Happy Birthday Dad

Before you give me condolences, please take time to read this.  Today is my Dad's birthday.   He would have been 84.   He died in July 2012, or as I like to call it "The Year From Hell".  I. Still not sure how I feel about his death.  I'm mostly pissed off at him and the Universe that it happened so quickly after Jim (my husband) died.   Jim died on Monday.   Dad fell down the weekend after and they discovered prostate cancer that had metastasized.   Still reeling in shock from Jim's death, I immediately booked a flight to see him; my best friend and my brother went with me as support.  I'm grateful I went, I was able to be loving with him and have no regrets.  I left thinking he'd be fine.  A week later he was in hospice and died shortly after.   I don't even know if I have any grief about his death.  He had multiple health problems and didn't take care of himself properly.  My brother and I were surprised he hadn't died sooner.   My brother said "Who would have thought Jim would die before Dad".   Which may seem insensitive, but we have an odd sense of humor and it made sense to me.  

My father was an alcoholic.  So like most children of alcoholics, my relationship with him had many contradictory feelings.  I loved him, I hated him.  I was desperate for his approval and rebelled against him at the same time.   I didn't want to be anything like him, but I was, down to the alcoholism.  I've spent years in sobriety untangling the web of feelings and the legacy he gave me.  There was a period of 5 years where I didn't talk to him - it was just too toxic for me.   But after I moved to Moab, he contacted me and we were able to have a relationship.  But it was never comfortable or easy.  My Dad could talk to almost anyone and be interesting and personable.  But with his family, he was awkward and it was difficult to talk to him, especially after he stopped being critical.  Over the years I was able to see how much his mother had damaged him, how everything he didn't like about himself he saw in me and criticized.  I realized I would never get the love and approval from him that  I had so desperately wanted as a child, as an adult.  I also saw how he did love me and did the best he knew how.  How along with the damage he gave me, he gave me so many gifts; my intelligence, my curiosity, my sensitivity (that one is a mixed blessing).  Mostly I was able to see how he had never healed from his childhood and became grateful that I was given a path where I had.  I was able to give him love, instead of trying to get his love.  Every once in awhile, I would say something to him, joke about something I had learned about myself.  I could see or hear his relief and he would say "You got that from me".  In my accepting myself, I was able to help him accept himself a little more.

I wonder - if his death wasn't mixed in with all my other losses at that time; my husband and my dog; what would my feelings be about his death?  Truthfully, I don't really miss him.  I didn't see or talk to him very much and when I did, it wasn't easy.  I'm grateful that for many years I was able to give him love with no expectations and heal not only him, but myself.   I hope he's in a place where he's found peace and love for himself.   I feel some guilt about not missing him, What will you all think?  Am I a horrible daughter, a horrible person?  But I have to be honest, because I know some of you will relate.  And here I am at 56 years old, still discovering the wounds he left in me and doing my best to heal them.  I don't blame him, I know he was wounded too.  I guess I don't miss him because every single day, I have to deal with what he left me with, good and bad.

So Happy Birthday Dad.  I'm grateful for everything you gave me, good and bad, because I am who I am today because of you.  I hope you are in a place of love, being able to be loved and feel it, to give love because you overflow with it.  I hope you are in a place of peace, that your soul has been healed.  I love you Dad.

The Final Gift

*This will be my final entry on this blog.  Although I haven't written here much lately,  what I did write helped me through the loss, the pain.  It helped me survive.  I have moved through the grief.  The losses still cause sadness, but it no longer tears me apart.  I am grateful to this blog - I always wanted to write, but was fearful.  The pain catapulted me though the fear; I had to write to save my sanity.  From the loss I have been given new gifts.  I am building a new life and finally feel excited once again about living. Peace and love to any of you reading this.

The Final Gift

The day came when the pain of remaining in his body became too great and he had to leave.  He had been ill for such a short time, but the disease had eroded his being slowly, quietly for a long time.  By the time he became seriously ill, it was too late.  But he stayed and fought.  He knew she needed him and he wanted to stay.  To love her, to protect her, to give her the safety and security he always had.  But now, he had to leave his body.

He knew she would be devastated.  They had been so connected, their souls entwined with every fiber of their beings.  He knew the pain it would cause her that all of those connections were abruptly, suddenly severed.   And so though he left his body, he stayed connected to the physical plane for her.

