This is a Really Real Widow post.
I don’t feel like it’s a big deal this year.
I mean, her being gone is always a big deal. She left a hole in a lot of people’s hearts.
But this year her birthday isn’t ripping that hole bigger. Maybe it’s just because so much else is going on.
But today I went and bought cheesecake.
Tonight I’ll get on video chat with our son and talk about her life.
That’s a tradition I hope to continue each year. A few moments remembering the wonderful person she was.
So many memories are slipping away.
The sound of her voice rarely comes to me anymore.
I no longer remember her smell.
I have one shirt of hers left that I wear regularly, but it doesn’t hold the emotion that it once did.
I did intentionally take it with me to the trauma unit though. So I guess there’s so emotion left in it.
She spent her last birthday in the hospital, the psych unit, because of a change in medications that left her reacting violently to me.
She even raised her fist, which was the moment she decided to check in. She was there for almost 2 weeks.
I had balloons and decorations on the walls when she came home. A belated birthday celebration.
A belated celebration of her.
She was dead before her next birthday came around.
I can’t remember how old she would be now. I’m sure I could reach back in my memories to remember what year she was born and do the math, but that doesn’t seem important anymore.
Her mother still sends me the occasional Pineapple Upside Down Cake recipe. It’s my favorite cake. She would bake it for my birthday every year.
We talk for a few moments about life and how we are doing.
A superficial conversation that still leaves much unsaid.
I’m sure today is hard for her. I can’t imagine what it’s like to celebrate the birthday of your child that is no longer with you.
I hope I never experience that loss.
I just sent her mother a message. Letting her know that she was in my thoughts. Another small connection between two people who were left with holes in our hearts when she died.
She is missed. She is loved.
I wish she had lived to see the better side of life. The life where the lights don’t get shut off and we aren’t in fear of an eviction notice.
The life where there’s enough food in our cabinets.
The life where there’s even an occasional vacation.
I still wonder if we ever would have seen this life together.
Or if we would have always struggled.
Today isn’t as hard as it used to be, but it’s still hard.
I still miss her.
Late Wife
So Sleepy
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Mention of gun violence and gore. Mention of suicide.
Apparently my posts are just going to keep being long for awhile. Thanks for hanging in there. And thanks for all of the kind words and support.
Sleeping at night is hard. Even with the new nightmare medication they started me on, I’m still awake constantly, tossing and turning and barely dozing off before tossing and turning again.
At least with the medications I’m not dreaming and ruminating of shots going off and bloody faces.
When the sun starts to come up I settle into sleep, which is broken when my alarm goes off to get ready for PHP.
I yawn with heavy eyes all through the first group, trying to catch a quick nap during the thirty minute break, before yawning through the second group.
I drink coffee, made at home. And some days I run out for a treat at Starbucks, to celebrate another day that I have survived.
I still yawn.
And the afternoon I often nap. Planned one hour naps that turn into two or three hours. It’s so much easier to sleep when the sun is up to keep me safe.
Of course, I know this is just perpetuating the problem. Sleeping during the day makes it harder to sleep at night, which makes it easier to sleep during the day.
I’m so so sleepy. Even writing this I’m yawning with eyes watering, wanting to climb in back in bed again.
And it’s not just the fact that I’m not sleeping at night.
Living with fresh trauma is exhausting. Working through trauma is exhausting.
With the addition of the Abilify to my medication I’m much less reactive, which is nice, but I’m still exhausted.
And still irritable. The smallest thing making me grumpy and agitated.
But that irritation is no longer filled with rage.
I talk in group therapy and others who follow me often say “What I’m going through doesn’t compare at all to your situation but . . . “
And that bothers me.
This isn’t a competition, anyone who is struggling is struggling for their own reasons, their fight isn’t less important or less strenuous than mine.
We talk about the underlying emotions that connect all of us. Fear, Sadness, Anger, Guilt, Shame.
Those emotions are the ties that connect each of our stories.
Sometimes, when we’re telling the story of our situation, the therapist will have us focus on the emotion that’s underneath of it. While someone may not be able to relate to their father shooting himself while they were in the next room, they may be able to relate to the guilt I feel for leaving him alone. Or the sadness I feel because I’ve experienced yet another trauma.
Often they relate to the shame of feeling like I’m too much, like my emotions and my tragedies take up too much room.
That’s a common theme in my therapy. Being too much. The group therapist in PHP is the same on that runs my once a week group, and is also a therapist I saw individually for a short time.
