There she goes

The baby is off to high school today. It brings extra trepidation for me. Not only is my *baby* in *high school* but she is 13 days away from the anniversary of her sister's death. Also, when she was a freshman in high school. 

The hits just keep on coming. 

The first year is the hardest. 

The second year is the saddest. 

Now, for your extra special pleasure, the third year is the year of firsts for us. 

The first completion of the first month of high school. The first child who turns 15. The first...  You get the picture. 

So, there she goes. Off to high school. Dragging my heart behind her. 

Insomnia

It's another night of sleeplessness. I get right up to the edge of sleep, but, instead of slipping over easily, I'm snatched back. 

It's a night when I'm trying to go without any sleeping pill. Sometimes I make it; sometimes I don't. So tonight I gave up. In 25 minutes maybe it will come. 

I sometimes have weird dreams with the sleeping pills. Hell, I have weird dreams often anyway. What the difference?

It's a night when I call to Katie to come into my dreams so I can see her again. It's a night with tears in my pillow. My eyes ache and weep. 

And sleep will not come easily tonight. 

I need a miracle

Some kind of sign to say that the storm will pass. 

I need a tangible reminder of good in the world. 

The taste of anxiety

I assumed that everyone knows what anxiety tastes like, but my friend Oklahoma Amy (as opposed to Wisconsin Amy) asked me what it meant when I said I tasted anxiety.

It's metallic.  It's on the back of my tongue.  It includes a cold-tingling sensation that runs down my neck and shoulders.  The cold washes over me while I perspire lightly.  And, most of all, I can't swallow the taste.

Were you ever young and dumb like I was and you were dared to lick a 9 volt battery connectors?  Or maybe you're still dumb and check the smoke detector batteries still.  It's like that.  In fact, it's a lot like that, down to the tingle.

And that is me when in the middle of an anxiety attack.  Now, I can push through (at least usually) when I have to get through it.  I have coping techniques.  I can usually stay in the moment.  It may not leave for a few hours (seriously), but I can cope through it.  Maybe I'm not the most successful in the world at what I'm doing at the time (I once spent three hours working a jigsaw puzzle to get through one), but I can survive.

That's it.  Survival.

I'd like to do more than just survive, but that's a project for another day.

Reflective

It feels like a reflective day. It's sunny and warm outside on the patio. It would be downright hot (for Wisconsin) if I weren't in the shade. It's a blue sky-puffy cloud day. 

It's a lake day. 

I've been contemplating going back to the lake Up North (which is always capitalized). I have such beautiful memories of the lake and summer and the girls. Memories full of s'mores and pjs all day and canoes. It is a magical place where board games were never bored games and where tie dye was the activity of choice. 

And I want to go back. 

I am afraid, however, that things won't be just "not the same" but will be so painful. I long for simpler times when the biggest disaster was forgetting to buy hamburger buns so I would make hot dog shaped burgers, and we would laugh. 

I wonder if I can ever go back. I wonder if I can stay away. 

Talking to myself

I find out the mostbinterestingn things about myself while I have silent conversations in the shower. I talk to myself, have conversations with other, relive conversations in the past, all while shampooing my hair and shaving my legs. (Okay, I should shave my legs more often. That may not count.)

Yesterday's conversation was about living and dying. Me, specifically. I can't live because I'm afraid of living, but I'm also afraid of dying.  Yeah, how's that for limbo?

It is so hard to love forward. I struggle to see tomorrow. (Currently, the thought of tomorrow gives me a jolt of panic attack. I mean literally, thinking about Monday gives me a panic attack. Breathe. Breathe. Back to this moment, on the couch.) I also struggle to see the future without Katie. 

I want to travel in the present and the future. But I feel so guilty because I didn't take Katie in the past. How can I go to Hawaii or Europe again (dreams, dreams) without Katie? I should have more Katie memories. I need more Katie memories. I don't want memories without Katie. 

But how do you live like that? How can I live like that? I can't. So I can't go forward. But I can't go back. But I can't go forward. I'm stuck. 

I'm here between yesterday and tomorrow. Just like you're supposed to be, living mindfully in the present.  Ha. Isn't that the point? To live each moment in the present? I don't feel like I am doing what mindfulness experts mean.  

Where am I? Why am I here? How can I move when I'm so afraid of moving? How can I step forward and chance losing the past?

Mail and more

The mail came today (always such good news, er, I mean bills).  Today brought it's own special kind of hell.  Katie got mail from an insurance agency.