He watched helplessly as she first went through the shock, the disbelief.  And then the pain hit her like a tsunami.  He watched, incapable of providing comfort as she collapsed time and time again, pain ripping her apart.

He would take brief moments to explore the mysteries of the physical world he had always contemplated.  He traversed the Universe, time measured by her heartbeats.  He was finally able to understand gravity, that thing that had absorbed his mind.  “They can explain what gravity does, but they can’t explain why” he had said on countless occasions, wanting to know why.  He investigated black holes and saw the birth and death of stars.  He caught rides on meteors, streaking through the sky; knowing that when she saw them, she knew he was riding them like the character in Doctor Strangelove riding the bomb.

He always returned to keep an eye on her, though he was powerless to help. But he could not leave her yet.  He would leave signs.  A heart shaped rock, a feather.  She would see them and know he had left them for her to reassure her that he was still near.  Sometimes she would wander around their yard, looking at the night sky and talk to him and he wished with all his heart that he could answer her, could have stayed for her, that he could console her.

He watched helplessly as her father died and then their beloved tiny poodle died.  He watched with sorrow as the business she had started, the store he had wanted to succeed for her, failed.  He felt anguish as she was forced to sell their home, the home they had worked for together.  He lamented as she sold all they had built throughout the years, knowing how the loss would devastate her.

As she prepared to leave the town they had loved, he was unable to follow, his soul tied to the place they called home.  He still tried to send her signs, a feather here, a meteor shooting through the sky, but he could feel his connection to her stretching, thinning.   He could feel his ties to their lives loosening, but still he remained, knowing she still grieved and would need him one last time before they both would be freed.

She finally returned as he knew she would.  There were still ties left unfinished for her that she needed to release.   The first night she was there, he was able to visit her in her dream.  He knew she rarely remembered her dreams, but hoped he could give her what she needed to move on.  And so he went to her.  He took her in his arms as he had so many times throughout their years together, as he had the first night they met.  They had hugged and knew, knew they were home, knew they had found their mate.  He wrapped his arms around her and whispered in her ear “Never settle for anything less than this.  Never settle for someone who doesn’t make you feel secure and protected when he takes you in his arms.”  He kissed her gently, stroked her hair, her eyelids, her cheeks and hoped she felt him, hoped she had heard, hoped she would remember.

  

He needed to stay just a bit more, to do what he could to soothe and support her through the final stages of her accepting and finding peace.  He watched as she combined his ashes with those of their beloved pets, just as he desired.  He watched as she divided them up, some into a small urn made by an artist friend of theirs that looked like an aspen tree.  He appreciated the thoughtfulness as she honored his life as a logger, the life he had before they met.  He watched as she filled the tin can they had traveled with, the tin can that had been filled with the ashes of their coydog Misty.  They would sometimes stop, look at a spot, jest that Misty would have loved it here and leave bits of her ashes.   He had often joked that when he died, he wanted his ashes put in the tin and for her to leave bits of him here and there.  He felt joy as she did just that, feeling her heart lighten just a bit.  He watched as she took the rest of the ashes to a few of their sacred, special places.  The place where they had camped out for a month, before they settled down.  Next to a small creek, they had damned up a small spot and created a bathing hole where tiny fishes would tickle them, nibbling on their leg and arm hair as they bathed.  They had hiked with not only the dog alongside them, but the cats also following & had snickered at cats hiking.  Finally they had been forced out by the no-see-ums, almost invisible insects that bit and left uncomfortable welts.  After they had settle in town, they sometimes would drive out and visit their old spot.  She scattered some of his ashes on top of a rise, so he would be able to have a 360 degree view of the incomparable scenery.  Some were scattered by the precious creek.  They rest were put into a fire pit and she drew a heart in the ashes with a small stick.

Finally, she drove out to their favorite viewpoint, one they would always take time to stop at when driving home.  The view of the winding Colorado River, resplendent red rocks and the back drop of the majestic mountains.  She stood on the small incline made for photographers and scattered the remaining ashes, letting him float free.

He watched as she visited her old store, now an artists’ co-op.  She was able to see and accept that it was no longer her store.  He watched as she drove to look at their house, saw the changes and accepted that it was no longer their home.  He felt the bittersweetness of those moments, could see her pain transform into peace, acceptance, serenity.