She can pick up immediately when the theme of my emotions is that shame of being too much.
She doesn’t try to fix it, neither does anyone else in the group, but just pointing out that the thread underneath it all is that feeling. That core belief.
It’s enough to show me that it’s still there, still something for me to work on.
Today, I was told by someone that they hope I can put this behind me and get on with my life.
I wish it was that simple.
I spent a lot of time after Parker’s death talking about how I will always move forward, but I will never move on.
And I think that stands true for most trauma as well. I will keep moving forward, I will keep healing, but there will never be a finish line, a line where I say, this is behind me.
The trauma of my abuse growing up still shows up when I make myself smaller after hearing harsh words or a violent scene in a movie. The trauma of poverty shows up when I spend money incorrectly, and then panic at a low balance or overdrawn bank account. The trauma of hearing my son scream in the back of an ambulance shows up when I recoil at the sound of a siren. The trauma of the house fire shows up when I strongly react to an unplanned smell of smoke, or panic when a smoke alarm goes off.
The trauma of Parker’s death is there when I check that a loved one is still breathing.
And the trauma of my father’s death will live on in its own way.
My reaction will decrease, my tolerance will gain traction.
And I will forever be resilient.
But I will never get over all of these scars, and so many more.
It’s no wonder that I’m tired. This trauma just brings with it, the rest. Just like a new grief will bring up the old ones.
I wonder why these difficult things always find me. Always land at my feet.
I don’t think there’s some grand reason, but it’s hard not to think that I’ve done something wrong to deserve it.
People talk of my resilience as one of my biggest strengths. But my resilience was forged out of necessity. I have to stand up one more time than I get knocked down, no matter how often I get knocked down.
And each time it’s both a little harder, and a little easier to stand back up.
It’s harder because I’m exhausted from repeating this same pattern, through no fault of my own.
But it’s easier because I’m just using muscles that I’ve already used. I know how to stand back up, I know what help to reach for, I know which parts I have to do on my own.
I know that the sleepless nights and the napping all day will pass.
I know I’ll get back to work eventually.
And I know I’m strong enough to do this again.
And there may be an again after this.
And after that.
And I will never be ready for it when it comes, it will always catch me off guard as trauma often does.
But I will always stand back up.
Still a Widow
This is a Really Real Widow post.
Widowhood is weird.
Like, it’s no longer really a noticeable thing every day.
Well, I mean it is, because it profoundly changed me, and this version of me only exists because of it. But it’s not something where it is in the forefront of my mind on any sort of a regular basis.
And then some anniversary rolls around. Her birthday, her death day, our wedding anniversary.
And these next two.
The anniversary of the day we celebrated her life, and the anniversary of the day we met.
Each anniversary brings with it different memories. Memories of when she was alive, memories of that whirlwind year after she died.
It’s so strange sometimes, the way I end up with a foot in each world. One world where I wonder what would have been if she was still alive. One world where I’m so happy to be. A world surrounded by chaos and a world where there is stability.
Somewhere in the basement I have a scrapbook with her recollection of the first time we met. It was a book she planned to add to, giving me her side of our story, because I was the one who normally told the stories.
At one point, after she died, that book was always on the coffee table. I read it often, it felt so comforting to have her words to hold onto.
And now, it’s packed away in a box, probably along with my baby book. Things that I can dig out and look through, but not anything to concern myself with on a regular basis.
Sometimes there is guilt in this. Did I really love her if I’ve been able to pack those memories away? Did I really love her if she doesn’t have a predominant space in my home? Did I really love her if I’ve been able to more forward?
I know the answer is that I absolutely love her. Not only in the past tense, but now, still, always and forever.
The Parker sized hole in my heart has smoother edges, and I’ve learned to live around it. Her death forever changed me, I see her influence in things that I do every day.
Often I have some grand point in mind when I start to write these posts. And with this one, there wasn’t really an ending in mind. I just felt the need to put fingers to keys.
She will always be a part of me.
I miss her.
Four Years Ago Today
This is a Really Real Widow Post.
TW: Talk of Suicide including method and post death graphic stuff.
Four years ago today.
Four years.
My new normal started 4 years ago today.
I still replay the movies in my head. I remember waking up earlier than her.
I remember going in to wake her up so that I could bring her something back for breakfast.
I remember the way her skin felt, that eerie cold that didn’t feel quite right. I knew the second I touched her that she was gone.
I remember the rigidness of her limbs.