1.  What the hell does a teenager need with homeowners insurance so that you'd send snail mail to her?

2.  How in the hell did she get on some insurance agency's mailing list when *I* am not on their mailing list?

3.  Geez, people, it's happened before, but it just got all over me today: anger, tears, the whole nine yards.

Thankfully Mom called the agency and explained the situation so that she should no longer get mail from some State Farm agent in Brookfield, Wisconsin.

It's been 22 months and 1 day.  The 13ths are no longer the hell that they once were, but they're still to be handled with caution.  And if it's a Friday the 13th, I'm unable to face the day.

I'm honestly surprised that I'm still breathing.  Not that I considered suicide (though those early dark days were dark), but that I still have no concept of time beyond my next breath.  It's hard to plan for the future when you can't plan for breakfast.  (Said while eating a bowl of pre-sweetened cereal because I can't manage plain cereal and having to put sweetener on it.  It's just too much hassle.)

I'm rather surprised that breathing isn't too much work.

If I could scratch without hives

The hives are back. I would like to take a break from my skin now. It is itchy and painful right now. 

Grief has caused me a lot of issues, but the weirdest has to be hives. It's a histamine type reaction, and I don't want anything to be touching my body, not even my own skin. I can shower and put on hypoallergenic lotion, but it still continues. It's as if my body is trying to reject my skin or something. 

This started at the beginning. I was cold, but I had a hard time dealing with some clothing, like bras. I wore hoodies and yoga pants and Smartwool socks. It's plagued me ever since. Yesterday and today I have a hard time wearing my Teva slip on sandles, the comfy ones. I can't touch a couch pillow because they're too rough.  I don't want anything to touch me, but I can best tolerate soft cotton sheets. Naked, though, is not the answer (at least not the majority of the time. It's awkward to answer the door naked. 

I take Benadryl, but it makes me sleepy. At least I don't have quite the impulse to tear open my skin. But if I scratch then I itch AND hurt. My skin feels raw. 

At least my skin matches my heart. I feel raw inside and outside.  

Just another

Another day. Another year. Another waiting room.  Another attempt at "fixing."

First of all, there is always another day. It stretches infinitely in front of me. It's another parade of days. Another sense of loss. Another day of waking up with this shitty reality. Another depressed day. Another round of tears. I feel like I'm in an endless abyss, lost for 40 years in the desert with no manna in sight. 

I'm another year older. I feel so old. I'm at least double my age. Birthdays are hard. I just want normal life back and there is no normal, just my shitty reality. Libby says that I should let my hair go gray when she graduates from high school. Four more years I can keep up the appearances. But I don't care. I still want my mourning clothes. I don't want to explain why I act erratically. I want people to just be able to see. I understand why Queen Victoria wore mourning clothes for the rest of her life. And that was just for her husband. 

I'm in another waiting room. It's for me or its for Libby. I can't tell you how many hours a week I'm waiting. I wait to be fixed for her someone to try to fix her. But there is no fixing either of us. We just have to make it through. 

Struggling. Again.

I'm in a funk. I feel like everything is piled upon me again. I'm a rubber band that's been stretched too far. I've lost my snap. Okay, I've lost more than just my snap. 

It's hard to get out. I could just stay at the house (in the house?) all the time. I don't want to answer the phone. I don't want to read emails. Most text messages take too much energy to reply. 

Germany took a lot of my starch. Libby takes a lot of my energy. I'm turning 45 next week. I'm marking time since Katie's death. Still. Even I think that I should be better. And sometimes I am better. 

I'm just not better now. Not even close. 

Other than that, Mrs. Lincoln, ...

How did you like the play?

My life is a shambles. My work is suffering. My mental health is suffering. My heart is suffering. 

"How are you?" 

Fine. Thank you. 

"It must be a hard time. I've been thinking about you."

Thank you. I'm surviving. 

But am I?

I've been deep down inside me. The is no "there" there. It's nothing. I have a hard time thinking about the future. Making a long term plan has as much meaning as what we are having for dinner tomorrow night. And I care about it just as much, which is to say, not in the least. 

I think I want to go away. Away seems like it would be a nice place. I might say anywhere but here. But I really don't care. Here is as good of a place as any.  

Inertia. Deceleration. Stopping. I could stop. It would be easy. 

I try to breathe in and out. I try to keep putting one foot in front of the other. I can't look up. There is no "there" there. 

Happy Mother's Day

I I don't know how to be "that mom."  You know: the mom that has lost a kid. I'm not supposed to be that mom. I'm supposed to be a normal mom. 

I want a normal day for Mother's Day. I don't need flowers or presents or jewelry.  I don't need a store bought card (or even a homemade one, though those things would be lovely. I just want a normal day.  

I want a day when my heart doesn't break. 