On her final night before she returned to her new life, she went into the canyons.  As she sat on the edge of the ravine, absorbing the sound of the silence, the stars unmarred by ambient light, he felt her releasing her ties, letting go of her grief, preparing herself for the future, letting the past become the past.  He knew he would never fully leave her, he had become part of her,  healed her, helped create who she now was, had made her strong enough to withstand the obliteration of her life, their life.  He gave her his final gift.  As he felt the bonds that had shackled him to the physical plane diminish, he took one last ride on a meteor; generating a fireball that blazed through the dark night, leaving a trail glowing across the length of the horizon.  His job was done, she had made it through the pain to peace.  He knew love and joy would soon be hers.  He said goodbye, knowing she no longer needed him here.  It was time for each of them to be reborn into a their new lives, their new adventures.

The Quarry

Recently I started going to a meditation meeting once a week on Saturday mornings.  I’ve never been good at “Meditation”.  The formal thing where you sit and try to empty your mind or focus on just one thing.  Turns out I have been meditating in several different ways for many years, just not the formal one.  But I’m going to this group.  Time to broaden and deepen my spiritual life.  

One of my main ways of meditating was active, creative meditation.  Just letting things float through my brain as I created whatever.  But since Jim died I’ve had a big huge creative block.  I’m missing my right arm, my creative soulmate and I don’t know how to work around it.  Yet.  Eventually I will.  Just not right now.  

So I was sitting in this group.  We do a 7 minute silent meditation.  And I got a vision.  

Deep within me was a giant, empty cavern.  The walls were black and craggy.  I had been mined.  There had been drilling, explosives inserted and detonated.  The ore had been extracted.  This had happened over and over until all that was left was an  abandoned quarry.   There were still metals and gems to be found, but the chamber would collapse if anything more were removed.  So I sat in this empty cavern deep within myself.  I sat and contemplated the hollow, barren emptiness of the innermost recesses of my psyche.  As I sat, I noticed a small pool forming.  Water dripping quietly, silently down the walls, pooling at my feet.  My eyes adjusting to the darkness, searched for any beacon of light, any sign of life.  As I sat, all I could see were shades of black.  Then off to the side, I thought I detected something.  I looked, but still nothing.  And then  another faint change, again out of the corner of my eyes.   I closed my eyes for several moments and then opened them again.  And in my peripheral vision, there was a slight glow on all sides.  But wherever I looked directly, I was unable to see anything other than blackness.  It was like when I try to look at the Pleiades, the seven sisters, in the heavens.  I can never see them directly, I have to look to the side of them and there they are bright and shining adjacent to where I focus.  So I sat and focused in front of me, letting my eyes absorb what was around.  And I realized that the cave was teeming with small, dim glow worms.  

Then a soft gong sounded.  The meditation was over.  As we discussed meditation, I was quiet, somewhere between the cavern and reality.  I listened, but mostly I just let myself absorb the vision.  After the group ended, I walked home, still lost somewhere between there and here.  I continued my meditation, in the way I usually meditate.  Just letting the thoughts swirl and dance.  Arranging and rearranging themselves until they mesh into a cohesive thought.  

As I walked home, I realized that vast amounts of me had been scooped out of me and that there had been, still was, an almost unbearable darkness, an immense, echoing emptiness within.   But in the vision, were the seeds of light, the seeds of life.  The water of my tears was cleansing me, but also going within to provide sustenance for the new.  

A week ago, I watched the Lunar Eclipse.  It started opening the door to me realizing the gifts Jim left in me.  This past week, I’ve realized that yes, he is dead, but much of him lives on in me.  It’s been one of the most difficult things about the loss of him here.  We were together 24/7 for 16 years.  Everything in me had become connected to and entangled with everything in him (btw - it went both ways).  We talked and shared.  We didn’t always view everything the same way - that would have been boring.  We got to exchange our views and learn to see things together, incorporating both of our views.  Until now, I kept tripping over our connections.  There’s no one on the other end any more.  Millions of nerve ending ripped from their mate, each one screaming in pain.  But enough time has passed for them to not be so sensitive, they still hurt enough for me to cry, but it’s manageable now.  So I’m gathering up the connections and bringing them inside of myself.  Sitting with them, recognizing them, naming them.  Discovering consciously what gifts Jim left me with.  

I laugh ironically to myself.  I would not have had that vision if not for Jim.  Or if I had, I would have had a whole different interpretation, a completely different metaphor.  Today I know about mining.  Quite a bit actually.  I know that many gemstones come from metal deposits.  I know the process of mining and extracting the metals.   But then again, Jim learned more about fashion than a mountain man logger ever thought he would.

