-go after letting-go after letting-go...my heart is raw on this topic.

Strong as I seem, I am deeply fragile in ways I never was before.

After enduring so much loss and letting go of almost everything and everyone that matters to me, any fresh loss, no matter how small, hits me hard.

The nerves of my heart are raw, my reserves are fragile and low.

And so, some days, a broken pizza stone is enough to break my heart.

Real life

Everyone who loves me wants so badly for me to be okay. Their hearts ache for my loss as a mom, and they long for me to have happiness.

I'm often pretty quiet when I'm not doing well, partly because I don't want to make people sad.
Also, partly because when my resources are low, I'm especially unable to handle a flood of helpful (unsolicited) advice on how to do better. I usually just lie low for a while, until things improve.

So how am I doing?

I'll tell you.

I'm not doing the best that I could be doing.
I'm doing kind of the best-ish that I have at this moment.

I've been better.
I've been worse.

Sometimes, I have days when I do all of the things to help and support my own well-being.

Other times look like tonight- listening to Andrea Boccelli while washing dishes at 1 AM because that's when I finally managed to drag my most-reluctant self into the kitchen to do them.

Sometimes it's different.
Sometimes I listen to Piano Guys. Or Lauren Daigle.
Sometimes I wash the dishes at midnight or eleven-thirty.

Here's the thing...

Underneath all of the extra complications, I am still me and I still struggle with the same things I always have. It's just exaggerated now because of grief and loss and all that goes with that.

I'm not feeling especially sad right now. I'm just tired and overwhelmed with all that needs to be done. It wears me down and makes it hard for me to do the things.

I don't share my struggles as an appeal for reassurance or sympathy (though I am so grateful for all the love and kindness you dear people have shown me on here) but to tell the honest story of what this journey is like for me. My hope is that maybe someone else who struggles will read my story and know that they are not alone. Or that opening the doors on my life will help others grow in understanding and compassion. Those are the reasons I write- to build understanding and to offer encouragement and hope.

So...this is a glimpse of my real life when I'm not soaring in victorious glory.

This is what it looks like, tonight, this week, for me.
And if that's what it takes for me to carry on, that's okay.

One of the most important things to do when you are going through a hard time is to extend immense and gentle grace to yourself.
Be kind to yourself about where you are and how you're doing.

You are loved, right where you are.
You are enough.

Grief Sleeping

Sleep while grieving?

You don't.

The end.

.
.
.
.

Okay, eventually you do. But not for a while, and then not well.

After some times goes by, you flip to the other side of the coin and develop a deep need for more sleep than you ever needed before.

At least, that's how it went for me.

Scattered, shattered snatches of sleep those first few nights.
Then, the weary press of exhaustion reaching for but rarely finding that elusive prize.

Rest. Deep, soul-replenishing, life-refreshing sleep.

Later, I (and our girls, too) found that the need for sleep is much  greater than it used to be.
Our bodies and minds want more, substantially more than before.

Except...it's still not that soft sink into blissful, sweet-dreamed oblivion.

Not yet.

I stay up too late, most of the time, running from what my mind does when I stop moving.

I am so tired.

When I remember or am able, I do all of the things, in the right order and a timely fashion. I choose some favorite jammies; soft and comfortable- the kind you can't wait to crawl into. I turn off all of the screens when that reminder sounds on my phone. I take the several supplements we have to relax and to calm and to encourage sleep. I make a large mug of relaxing tea- usually Traditional Medicinals Lavender ~ Chamomile, with a spoon of good honey and a splash of coconut milk. I get comfy while I drink it, reflect on the day and record good words in my Blessing journal. I read my Bible, and then ease my way gently to bed at a surprisingly early hour.

Even then, most often, the moment my body stills, my system is jarred to wakefulness by upsetting thoughts. Not always about Michael, it can be anything that will kick my adrenalin and rev my system. There's no chance to "take all thoughts captive" when the first thought punches my adrenal system in the chest and throws it into high gear. I pick up my electronic "book," kept bedside for just this reason, and try to soothe my mind back down with a faithful old friend, or words from God's Word. After a while, when my thoughts have stopped ricocheting around my mind like panicked fawns, I try again. Sometimes it works and I sleep. Even then, all this takes time, cutting my nights shorter and shorter and leaving me tired before I even wake up the next day.