I just knew.
I remembered hearing the rustling of her pills the night before. I thought she was just taking her night time meds. The bag that held her medications was empty. She took every last one of them.
I remember sending a message to my closest friend and neighbor, asking her to get Draven out of the house while I was on the phone with 911. I didn’t want him waking up to the chaos. I wanted him safe from the new reality.
I remember making phone calls that changed lives forever.
I remember sitting in my desk chair lost, numb, unsure of how to process the way my life was changing.
I remember my mother sitting here, strangely she was up from Florida, strangely she was going to take me to breakfast that morning, strangely she came into the house as the first wave of paramedics did.
I was so thankful she was here.
I remember taking a drive, to Burger King, to get us out of the house as the coroner took Parker’s body out.
I remember ordering food that went uneaten.
I remember being thankful that Draven already had therapy that day, and that I was able to get in for my own appointment.
I remember crying more tears then I ever thought possible. The feeling of my eyes being so raw from wiping them.
I remember.
Four years.
Four years ago today.
It’s that month
This is a Really Real Widow Post.
TW: There’s no direct mention of suicide, but there is mention of the questions surrounding it including questioning her thoughts leading up to it.
It’s that month again. Of course, it’s pride month, and apparently it’s PTSD awareness month, too. Both of those things are close to home for me.
But, Parker’s deathday is also this month. From the night of the 7th into the morning of the 8th there are a whirlwind of memories that hit me like a ton of bricks.
But even as far back as June 1st there are memories and with those memories come questions. So many questions.
What could I have done differently? Were there signs that I didn’t see? How could I have supported her better?
Would she still be alive?
This month is hard for me. So very difficult.
Four years ago I was posting on Facebook that I was overwhelmed, scatterbrained, unable to keep up. Four years ago I remember being so frustrated at how much things had changed because of her surgery. I didn’t know how to keep up around the house without her help.
I remember being so frustrated that she wouldn’t stay off the damn leg, that she kept accidentally standing up on the wrong one.
Four years ago.
Four years ago.
I wish I would have realized it was one of the last times I’d ever see her face.
I wish I would have known it was one of the last times I’d ever get frustrated with her in person.
I wish I would have known that when I get overwhelmed I yell, and that it isn’t necessary. That communication goes so much better when I stay calm.
The stress of our lives had gotten to us, it had broken us down. It was tearing us apart. We weren’t as kind and loving as we had once been. We were pushing at each other, trying to trade blame about where the stress was coming from.
It was around this time that I said to Parker and Kidlet, “We’re going to be okay, we can pay our bills.” I had no idea that paying my bills would be the least of my emotional worries in just a week.
Just a week.
I didn’t realize that in a week I’d have to start learning how to live without her.
I realize now that it wasn’t just her help that was missing, it was her emotional support. She had withdrawn. We had lost sight of the love that kept us going.
Of course, the love was still there, we had just forgotten to lean into it when times were tough.
Just a week.
I wonder, had she already decided ahead of time? Was it a momentary decision? Did she already know the end was near?
This month is so so hard.
I miss her.
I Lived
This is a Really Real Widow post.
With some mental health thrown in, because they are completely entwined.
This time of year is incredibly hard.
Yesterday was the 7 year anniversary of a major accident that Kidlet and Parker were in. The pictures show up every year, reminding me of the horror of that day. Deep open wounds and the two people I loved most in the world strapped to stretchers. The screams I heard coming from my son in the ambulance that day are sounds I will never forget.
Sounds I never want to forget for the same reason I let the pictures show up in memories every year.
We survived that shit. Parker took a motorcycle to the head and Kidlet caught it, and they lived.
The reminders of Parker’s ankle surgery a few years back show up this time every year, too. It’s the beginning of the countdown to the day she died. That surgery and the restrictions after it were the final straw that broke her. Her death date is now less than 2 weeks away.
The last video I took just went through my memories the other day. The last photos will be any day now. The post where I tell everyone she died will be a few days after that.
I could delete them, block them from my Timehop memories. But I don’t.
We survived that shit. Kidlet and I lost one of the most important people in our worlds, and we lived.
I recently saw my first firefly of the year. The first was in Florida and I’ve seen one since coming home as well. It’s another reminder that it’s this time of year. A bittersweet thing as she was my firefly, it’s nice to have that reminder of her, but also, it means that day is coming.
Each year this time passes with a different set of feelings. The first year was a sense of urgency, a sense of needing to get to that one year anniversary so that it can just be over and done with. The lead up is always worse than the actual day.
