anonymity

I am torn.

Do I want to remain anonymous and be able to write REALLY ANYTHING - including embarrassing or upsetting things? Do I leave my life open to the world and keep that in mind, thereby editing myself not to hurt or offend?

I want to be able to write thoughts about a person I know who creeped me out (is creeped a word) or use this blog almost like journaling for therapy - write about inner troubles and turmoil, epiphanies, fears and triumphs. Those are not always things that should be open to a google search. So I'm torn...

If you're reading my little baby blog... do you have any thoughts or advice?

bathtime / bedtime / phone time

Raising preschoolers eats up my time.

My mom called this evening to ask me a question and I almost bit her head off because it was 8:15 and she should KNOW that at my house at that time there is bedtime chaos. It's not always "bad" chaos... it's just busy.

bath
pajamas
brushing teeth
drying hair
story books
snuggles
tuck in
one more kiss
one more hug

...


one more kiss
one more hug

ok, goodnight!

... I can't talk until after the final "one more hug" which hopefully takes place before 9:00 p.m.

I'm sorry, Mom. I should be more understanding, you were just calling to ask me something about posting a picture of the desk you want to sell on Craig's List... and I'm going to play TWO cards... the PMS card and the Widow card...
I shouldn't have snapped at you, I'm sorry, I'm PMSing.
I shouldn't have snapped at you, I'm sorry, I'm a widowed mother and NOBODY HELPS ME take care of these kids... it's all me... PLEASE don't call between 7:00 and 9:00... or 9:15 p.m. Thank you.

Sleep

It's after 4 a.m.

I could have gone to sleep several hours ago. Why I didn't...

distraction.

I want distraction, and I find it whenever I look for it. Distraction helps me cope. It keeps my mind full of words.

Distraction.
Depression.

the idea of blogging

I just put this blog together in the last week or two. It is made up, thus far, of several emails I sent out during the time my husband Michael was ill. I posted them here in blog form to archive them in chronological order, in an accessible, readable format.

I was inspired, first of all, by starting to read some blogs.

I haven't followed any blogs for a long time, though several have captured my attention and kept me reading for hours. Matt Logelin's blog was the first one I read, I found it right around the first anniversary of his wife's death and right before he appeared as a guest on the Oprah Winfrey Show. I read all of it in chronological order from beginning to end in one night. He was much further along his grief journey than I was and I swallowed up every word. His life seemed to have meaning now, I wanted to feel normal and as if there is meaning in my life again.

I am not organized enough in my "blog reading method" to check in with a series of blogs and read all the new entries... I'm just experimenting with following a few.

My second inspiration for blogging is my longtime belief in journaling as a healing exercise. I have been struggling with sleep (very irregular hours), anxiety, post-traumatic stress-depression, and trying to figure out my next move. It feels overwhelming to make a major decision such as moving out of the area. I realize that indecision IS actually making a decision to make no change, and that is not the best choice for me or my children, but it feels like the easy choice for now. I started writing in a journal about some of the things I was going through last week, and I felt so much better after writing.

I have old unreasonable guilt issues associated with writing journals.

Ever since I was very young, I wanted to keep a diary EVERY day. I received a crisp, pretty, "teddy-bear" or "unicorn" covered diary on more than one occasion for Christmas and waited until January 1st to make the first entry; the perfect date to begin my journal. Around January 11th or 12th, when I missed writing for a day in my journal, I would put it on a shelf to forget about in frustration and shame. I held tight to my belief: I SHOULD write every day, I SHOULD NOT skip a day, and if I do miss a day, I'm a failure at keeping a diary.

I wouldn't write again until a new year, pretty and new blank book, new resolution to write every day. Perfectionism crippled me and made me think of journal writing as a chore that I was guilty of leaving undone.

When my husband died, several people said "keep a journal, it will help you."

I tried, and I still haven't been regular about it, but just to overcome some of my issues, I wrote in my new blank book on a random page somewhere in the middle. I wrote down words that were SCREAMS in my head in MESSY handwriting, and I believe I cried and even splashed the fucking journal with salty tears. It even *gasp* made the ink smudge.

Here's my prescription for the perfectionist who wants to keep a paper journal anyway:
1. buy a new pretty blank book
2. open to a random page and tear the page
3. open to another random page then take a sip of coffee, cough, wipe off all you can with a napkin, but repeat #3 if there wasn't enough to stain the papers at least a little.
4. open to another random page and write a shopping list... cross out items after purchasing
5. begin journaling... start at the beginning of the book, or wherever you want, and journal because you want to, not because you should. Just be sure to date each entry. Other than that, no rules.

My third inspiration for blogging came from watching Julie and Julia on Netflix last week. I liked the character blogging and cooking her way through all of Julia Child's recipes. Her thing was cooking. My thing: well, my husband died. Being a 35 year old widow and mama of two sucks.