I have this fantasy that if I was really doing it "right," really dwelling in God's presence in a deep and purposeful way, I would be flooded and sustained with such deep, pervasive peace that I could slip softly to sleep without a single ripple to the surface of my thoughts. It's probably true. I'm just not there right now.

I cringe as I write this, certain that someone (probably several someones) will eagerly leap to flood me with helpful suggestions to solve my little problem. So sure there's a simple answer.

If you are feeling that urge, please don't. I know you leap with the best of loving intentions to fix what's wrong, but trust me...what I write is not a plea for advice. It is one battered refugee, plodding the no-man's-land of grief, posting a notice to share with others what it looks like here.

Not only for my own sake, but for the sake of everyone who is grieving, or dealing with issues of mental health or chronic illness or disability or motherhood or just life...please don't be so quick to shovel out advice, dust your hands and hurry on with your day. Whether it's because you honestly believe you know the one magical answer that will solve everything, or because we as humans are so deeply uncomfortable with unsolved problems and unfinished stories, pouring out advice usually does more to harm than to help. Fending off well-meant, unsolicited advice saps what little energy we have. Most likely, if there were a simple solution to our struggle, we would have already done that thing and moved on to better days.

Instead, please be willing to sit right here with us, in the great discomfort of the unsolved and unanswered. Just be with us, and really hear what we say. And let our honest words be met with only love.

Grief Dressing

No, this is not about salad toppings for sad people. ;)

From those first days last summer I have thought about clothes in relation to grief.

Color~
In the old days, people "wore mourning" when someone died. There were specific rules, a general understanding about what was worn, and by whom, and for how long. For a spouse, a woman would usually go into full-black clothing, sometimes also with a heavy black veil. Anyone who saw her knew at a glance what she was going through. For someone less closely connected a man might wear a black arm band or hat band; a woman might wear gray or lavender clothing-the shade being lighter or darker, depending on the closeness of relationship.

I think that there was a real benefit to that system. Anyone could tell at a glance that here was someone in need of extra kindness and understanding. It was also a way to show respect to the person who was gone; to honor their memory.

Now, there's no real way to do that; no simple visible way to let the world know you're suffering.

I actually did look online to see if there are just, like...."I'm grieving" buttons or something.

There are.

But looking at them, it seemed too flippant for the depth of my loss; too cutesy.

For the first several weeks, I did my own private version of mourning clothes. I wore a lot of black and dark gray, dark burgundy. I didn't go out and buy new clothes, but just chose things I already owned in those colors that fit how I felt.

Later, I started to wear the broader range of colors in my usual wardrobe, but in those first weeks the dark colors just felt right. I wanted strong outward evidence of the heavy load my heart carried. It was one of the things I did to honor the private state of my heart, and it felt right to me. It helped.

Comfort~ 
I was already fairly invested in the comfort of my clothes, but that shifted to a whole new level in the wake of Michael's death. I was in such unbearable emotional pain that my body could not stand any level of extra pain or discomfort.

In that place, I needed physical comfort in a deep way. The shock and grief were so intense that I felt like my molecules were barely hanging together; as if my physical and mental self might disintegrate into jagged shards and go spinning away into the storm.

I could not handle uncomfortable clothes.

I wore only soft things that did not bind or constrict anywhere. With every nerve in my body in high panic from the shock, my skin needed only the softest things touching it.

This went on for a long time.

There came a day when I suddenly lost all patience with any of my underwear that were too small or that rode up or bagged, or just caused me annoyance in any way. There was so much incredibly big, unbelievably hard stuff in my life that I could not stand having basic garments that added to my burden in even the smallest way.

I threw out half of my underwear. Yes, it was sort of a dramatic, "I am DONE with you!!!" moment... which also made me smile at myself for making such a scene over underwear. And I ordered new ones, making sure to get the size and style that work best for me, in colors that I like.