I want a day when Libby is happy. 

I want a day to mow the lawn and not think about when the girls were small and would use dandelions to make crowns for their heads. 

I want a day to not worry about my mental health or Libby's mental health or Libby's school or my work or money or cooking or weeding the flowerbeds or what we should have for dinner. 

A. Day. To. Not. Worry. 

A day to be normal. 

Remember in the play Our Town where Emily gets to go back and relive a day?  Just an ordinary day. It can't be anything special.  

I want an ordinary day as a mother of two. Two sets of hugs. Two sets of kisses. I want to be an ordinary mom. 

Perseverance.

Some days it's not worth getting out of bed. I'd pray for strength to persevere, but to whom should I pray?  I'm not sure I believe. 

Today

I'm trying not to be that mother. It's hard, though. 

You know, that's helicopter mother. The one who tries to make everything right for their child. Its unbelievably hard, though. I don't want to lose her. 

She's getting stronger again. So am I. It's a roller coaster ride. The sunshine helps. The vacation helped. Maybe some fog is lifting again. 

I don't ever think I'll be free of the fog. Sometimes the sunshine burns off some of the fog, and sometimes it doesn't. Sometimes the fog is so dense that I can't see. (I had that experience in Florida last week.) 

I keep saying "maybe someday."  I don't say "never" any more. I learned that lesson. What you think will never happen can, indeed, happen. 

God

How can you put your trust in God when the only (and I really mean only) thing you've ever asked God to do is to take care of your babies and God didn't?

"Please keep them safe," I prayed every morning going to school.  "Please keep them safe," I prayed as they drove away with their dad for visits.  "Please keep them safe," I prayed when they slept at night.

Sometimes I'd add "and well."  Maybe "help her to have a good time" if I knew she was anxious about something.  If it was a particularly troublesome day, I might add "and give me strength."  My only prayers for me were to be better a better mother for them.  But the constant, only thing I would always ask for is for them to be safe.  I didn't ask for help to find the car keys.  I didn't trouble God to help me get through bronchitis.  I said the prayers at church, but the all consuming, underlying breath was for their safety.

I had a hard time letting them fly alone.  I wasn't there to keep them safe.  I entrusted them to God.

I had a hard time letting them go.  I had to let them become independent women, but when I wasn't there with them to keep them safe, I entrusted them to God.

Keep them safe.  Please keep them safe.

So how to do you trust God, how do you pray for anything, when the only thing you've ever begged for, Literally. Begged. For,  was unheard?

I watch Libby go into school, and my throat chokes on the words.  I'm afraid of jinxing her.  I'm afraid of being let down again, of hurting that much again, of losing another child.

How do you ever trust in anything again?

A girl says mean things, and I can't even

So imagine that it's Friday the 13th, and your sister died on Friday the 13th.  Now imagine that one of your friends says that "it's Friday the 13th, so someone is going to die!" Imagine that you ask the friend repeatedly to stop, but the friend continues.  You tell your friend that your sister died on Friday the 13th, and she's hurting you.  Now your friend asks, "did your sister go to Hell since she died on Friday the 13th?"

So Libby comes home.

That was Friday, February 13th.

I couldn't post about it before, because I am still pissed about it.  The girl has since tried to apologize, but she's out of the group.  She wasn't in the close social circle, but was on the fringe, since she didn't go to elementary school with the circle.

Now

Struggling

I'm struggling right now with anxiety and grief.  I asked my counselor if it was grief or depression.  She told me that there is such overlap between the two when grief is involved, that it doesn't matter.  I just know that I have a hard time.

It was better over spring break.  Kinda.  I had to delay the trip by a day because of anxiety.  Then we had to delay the trip another day because Libby was vomiting and then I was vomiting, too.  Not an auspicious start, but we did get out the door.  Anxiety chased me.  My mantra became "be in the moment."  I couldn't dwell on the past or the future without breaking down, but as long as I was in the moment, I could breathe.

Damn.  Who knew it would still be hard to breathe?

Now that I'm back to "normal" life, I'm back to the anxiety.  It crawls up my back and neck.  It sits hunched on my shoulders.  I need to keep my mantra "be in the moment."  I'm reminded of the poem "there's big work to do and there's lesser to do and the task we must do is the near." (I looked it up.  It's the poem Be by Douglas Mallock.)  I learned it in high school, back when I was traveling as a motivational speaker.  Yeah, I get like that.

But I'm doing the near task.  The one in front of me.  Billing.  Appointments.  Returning calls and emails.  As long as I focus on what's in front of me, I'm better.   I just can't stop to think.