I don't want to fall into the trap I set for myself: setting the goal to write every single day. So... blogging looks like a possibly wonderful way to still feel that the package is neat and pretty, and even with huge gaps between entries, it looks uniform and perfect-ish.

how do you tell a child his or her daddy died?

"Sweetie, you know that Daddy has been sick in the hospital. We hoped that he was going to get better, and the doctors and nurses were all trying their hardest for him to get better so that he could come home. But his body was too broken, and they couldn't fix it, and he died. That means his life is not in his body any more and we are all very sad because it means that he will never get better and come home, even though he really wanted to, and we all really wanted him to. Daddy did not want to die, he wanted to come home and be with you. After he died, his life was not in his body any more, but his life is in our thoughts and we still love him and he still loves you."

Also... my 2 1/2 year old daughter amazingly somehow found a way to blame herself that her daddy got pneumonia. She remembered stepping on his foot and hurting his toe...

"Julia, Daddy's toe did not make him sick with pneumonia. You did not make him sick. It is not your fault that his lungs got broken. Daddy loves you so much and he wanted to come home to live here with us again, that was what he wanted more than anything because he loves you so much. He is so sad that he can't come home to be here with us anymore."

pain = grief trigger

People talk about the unexpected triggers that bring on sudden unexpected relapses into grief. It may be hearing a special song while shopping in the grocery store. Maybe it was the song you danced to at your wedding or the song that you both sang along with in the car.

A few days ago I saw a car-carrying truck -- the kind that delivers new cars to dealerships-- loaded up with cars with Hawaiian license plates!

So...?

See... no big response.

It's an inside joke... you wouldn't understand. It only belongs to Mike and me. When I saw the truck I thought about our joke, and I felt such an empty sadness.

When I stumble upon these unknown triggers , without warning I am plunged into varying degrees of sadness depending upon the strength of that trigger and what mood I was already in beforehand.

Tonight I dropped a big piece of metal (size and weight of a hammer) on my head. It is a piece of garage door opener. It was left sitting on top of a ladder in my garage (unbeknown to me) because my garage door opener needs a new part and is in the midst of getting repaired. I needed to move the ladder to get to a jug of vinegar that was sitting on the far side of the ladder. I lifted it and instantly felt the sharp blow followed by sound of crashing metal falling to the garage floor. I grabbed for my skull praying not to find blood. Head injuries bleed a lot... even minor cuts gush blood. I was so glad to find that my head remained dry, but in that instant a large bump had already formed on my head. The swelling is about 1 1/2 inches long and is hidden by my hair, but probably resembles a cheek with a jawbreaker stuffed behind it chipmunk style.

I'm icing it.

It hurt like hell, and it still is throbbing.

And I cried,

and cried,

and cried,

and cried,

but not because it hurt so badly that I couldn't hold back my tears. It is at moments like this one when if Mike were here everything would be ok.

...

So I'm glad there's not a gash, and I don't need to scare my kids by walking in from the garage with blood pouring down the side of my head. I don't need to do a late-night run to go get stitches. There's a lot to be thankful for. I'm pretty sure I don't have a concussion. I do, however, have a Mike-sized hole in my heart and yet again,

tonight I am reminded,

he

is

not

here.

wounded healer

I'm a grief-recovery workshop table leader now.

I really can see how much I have grown and changed in the past year. When I went to the grief group for the first time one year ago, I wept through almost every one of the meetings. I felt so much pain and desperation.. it was agonizing. I also lost my job while I was in this group last year.

Now I can tell my story and I can talk about Mike's death without sobbing, sniffling, breaking down. Sometimes I still just have to stop and break down a little, but for the most part I can live with this as part of my personal history. I remember thinking about getting to the point when I could talk about Mike's death without crying. It seemed impossible for me back then. Now I wouldn't call it easy, but it is so much more normal. Having been to the support group all year and also going to the workshop twice myself already... I have told my story over and over to so many different people. That is a basic truth for grieving people... they need to tell their story. The more times you tell your story, the more healing. The sooner and more intensely you grieve, the sooner you heal and life gets back to normal. So it is a good piece of advice for friends and counselors, people who want to help the bereaved: listen. Encourage the person to tell the story over and over again. The more times they get that painful story out in all it's sad detail, the more they can handle it and be at peace. Holding it in, even holding in the tears or holding in the sadness can be compared to holding a beach ball under water. You can do it, you can keep it down if you put a lot of effort into it... but over time you might be tired or sore, it is always there needing to pop up and it takes effort to struggle to keep it down. Releasing emotions, telling the story, it is like letting the ball come to the surface where it can effortlessly float. No more constant struggle... just allow it to float there, let it be out in the open where anyone can see it... and it's not connected to you anymore either. It can float all around the pool... you don't have to hang onto it the whole time. You might even play with other things and not constantly just hold that beach ball down.