Each year the pain has lessened. In earlier years I’ve felt the need to do something to remember her. A trip to the beach, normally. I’m not sure that’s so necessary anymore.
This year the reminders are there, but the feelings are different, yet again.
I’ve been trying to figure out what’s different, why does it feel so different.
And then it came to me. It feels less traumatizing this year. That’s the difference.
In the past it was a punch to the gut with each picture or facebook post, or even a just a general look at the calendar to see the date. This year it just is. It’s a calm, gentle reminder that it is part of my story. Part of my life.
Part of what got me to this point.
I’m super down on myself right now because I feel like I’ve undone years worth of work. Years of work that were so important as I tried to live in ways that Parker couldn’t anymore. I had to get better, I had to save myself, or losing her was in vain.
But this is part of my story as well. And that’s okay.
This is okay.
I’ll survive this shit. Life has thrown me curve ball after curve ball, and I lived.
I lived.
See you in my dreams
This is a Really Real Widow Post.
Parker was in my dreams last night.
I was in some class, where we were all sitting on a giant bed together instead of desks, and the teacher had McFlurry’s delivered for everyone.
Don’t ask me, fucking weird ass dreams.
But then after class I went to the office and Parker was just standing there. She saw me and got one of her big smiles (the ones that make her eyes squint). We talked for awhile. Mundane conversation that I can’t remember the details of. I knew she was a ghost and at one point I asked her “Why are you staying here instead of being with me?” And she asked “Who says I’m not with you?”
I’ve been thinking about her more lately, which is why I had a dream about her, I’m sure.
I’ve been remembering little things that I haven’t thought of in years.
She didn’t like mint toothpaste, so I would search for other flavors and buy 3 or 4 tubes at a time. We were so happy when Crest came out with an orange flavored, but eventually they discontinued it.
I’ve used mint toothpaste since she died, just switched without realizing it, but I might go look for another flavor next time.
I’ve also remembered the specific way she liked her boxers and bras folded. She didn’t care how I folded anything else, but those two had a specific way of being folded. I used to laugh, they’re fucking underwear, who cares, as mine would be half balled up and thrown into the drawer.
But since she died I fold my underwear just like that. Something I didn’t even realize I was doing until just recently.
There was more to the dream. Friends I haven’t seen in forever, friends I’m growing distant from.
At some point it changed completely and Wonder Woman was there. I wish I could remember more about that part.
Being a widow is strange sometimes. Remembering the little things that catch me off guard. How did I forget that. How did it slip from my memory when it was such a big deal for all those years.
It makes me wonder what else I’ve forgotten.
What else is missing.
Besides her of course.
I’m happy that I’m living this particular life, but sometimes it really hurts that she’s not here too.
But then I remember this version of life only exists because she’s gone.
That doesn’t make it hurt any less.
So, I’ll just be happy for that rare moment that she pops up in my dreams. That moment when I get to see the smile that goes to her eyes. That moment when I get to see her face light up one more time.
I miss her.
Out of Sync
This is a Really Real Mental Health post.
TW: Talk about weight. Talk about suicide w/ plan.
The sun is out. The birds are singing. It’s a beautiful day to want to die.
I mean, I’d rather not want to die.
But it’s a beautiful day and I want to die.
I can’t fucking move in my body without getting out of breath. I’ve gained back so much weight.
I don’t want to lose it because of how I look. I know I’m beautiful no matter how big I am.
I want to lose it because I’m uncomfortable in my skin. I can’t function at this size. I can’t move around in bed, I can’t walk up stairs without huffing and puffing, I can’t walk around the block without everything hurting.
I’ve been here before and I don’t want to be back.
And I can’t stop eating. Part of it is medicine but a bigger part of it is boredom.
I can’t stop eating.
I want all of the things and I want them now and sometimes, most of the time, I’m tearing myself apart while I’m eating, beating myself up for not being a better person, for not having more self control.
I fucking hate this.
I had a good relationship with my body. I had a good relationship with food. I had a good relationship with my needs.
And it all fell apart. And while it was falling apart quarantine happened and it just destroyed that relationship entirely.
Intuitive eating no longer feels possible. Movement is hard and clumsy.
The idea of fighting my way back down from this size seems insurmountable.
And it’s making me want to die. The idea of being stuck in this body like this, makes me want to die. The thought that I’ll never be able to get this under control, makes me want to die.