So I’m delving into the memories.  Embracing each one, hugging it close to me.  I’m doing an inventory of the raw materials within me: there are the ones I already had, the ones I developed with Jim and the ones Jim left behind inside me.  Before I go onto the next stage of building a new life, I have to know what I’m starting with.  There’s a lot to sort through.  I grew so much, became the woman I am today because of him.  And although there are so many days where I feel like an empty shell without him, he made me strong enough to survive without him.  

Waking up Again... Dopamine, Debridement and Healing

So many feelings churning throughout me these days...looking for a new home, a new way to be.  It's all stirred up, but in a good way, a healing way.  It feels horrible, it feels painful, but I can also feel the healing happening.

I worry that I repeat myself in this blog.  I know I repeat myself constantly in my journal.  Some of the same things come up again and again.  Some of them lie quiescent for a time and then resurface.  Some I push down, not wanting to feel them, doing my best to avoid them.  But the feelings are always present.  Yesterday I was very aware that I needed to write.  Instead, I spent the whole day avoiding facing them head on.  So they wait.  And when I try to go to sleep, they pounce, leaving me sobbing and wailing.

Sometimes I have so many opposing feelings happening at once, I feel like I'm in a tornado, spinning wildly.  Metaphors race through my brain, trying to make sense of the chaos within.

Part of me, the critical, controlling, judgmental me, thinks that after almost two years I should be farther along.   I'm sure many people think so, luckily no one says it to my face.  One person did and he was quickly history.  Luckily for me, so many of the people I've been fortunate enough to surround myself with tell me "It's a process.  It's different for everyone.  There's no wrong way to grieve.  It never fully goes away." and many other loving things that I can tell critical me.  And I remind myself that I had a year and a half of major losses, compounding the grief.  Intellectually I realize that I have sustained almost every major loss one can have.   So I try to be as gentle and loving with myself as I would be with someone else.  I give myself credit for getting out of bed, getting dressed, walking to meetings, putting my hand out.  I'm taking care of myself physically - probably better than I ever have in my life.  I go to grief support groups, I go to church, I go wherever I can find what I need to keep moving through this.

I think I spent the past six months in numb despair.   I was in the same sort of zombie place after Jim and then my Dad died.  Both times it took the same thing to jolt me awake.   And I feel embarrassed about it.  But I now understand the Sleeping Beauty story.  Because both times, it was a kiss that woke me up.  I don't want to be the kind of woman that needs a kiss to wake up.  I "should" be strong and self sufficient and not need a man, blah, blah, blah..... but it is what it is.   And then I read my friend Jill Hamilton's blog post "Dopamine, the Cruel Bitch Mistress".  I have another friend Ethlie Ann Vare who writes about Love and Sex Addiction and talks about dopamine.  But the other day, it hit me when I read this quote (quoted in Jill's blog) by Sheril Kirshenbaum in The Science of Kissing. 

Spiking during a passionate kiss, dopamine is responsible for the rush of elation and craving, and can also result in obsessive thoughts that many of us experience in association with a new romance--almost like an addiction.

So the kiss woke me up and jump started me.  Since I'm totally an addict, I want to dive right in and get more.  Added bonus, the grief recedes.  I know it's still there, but the pain is gone.  I was trying my best to be a little wiser than I've been and take it slow (admittedly something I have little experience with.  The only time I took it slow was with Jim and that was because at the time we wouldn't see each other for several weeks in between dates because we were both doing art shows and in different places).   And then the man decided after 2 dates that we shouldn't see each other.  I'm still confused & unclear about the reasons.  But it was good in a masochistic, hurts so good kind of way.  Because although my addict self wants the dopamine rush, the escape from the grief;  my sober self knows I need time alone and time and space to heal.   And I know through experience that once the dopamine rush wears off,  the grief comes back, but in an unhealthy way.  God did for me what I could not do for myself.  So it is best this way.  BUT....

