Grief Does Not Keep A Schedule

When you go through something as horrible as four significant deaths in twenty-six months, it's easy to identify who your true friends are.  I went through that God awful season from February 2008 through April 2010.  All the while I kept functioning, kept my head above water, never really grieved for any of them until now.

Back then my psyche was fragile.  My therapist Carol knew it but she kept prodding me to get out some of the grief.  I'd dab into it once in awhile but I didn't see what the point was.

Cathy was gone.  I'd never have another woman who understood me like she did.  Get up and move on.

My Dad sent so many mixed signals I never knew what to believe.  This signal was easy.  He was dead.  Nothing more, nothing less.

Sharing the message of Jesus with Maryla when she was up and conscious is the warmest feeling I have.  She and her roommate Barb saying, "Yes," when I asked if they believed Jesus was their forever friend and died for them brought tears to my eyes.  The next time I saw Maryla was in the hospital with a brain aneurysm.  I walked into her room alone.  I asked her if she wanted Jesus to take away her sin.  A tear fell from her eye.  I asked her if she'd like me to baptize her.  Another tear.  I baptized her.

Aaron died from huffing propane.  He was 18 years old.  When I laid hands on him to pray, I didn't feel any activity in his head.  We'd talked about Jesus the week before.  I asked him the same questions as Maryla.  Same tears.  Baptized.  I put two pins on his lapels.  I was there when the machines were turned off and Aaron passed into eternity.  Nothing eclectic.  He was gone.

After each of these deaths came helping my nieces.  They needed a lot of consoling.  I'm glad God gave me the stamina to do just that.  Late night talks over the phone, crying, deep crying, whatever they needed.

What about me?  I put myself on the back burner.  I've always done that.  I've always known I'll get around to it one of these days.

I guess the time is here.

There Once Was...

There once was a little girl.
There once was a little boy.
There once was a little fighter.
There once was a little driver.
There once was a little protector.
There once was a little runaway.
There once was a little weapon of anger.
There once was a Sunday school attender.
There once was a bully confronted.
There once was an empty soul.
There once were empty eyes.
There once were battered limbs.
There once were hate filled eyes.
There once were slams by the neck.
There once were furniture broken.
There once was a gun ready for a fight.
There once were doors crashing inward.
There once were holes in the walls.
There once were yelling and screaming.
There once were sounds of rape.
There once were dark shadows in my room.
There once were sexual abuse on top my body.
There once were sexual abuse I hovered above my body.
There once were beatings with a belt.
There once were smacks across the face.
There once were black and blue bruises.
There once were rules.
There once were changing rules.
There once were changing rules.
There once were changing rules.
There once were hair grabs.
There once were slamming two heads.
There once were no first aid given.
There once were silent suffering.
There once were pulling the hair out of my head.
There once were wetting my bed.
There once was a monster.
There once was a Dad.
There once was a monster.
That monster is dead.

Those are all of my roles, my Dad's roles, the abuse I survived and the healing that has yet to take place.  Each anniversary date erupts more and more pain.  Deeper and deeper it makes it's way up. I've so badly wanted to self-injure or overeat or drink.  But I know those acts of terrorism on my body will not serve me well.  Instead, I remind myself that I have to keep talking, no matter how uncomfortable it becomes.

No more abuse to my body.

I have to love myself more than I love abusing myself.
And even if I don't feel that way, there's only way I know of to get there.

I have to fake it until I make it.

Juggling Multiple Deaths

An excerpt from an email I sent to a friend:

The work I've been doing is work I haven't yet done.  I don't know if this makes any sense but I'm going to give it a try.  The shock of Cathy's death (the way she died and all the details surrounding her death) were a huge blow to our family and hers.  My mom drove down immediately.  The day my mom returned home she received a call from Tracy that our Dad had died.  She got back into her van and drove back down.  

It was literally one blow followed by another blow.  We get done burying Cathy then our Dad dies. Not only does he die but there is so much dysfunction wrapped up in his death that we (my sisters and I) don't really know how to process it.  I ended up shutting down and not talking much about it.  

I'm not the type of person who enjoys living in grief.  I'm quite the opposite.  I avoid and shut off those feelings because they bring up so much pain.  Faith and I have been working on getting me to feel my feelings and put self-care techniques into place.  So instead of overeating, drinking or cutting, I'm learning to write, distract and talk about what's going on.  I'm also learning how to sit in the uncomfortable feelings.

I would love to one day have Cathy's, Aaron's, Maryla's, and Karen's birthday's be a celebration of their lives.  For now, I need to work through the grief so that the joy will be genuine.

As for my Dad, I do not want nor need a day of celebration for his life.  There is nothing for me to celebrate.  The few good memories I have do not come close to overtaking all of the abusive memories that will be with me forever.  I've forgiven him and that's all God asks me to do.

Grief is a complicated emotion because people go through it in different ways.  Right now, I'm experiencing high levels of pain and memories six years after the fact.  It doesn't matter what others tell me - this is between me and God and I'm following His lead.

I'm giving myself time to rest, time to write, time to reach out to my friends and eat as best I can.  I'm not going to try to do all of it perfectly.  I'm not going to try to do any of it perfectly.  My goal today is to avoid cutting.  It's what I wanted to do after my therapy session and I'm on top of it.  

I'm feeling very tired so I'm going to stop writing.  If you're going through a delayed reaction to someones death, you're not alone.  Ask God what He wants you to do, ask Him to help you everyday then start doing it.  I feel better even though I feel yucky and drained.

Be at peace.

I Am Brokenhearted

I am brokenhearted.

The sadness is rising slowly, like yeast rising in dough.