I also treated myself to a couple new pairs of socks; the special ones with the thick, cushy soles. They're like walking on little pillows, and they're really soft inside. It was like giving my feet a hug.

One of the most important things I have done through this whole time was to be very loving toward myself. As I shared the other day, I made sure to eat things that felt soothing to my soul. I also saw the value in making sure every part of me, from my bum to my toes, was only touched by  comfort, surrounded by softness.

Every aspect of my being sustained such a severe and lasting shock that I have needed to give thought to every kind of mental, emotional or sensory input. My systems were on extreme overload and none of them could handle anything jarring or abrasive.

Soft, gentle, comforting and comfortable. These were the things that I needed.

~~~~~

Easy, comfy clothes and underwear that do not annoy.
These made a difference in my ability to cope with this intensely hard journey.

Who has time for underwear that add insult to injury?

Grief Reading... not what I expected

There are so many great books out there about the grieving process.

I own some of them, either gifts from loving friends or things I've bought for myself.

I have started reading a couple of them.
.
.
.
But that is as far as I've gotten.

I just can't do it.

It's not that I can't handle reading about grief. I cannot read anything remotely challenging. I don't mean hard or heavy topics; I can't read even positive things that I will have to process.


The combination of intense loss and immense life change with profound physical, mental and emotional exhaustion has left my brain a soft little pudding.

When I told our youngest daughter recently that I was reading Little Women, she said, "That tells me exactly how you're doing." This is something that my family knows.

Just last Spring, I had this conversation with my dear Lee. I gave him the secret key to knowing the state of my inner world. I was sharing with him some ways that I was struggling under the emotional strain of those days, and I said, "What have I been reading?"  He thought for just a moment. "The Chronicles of Narnia....D.E. Stevenson." "Exactly." "Ooohhh!!!" He totally got it in that short conversation.

If I am under stress, I can only read gentle, comfortable old-friend books. The quickest way to know how I'm doing is to look at what I'm reading. (Currently: Jo's Boys- a sequel to Little Women)

It can be frustrating.  I want to be reading deeply helpful books that will encourage me and guide me along this hard, strange new road...but my brain simply cannot process the words.

One of these days, hopefully, my inner world will settle down enough that I can prowl the pages of all those great books and drink in their wise words.

For now, I just have to be patient and read the things that are gentle on my mind and comforting to my soul. Comfort food for the mind. :)


Things I read in times like these:
Louisa May Alcott [Little Women, Little Men, Jo's Boys, An Old Fashioned Girl, Eight Cousins]
The Chronicles of Narnia
L.M. Montgomery [the Anne of Green Gables Series, Emily of New Moon trilogy, the Blue Castle]
the Mitford books, by Jan Karon
The Secret Garden
Pollyanna and its sequel
books by D.E. Stevenson, one of my favorite authors
the Miss Read books
Understood Betsy
the Riddlemaster trilogy- Patricia McKillip
The Blue Sword - Robin McKinley
the Little House on the Prairie series

I'd be interested to know how this impacts others. What are the books you return to when life hits hard and the way is heavy? What lifts your heart and takes you to a happier place?

More signs that I missed

I am still smiling gently to myself over how many blatant signs I missed in the past couple of weeks; signs that something was amiss in my inner world. Along with what I wrote in my previous post ("When I don't even realize I'm struggling"), here are a few more things I've noticed.

~ For days, maybe even a week or two, I have spent most days sitting inside, with the shades down. Hint- hunkering down in a dark cave is an almost ridiculously obvious sign of depression!

~ Most of those days in the cave have been spent face-down in the internet, mostly watching hours of YouTube videos.  Hint- losing myself in the cyber-world for hours (days!) on end, and doing very little in the real world? Classic sign of depression/running from my own thoughts & feelings. Other hint- often, when my thoughts, feelings or inner burdens are too much for me, I run from them until I feel better able to face them. Usually this looks like binge-reading. My supply of books is limited (one unfortunate aspect of tiny-home vagabond life), so I have been turning to the internet instead. This, to me, is not always a bad thing. Being able to escape from what feels overwhelming can just be a welcome respite, filling my mind with benign input rather than painful or exhausting thoughts...as long as it doesn't last too long and take over my life. :)