It triggered all of my abandonment issues.   Followed closely by Anger.  And on Anger's tails, Guilt, Regret and Remorse.  I'm fucking pissed at Jim for leaving me, for not taking better care of himself.   I'm angry that no one, myself included, thought that maybe there was a physical reason for his mood changes.  I feel guilty that I didn't know, didn't have more love and patience when he acted like an asshole.   He fucking promised me that he would never leave me and he fucking died on me and left me forever.   (I really thought that we'd split up, have some time apart and end up back together).  I'm angry at my father for falling and discovering he had cancer.  It wasn't even a week after Jim died.   I didn't even get a chance to absorb Jim's death and I had to deal with my father dying.  I'm pissed at God and myself for Athena's death.  I feel so horribly guilty that I was distracted and she died a painful death because of my negligence.   I feel like I let Jim down, one of the final things he wrote entrusted me with her care and I fucked up.   And I feel like I let Jim down because my store failed.  He wanted so much for it to be a success for me, he wanted me to be happy.  And I couldn't make it work.

AND I KNOW intellectually that I couldn't control, that I did the best I could, they did the best they could, yada, yada.  I just can't get what I know and what I feel to be in harmony.  But I do know what I need to do, more writing (privately) and share it with someone.  I've found someone I think will be able to help me with it.   I still have hope that one day I'll heal, I won't be one huge, gaping wound.  Right now I feel like a burn victim being debrided.  Dead tissue removed, exposed nerve endings, but necessary for healing.

I have so many fears and insecurities.  Jim and I had thought we were like two trees.  We began as individuals and were so close we entwined around each other, but we were still two individual trees.  Now I wonder, because without Jim here to entwine around, I've flopped over onto the ground.  I keep wondering if maybe I'm just a vine....not a tree.  But first I have to clear out he anger, guilt, the things infecting me and keeping me from healing.  Then I can move on from there.  At least now, I'm awake and I see the path directly in front of me.

A Glimmer of Hope

My therapist from grief group wanted me to write this story in my blog.  When I told it in group it didn’t seem like a big deal, but that’s why it’s good to have other people - sometimes they are able to point things out, that I would completely miss.  So here goes...

Several weeks ago my friend Katy and I went to the FIDM (Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising) Fashion Show.  It’s a showcase of the work by students from the Advanced Fashion Design and Costume Design programs.  Twenty five years ago, Katy and I were both part of the fashion show.  I could go on and on about my friendship with Katy, but we were bffs at FIDM.  Our styles were about as different as they could be - she was twin sets and pearls and I was fishnet with holes and lots of black.  But, we were both perfectionists, both graduated Summa Cum Laude and were both invited to be in the small group for the Advanced Fashion Design program.   It was a wonderful night and we got to see several people who were part of our FIDM experience.

As I watched the show, it brought back memories of school, memories of our show 25 years ago.  That night was one of the highest moments of my life.  I got to see the creations I had conceived and created showcased on a runway, modeled by professional models in a top notch fashion show at the ballroom of the Bonaventure Hotel in downtown L.A.  It was the night of my 30th birthday, my friends and family were there and to top it off, I won the top award of the show.  As I sat watching the current young designers, it brought on the flood of memories.  I remembered the excitement, the joy, the hopes for my future.  It was bitterweet.  And I am so grateful to have had that night, that experience.  

So how does this apply to my grief?  I realized that the feelings I had that night are what I someday hope to have about Jim.  Remembering with gratitude the joy that was, with a slight sadness that those days are gone.  

The therapist pointed out that I now have a vision of what life can look like for me.  So I’m visualizing a life, where I can think of Jim without the accompanying wave of grief, loss and sorrow.  With just a tinge of sadness, mixed with gratitude.  Bitterweetness.

I actually experienced a tiny bit of that last night.  It was the Lunar eclipse.  Jim was my science guy, my mountain man.  He taught me how to sit with nature, how to observe the subtle changes.  I remember early on, watching the Perseid meteor shower together.  I remember sitting by the window in our house during a lightning storm.  We’d turn off all of the lights and watch as if watching tv.  When we first met and were camping out full time, we would watch what Jim called “Pet TV” and just watch Misty, the coyote/husky and the cats do their thing.  He taught me how to pay attention to the solstices and equinoxes.  He taught a city girl how to slow down and be.  Just be.  

Whenever I look at the sky, I picture Jim’s energy zipping around our Universe, exploring all the things he wanted to know about when he was here.  Gravity, black holes, anti-matter.  He would often come out of his workroom with “I’ve been thinking” and we’d end up in some weird discussion about gravity.... It’s weird the things you miss when someone is gone.  

So last night as I sat there with my Mom, watching the wonder of nature, the beautiful Blood Moon.  Mars nearby and bright.  I missed Jim.  I was sad he wasn’t there to share it with.  But I was grateful that we had so many times like that together and grateful that I cared about watching the Lunar eclipse.  Jim’s gift to me.