The tears are forming on the outside of my eyes.

I've taken my anxiety medication to settle down my nerves.

I've done everything I know to do yet I believe there is more I haven't thought of yet.


I'm watching movies that transport my mind to natural disasters, people being wrongly accused of crimes and Bible values taught by a crew of cartoon vegetables.

I don't want to watch any violence, war, blood or scary movies.

My appetite is still way down.  I've had two meals.  Small meals.  Only because I feel nauseous when I don't eat.  I'm drinking water and sugar-free lemonade.

I'm going to a movie with a friend.  I'm getting out of the house.  It will be strange to be out of the house.

I see my therapist today.  I will bring a copy of what I've been writing about my Dad's death.  I think it will be a lot.  I'm hope we do not try to get through it all.  I think I'll say that to Faith.

The time I've spend writing has been laborious and emotionally draining.  The memories are racing to the front of my mind.  I find them to be fast and obnoxious.

They seem to be pushing themselves to the front, not caring about who or what's before them.  They have a sense of urgency.  It's as though they're reacting to a stimulus that's shouting, "If you don't get to the front, you'll die in the abyss of her mind, forever."

I don't want these memories to die.  In fact, I believe they never die.  I believe God keeps them alive and stores them in a safe place until I'm ready next time.

I don't want a next time.
I want to go through all of this.
I want to be healed and made well.

I want my broken heart sealed with God's glue.

Pacing Yourself

In writing about the death of my Dad six years ago, I knew some of the memories would be hard and stir up a lot of emotions.

I put together a plan that is working out very well.

1. I have a goal to write a little bit every day.
2. I do not write when my anxiety is too high.
3. I write later in the day when I'm more relaxed.
4. I give myself permission to take an anxiety pill.
5. I write only as much as I'm able.
6. I don't push myself to do more than I can.
7. I don't have any noise on in the house.
8. I take a break for petting the cats.
9. I drink water while I'm working.
10. I pray for God to help me remember stuff.

I'm amazed at how many details I remember.  Colors, textures, things I said, how I was notified, who I told, all the stuff that matters.

I've already had such encouraging and eye opening responses from my friends.  They are truly Godly women who empathize with the trauma and disappointments and abuse I've had to get through in this life.

Without God, I never would have made it.

Dad's Death

Our weather has been very cold with lots of snow.  The frigid temperatures continue and thankfully we are having a break from precipitation.  It's a chance to sit back and relax.

Two days ago was the sixth year anniversary of my Dad's death.  I wasn't going to write about it on my blog because I didn't think it would effect me that much.  Wishful thinking.

I started to feel panic and anxiety at the beginning of last weekend.  I called my therapist and asked if she had a cancellation to call me.  I told her it wasn't an emergency.

I could feel myself slipping away.  By the time I got to her office I was gone - emotionally.  I was flat in talking but felt rage inside.

She was going to hand me a glass ball to toss in my hands but I told her I felt like throwing it through the glass window.  It was a way to get me reconnected.  I was still checked out.

I told her the one thing I've never talked about was the morning at the funeral home.  Actually, I haven't talked about the day he died, the viewing of his body, the obituary and the garbage.  There were some things I kept to myself.

This year, it's all coming up like a volcano.  I felt it would be good to write it since writing is my primary outlet.  I could work on it each day then bring it to my next session.  She agreed.

She made a few suggestions.  She asked me to visit his grave.  I told her there wasn't one.  I suggested I could go to where my Dad and I used to fish if I needed to get out some anger.  She thought that was a good idea.

She asked me to go to my safe place - a marina where I live - so I can soak in some good feelings. I told her I could try.  Truth is, with the writing I would be doing, I'd be more inclined to stay indoors but I'm not closed to the idea.

When I got home, I started writing.  I emailed my four closest friends to let them know what I'd be doing.  Each of them gave me so much love and insight.

One of them wisely used the word "trauma."  Another was horrified at the presentation of my Dad. Yet another loves my heart for doing this.  The final one reminded me that this is another writing that is going to help people.

I found two pages from my 2011 blog and I've written two more pages.  The toughest part of the writing will start today.  I'm not looking forward to it but I know it has to be written.

Whenever I think about his death,
I also think about his life.

In the end, my Dad died the way he lived.

He cut himself off from his children,
from me three years before he died.

He chose not to see his other daughters,
sons-in-law or grandchildren.

He died a lonely, miserable, selfish man.

Everything Will Be Okay

Some days I need to remind myself that everything is going to be okay.

My day can be filled with many little problems.  I move from one problem to the next.  I don't have time to catch my breath. 

My day can be filled with one big problem.  I try many solutions.  Maybe I find one that works.  Maybe I don't.

My day can be filled with familiar emotions from a childhood trauma.  Post traumatic stress syndrome.  I do my best to get through it.

My day can have a hard therapy session.  One where I talk about something I've never shared.  I leave feeling exposed and vulnerable.

These are just a few examples over the past couple of months.

For most women who have been abused, recovery leads us down a road that is both familiar yet scary.  We have flashbacks of the abuse, we dream about it and the abuser, we feel body sensations and often times our senses are on high alert.

I've had all of those happen plus feeling certain the abuser was in the bathroom with me when I was getting ready to step into the shower.  I actually felt him breathe on me.  

Nowadays I still have some of those triggers.  I still cry tears of sadness.  I still feel rage at what they did to me.  I still long to be put back together.

Being patient with the process, staying honest with my therapist and doing the hard work God has set before me to do will (I believe) fill in the deep cracks of my life.

My Mom once said to God, "I have all of these broken pieces I'd like to have fixed."

God said, "I intend to."

That's my heart's cry.