~ There are several unanswered emails, letters and text messages from dear, wonderful friends. I have read all of them, smiled over them, been truly blessed by them, been concerned and prayed over them... but I just have not had the emotional energy to answer them. Now that the clouds are starting to ease from my inner world, I hope to begin working on that backlog. Hint- if responding to messages from people you love feels like an impossible task, you just might be depressed! (And/or carrying an impossible emotional burden, like the sudden, tragic death of a child.) For me, this inability to respond can be a sign of depression, or a sign that the weight of our loss is pressing me down, which are very similar conditions. The response paralysis is understandable, given the long, hard journey that is my current life...but also an indicator that the waves are winning and I need to find a way to breathe.

~ I made our bed yesterday morning and suddenly realized that I could not remember the last time I'd done that. Now, whether or not you make your bed each day is not inherently a depression-marker. That is a simple matter of personal preference. If, however, you are someone who really prefers crawling into a neatly made bed each night and who likes beginning each day by creating that little corner of orderliness, and who takes pleasant satisfaction in the sight,  and suddenly the bed lies tumbled day after day after week, that is something to notice. (Hint, Hint)

~Something less specific, but also noticeable: many things just seem more possible all of a sudden. Like...washing the dishes, taking the dogs for a walk, making dinner. When everything just feels hard and like it's just too much....you might be depressed. :) As I emerge from the fog a little more each day, this becomes more clear to me. It is becoming easier for me to do these daily things, without a huge amount of effort, without mini-drama, without feeling that I am draaaagging myself through the task. Things just feel...possible. And with this, each day our little living space becomes slightly less messy and a touch more bearable.

And now, I think I will open the blinds! :)  I will let in the light, and I will turn on some pleasant music. I will walk over to the laundry house and see if I can put in a load or two to wash. We did a lot of laundry this weekend, but I still have a few loads to do. I will eat a good breakfast, and read my devotional book and my Bible while I do so. I will pull out my prayer journal and lift up those people and issues so close to my heart. I may even stretch my tight muscles and take a nice warm shower. I will put on comfy clothes that make me feel happy. Maybe I will choose a few more things in our living space and put them where they belong. Little steps, but all moving in the better direction.

I so appreciate every single one of you dear people who read my words. This means so much to me. You are wonderful. <3  I have appreciated your responses to my last post, in which you shared your own tactics for pushing back the clouds. Thank you for that. <3  This is another thing that helps- putting my thoughts out there and knowing that others read them. The thought that what I write may help or encourage someone else means a great deal to me. <3

****When I talk about being depressed, it is what I think of as "small d" depression, the kind that is helped by simple changes in thoughts or environment. "Big D" Depression (clinical depression) is a whole different animal. Someone close to me describes it as waking every morning in a "gray wasteland." It is deep and very long-lasting. In a post from a few months ago ("How do I keep my kid alive?") I wrote about some things that have helped people I know who deal with Depression on that larger, deeper level. You really can't just think happy thoughts to solve it, or "boot-strap" your way out of Depression (or Anxiety Disorder). These things need deeper intervention. All of the things I talk about- opening the blinds, taking walks in the sunshine, listening to positive music- will also help those with the Big D, but they cannot fix it. They are good to do, and they can make a difference, but they are not the solution. Big D Depression is rooted in brain chemistry, and it needs to be addressed on a gut-deep level (literally as well as figuratively-again, see "How do I keep my kid alive?"). It can also be the result of trauma, which most certainly cannot be "solved" by just thinking happy thoughts! That needs the care of trained people who know their business, to address the deep scars of heavy wounds. (I have been hearing good things about EMDR therapy, from people who have experienced it.)****

Okay, I really felt that needed to be added- I never want to seem to trivialize the depth of other people's emotional experience and wanted to make clear the difference. <3 Now I really will make a start on the things I need, to help this be a better day. So much love and gratitude to every one who pauses to read my words. You are lovely humans. <3