Journey Through the Wasteland

This one's a little different.  But it's been floating around the past several nights as I tried to go to sleep.  So I wrote it.  And today rewrote it.  There's probably a few more rewrites, but I thought I'd just put it out there and not obsess too much.

JOURNEY THROUGH THE WASTELAND

Lost in a fog, unable to see anything, wrapped in a murky cloak of grief.  The cloak was simultaneously a cloud swirling around her, blocking out any light, and heavy as lead, weighting her down so that it was difficult to move.  It squeezed her tight, she was only able to take shallow breaths.  She struggled to take deep breaths, the voices outside kept telling her to breathe.  Sometimes she would manage a deep breath and the grief would pour in, a mist of fine black cinders burning into her bringing her to her knees from the shock and pain.   She was unable to loosen the cloak, it had its job to do.  It protected her from the miasma of despair, the pain reminded her she was still alive as she blindly wandered through the dense, gray fog, unable to see any light, any way out.  She often stumbled and fell, the breath knocked out of her, all she could do was lie there sobbing.  Eventually she would get back to her feet, weighted down by her mantle,  and begin to walk again.  She walked and she walked, unable to see, no landmarks to refer to, she often was not sure if she was going anywhere or just walking circles.  In the distance she heard the voices of those who loved her, calling to her.  Muffled by the fog, she was unsure where they were, where to go.  But she continued to move, because even if she was going in circles, there was still hope that she could find her way out.

Eventually, the cloak began to loosen.  Just a bit, but enough for her to breathe normally again.  Sometimes she would still inhale a cloud of burning cinders and still it would bring her to her knees, sobbing from the pain.  But it happened less and she had become accustomed to it.  She would rest a bit and then struggle back to her feet to continue walking.  And either the cloak had become lighter, or she had become stronger, or maybe a combination of the two, but she no longer felt like she was being crushed.  She tired easily and had to frequently rest, but getting up and moving was no longer such a struggle.  

The fog began to lift, just a bit.  At first she felt relieved.  At last there was something she could see.  Then despair set in, all she saw was a colorless, desolate wasteland, as if a volcano had erupted, burning away all life.  Tree stumps stood eerily throughout and everything was covered in a fine gray ashen dust.   Disconsolate, she collapsed.  Hope for sunshine and life had kept her moving, she had thought if only the fog could lift, she could find her way out.  Grief blanketed her as she lie there, curled up crying, the gut wrenching sobs of heartbreak and anguish, of hopelessness.  She remained there for a very long time, sapped of hope, sapped of strength, exhausted to the core of her being.  She rested and slept dreamlessly.  One day she heard faint calls, once again the voices of those that loved her.  They had not given up on her, they called to her, doing what they could to guide her back into the sunshine.  

Once again, she rose to her feet, something inside her would not let her quit, would not let her give up.  So she stood, her legs shaky.  She began a slow walk.  This time, without the fog distorting the sounds, she could hear the voices a little more clearly.  She was able to see the obstacles and walk around them or climb over them.  She left footprints in the ashes and knew she was not walking in circles, although sometimes she had to double back and circle around to find her way out.  And little by little, her inner guide came back to life, whispering in her head where to go.  She walked.  Up hills, down valleys, up mountains.  Sometimes the fog would return, but it was just in spots and she was able to keep moving forward.  The landscape remained bleak, mostly dead and lifeless.  But every so often, she could hear birdsong, feel a warm breeze, she would spot a small green sprout and she knew she was moving closer and closer to the land of the living.  She wore the cloak of grief more loosely now.  It would always be with her.  Sometimes she still inhaled the burning cinders, they still caused pain and tears, but it no longer caused the shock.  Most of the time she could breathe normally and even deeply without the burning pain, but when it came, she knew she could survive it.  The voices of those she loved, those that loved her, became louder and clearer.  The journey had stripped her down, forced her deep within, made her stronger and she knew that when she returned, she would have stories, stories that could help others when they were forced on the journey through their own wasteland.

Back to Basics

So many of you have been asking “What happened with New Jersey?” or “How are you doing?” and I just haven’t been able to answer.  So I’m sorry for that.  And now that I’ve been in SoCal for a month, I’m just starting to be able to respond....  