I laid in bed last night calculating which medications I had available to me. Which ones I could scrounge up around the house even though most everything is locked up, out of my reach. Would it be enough? Would I slide away peacefully like Parker? Or would I just end up in the hospital, alone with my thoughts? Eating myself through days and days in the psych ward.
I kept myself in bed and eventually drifted off.
I woke up this morning with the dread that I had to drag myself out of bed. I hate my body, I hate feeling it move.
I called out of work, even though i work from the same desk I’ll spend my day at anyway. I just can’t mentally function today.
Great, another thing to beat myself up over.
I’m fat. And I honestly don’t mind being a healthy, move comfortably, good relationship with my body, kinda fat.
I do mind being like this.
It makes me want to die.
The sun is out. The birds are singing. It’s a beautiful day to want to die.
Still a Widow
This is a Really Real Widow Post.
I wonder how she’d be handling this?
We didn’t leave the house for weeks at a time when we were at our worst, but I still wonder how Parker would have reacted to a pandemic and social distancing?
How would she have reacted when we lived in florida and we were close to her friends? Would that have made a difference? We were pretty isolated up here anyway, we didn’t really spend time with anyone.
How would she have calmed my fears? What jokes would she have made? Would she have broken down?
She was always the stronger one from the outside looking in.
What foods would she want, knowing we needed to shop as little as possible? Which comfort meals would she want me to cook?
What kind of order would she need around the house?
We were used to being in the same space all of the time. That was our normal. Neither of us could work most of the time, neither of us had lives outside of our home. We were inseparable to a fault. That would have come in handy right now.
I also wonder how horrible this would have been if we lived in the homeless shelter while this was happening?
What precautions are they putting in place?
How scary is it there right now, knowing that this could infect the entire shelter in a matter of days? So many vulnerable people in such a small space.
I’m so thankful my life is where it’s at right now. I’m glad I live in my own space. I’m glad I can buy groceries. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about keeping the lights on.
I’m thankful she’s missing this particular part of life. I’m glad she doesn’t have to struggle through this. She doesn’t have to be afraid that her mom will get sick, or her aunts. She doesn’t have to worry about losing a friend or loved one.
Widowhood is in every facet of my life. It’s always there, quietly whispering. It’s here too. It’s in the middle of a worldwide crisis. It’s in the middle of social distancing. It’s in the middle of a pandemic.
It’s always with me, and it makes me wonder.
How Far I’ve Really Come
This starts as a Really Real Mental Health Post.
And ends as a Really Real Widow Post.
I can’t really believe how far I’ve come.
Each day that I work, I can’t believe I’m really doing this. I can’t believe I actually earned this money. I can’t believe how much earning this money really means. I can’t explain how good it feels.
Each problem I solve, each new task I conquer, and each fear I overcome, I’m amazed that this is who I am now. That this is what I am accomplishing.
I remember when I realized I couldn’t work anymore. I remember the shit storm that lead up to that moment. I remember the heartbreak that came along with applying for disability.
I remember.
At the worst of this, I couldn’t leave my house. I couldn’t be left alone.
I remember.
And the truth is, I will probably end up back in the hospital some day. I will probably do another round or three of the partial hospital program. I will have countless more hours of therapy.
But I’ve come so so far.
So far.
I can see myself going further. I can see myself working full time. I can see myself becoming more comfortable in my own skin. I can see myself getting better at ignoring the constant anxiety running through my head.
It’s a big deal that I can see a future with further recovery.
It’s a big deal that I’m seeing a future without disability.
Without being disabled.
And there’s another side to this.
I remember watching Parker push through her own struggles to go to work and support the three of us while she was barely making it emotionally and physically.
I remember.
I love my life and I know everything that has happened has brought me to where I am now.
But still, I wonder.
If I could have worked before. If I could have shared some of the load. If I could have helped more. If I could have taken some of the weight off of her shoulders.
Would she still be alive?
If we had the money to pay the bills. If we had the money to keep the lights on. If we had the money to avoid the eviction notices. If we had the money to keep food in the fridge.
Would she still be alive?
I’ve come so far, and I’m doing so well. And I know her death is a big part of what pushed me towards my recovery. I know that I wouldn’t be where I am if things hadn’t happened exactly as they have.
Every success, every bit of growth, with every push towards recovery, is served with a small side dish of sadness.
But I can’t really believe how far I’ve come.
And I can’t wait to see how far I go.
Really Real Blog 