I discovered the limit of my resiliency.  I tend to be the bounce back kid, I like to think of myself as the warrior Phoenix.  But I discovered at what point I can be flattened.  Just too many losses in too short a time.  And I did not realize how devastating letting go of my store and then my house would be - especially on top of everything else.  In the space of a year and a half, everything I had built my life to be was gone.  And with it, my hopes and dreams.  It’s easy to say “I am not my things” until you lose them all.  For those who don’t know, I had to close my store because business was BAD - I was down 50% from my first year.  I kept trying to hang on, but finally I had to face reality and let it go.  I already had my house on the market - I had a TON of debt I needed to take care of.  So along came an opportunity for love and change and new, and I decided to go for it.  I’m glad I did.  It gave me something hopeful to look forward to, new hopes and dreams, as I dismantled my life.  

And then I got to New Jersey.  It all hit me, and all I could do was cry.  Here I was in a foreign land.  And nothing about it worked for me.  Everything was unfamiliar.  I went from a place of nature and peace to living in a small apartment where there was constant noise.  It grated my already frayed nerves.  I lived with someone who just couldn’t understand the magnitude of what I had been through.  Truthfully, very few people can.  It seems like there’s a handful of people who have known me for a very long time and were there every step of the way - from when Jim got sick to me selling almost everything I had, that really, really get it.  And I was more scared than I’ve ever been in my life - I didn’t know where anything was, I didn’t know any people.   When I did get out and put my hand out, nobody seemed interested in getting to know me.  It all was overwhelming.  I became very isolated and almost agoraphobic.  And then to top it off, there was the weather.... I’ve been through winter, real winter, but that was in Moab.  Huge difference.   Cold and snow in city, well almost city, just sucked.  I got progressively more lonely and depressed.  My energy was gone.  And I just became unable to do anything.  

The good thing in all of it, was that I got in touch with the basics.  What are my basic needs.  I realized I need peace, I need routine, I need some nature, and most of all, I needed somewhere safe.  I am blessed to have the most wonderful mother on the planet, so I’ve moved home with Mom in Thousand Oaks.  I have so much grief, some days it doesn’t seem like I can breathe.  I cry al lot.  But I’m starting to take the actions to heal.  Itty bitty little baby steps.  I have my morning routine where I write in my journal.  I’ve found a support system just one mile from Mom’s.  So every day, I walk there - it’s a twofer, I get exercise and spiritual nourishment.  People here have reached out to me and I’m starting to feel a little at home.  The weather has been a blessing.  I’m sorry California has a drought, but on a selfish level, I really, really needed the warm sunshine.  I’ve found a couple of grief support groups.  I’ve started going to church with Mom.  I’ve never been religious (except for that stint in junior high) and luckily her church - the United Church of Christ, is very liberal and open.  But something there is speaking to a part of my soul, so I go.  Plus, it’s nice to share that with Mom.  On Sunday after church, we go to my brother’s house where I get to visit Nala.  She lives with them, because I think it’s the best place for her - I can tell it’s home for her now.  But she’s always overjoyed to see me and Mom and I take her for a walk.  And then we hang out with the family, it’s nice.  I’ve started back to the gym.  So, I’m just doing the baby steps to take care of myself emotionally, spiritually, physically and mentally.  I get tired easily - grief triggers the same physical reactions as physical pain.  Little by little I try to tackle things.  I still need to get a car and then I can go to a therapist.  Along with losing people and things, I’ve lost parts of me.  I’ve run into a huge wall on my creativity.  Jim and I were creative partners for so long, that I can’t do it right now without him.  It’s like my arms were amputated, and I have to learn to paint with my mouth.  So I need some therapy to help me.  

So you ask “How I am”.  It varies in any given moment.  Sometimes I have so much despair that I just wish God would let me die in my sleep.  Don’t worry, I’m not suicidal.  After the pain I’ve had since Jim died, I don’t want anyone who loves me to go through the pain of losing me one minute before they have to.  And I am so lucky to have so many people I know love me deeply.  Sometimes I think of the future - I’m not exactly sure where I’m going, but either psychology or theology or some combination of the two.  I want to take this experience and use it to help others through loss.  Because, let’s face it, we’re all going to have loss.  And knowing I can use this experience to help others is what gives me hope.  But for right now, I’m just doing the little things in front of me to heal.  And I’m grateful to have a Mom who let’s me be where I am, is there with love and patience and understanding; who knows I’ll heal at my own pace, and is providing me a refuge to heal.