Libby (I hope!) is caught up with all of her school work.  It has been a rough year on my baby.  She's missed so much school that we have a meeting with the school to talk about her absences.     I don't have any doubts about her completion, but it's important that she get back to the grindstone and finish out the school year strong.  Then we can both move onto the next task.

Just keep swimming.

The Pit of Despair (don't even think about escaping)

I wake up every morning with dread.  I know that something awful is going to happen every day.  I can't shake the feeling, because something always does happen.  I say always, its a given that every weekday will have some sucky thing happen.  It's a high percentage possibility that the weekend will suck as well.

I struggle with my own self.  That's hard enough.  But I also have to struggle with and for Libby.  She fights every morning to stay in bed.  She, too, knows that sucky things will happen.  Because sucky things happen for her, too.

Maybe it's a missing homework assignment.  Maybe a thoughtless remark.  Maybe it's a forgotten phone call or email.  Maybe it's just overwhelming grief.

I remember, once upon a time, when I could wake up with happiness, looking forward to the day.  More often than not, life would be good.  I could say "look for the good" to the girls and know that there was good out there for them.  Once the ultimate happens, it's hard to see the good.  It's practically impossible to see the good.  Sometimes it's hard to remember that good once was.

It's really the Pit of Despair.

Under cover

Seriously, I am under the covers. Working from home. Taking a lunch break. Had to go upstairs. Saw the bed unmade (yeah, call call me a slob).  Crawled in and covered up my head. I am the teensiest bit claustrophobic, so I have to periodically get some fresh air under here, but it's cozy. And it feels safe. It's one of *those* days. 

Damn. Libby turning 14 sucked. She's there, but it was a hard birthday for both of us. Katie was 14. You can't fix that. Turning 15 will be harder. Libby was never supposed to be the oldest. I was never meant to have just one living child. We mourn for the loss of Katie, and we mourn for the loss of who we were before. 

But, just as I can't stay under the covers, Libby can't not grow up. She has to get older. She has to grow taller. (She's taller than I am now.) It's how life is supposed to go. 

We are going camping over spring break. Cheap, car camping. Just the two of us. The mountains and then the beach. Smokies and then Gulf Coast. I'm looking forward to running away. 

Girls laughing

EIt's a sleepover night for Libby tonight. The four girls are laughing downstairs while I am upstairs with my novel, some lavender hand lotion, and a cup of Sleepytime tea. And you. 

The conversation has waxed and waned all evening. It's been over 2 weeks since Lib has seen any of her friends. Hopefully she can return to school part-time this week. Life has been devastating for my girl since September 13, 2013. 

There is no school tomorrow as its a planned teacher work day. It's also nearly a blizzard here, so school might have been iffy anyway. But the mothers braved the elements and brought their daughters here so that they could be together again. 

Sometimes as a parent we have to sit very still. We can read and drink a cup of coffee and turn into furniture. That's when we find out what's going on with the kids. 

The questions come in waves, punctuated by serious tones and negotiations. The laughter is normal, the questions are not. They haved moved into everyone asking and answering questions. Feelings. Anxiety. Fears. Deep sharing. It's not the easy conversation of the past or even of earlier tonight.  

I move away from listening. Some questions and answers are too hard to hear. But I know that the nine years of friendship and the easy conversations are the groundwork for them to share. To help Libby. To help each other. To turn this into something that will last a lifetime. 

I hope that this helps Libby to heal. 

Libby and I go places together, and we look like the Gilmore Girls. If you didn't know our tragedy, you probably couldn't tell how screwed up we are with our grief.  You'd probably see a mother and her only child, a daughter, moving in synchronous motions.  You'd see the complicated dance of adolescence and motherhood.  Unless you looked closely, you wouldn't see the cracks in our bodies.  We are both broken.

Our relationship has weathered this disaster, full of ups and downs.  We've cried and yelled and hugged and cried some more.

We have even laughed sometimes.  It helps keep our sanity from drifting too far away.  

Sanity isn't close to our lives.  My law partner joked about bringing me coffee or chocolate or sanity.  I didn't reply the truth:  I need all of these, but bring me a double sanity, please, so I have a spare when I need it.

Send me a Starbucks gift card.

Order me some chocolates.

Bring me a book, so I can escape my life.

Help me find my sanity.  It's elusive.

Some things are just too big to blog about

Take for example, what Libby is going through.  That's too big to blog about.  I don't want to over-share when it comes to my baby girl, but it's true what they say about the second year being the saddest.

The first year is the hardest; you're just numb and ugly and bleeding everywhere.  But its also the year when people look at you and get it.

The second year is the saddest because you've come to the realization that things will never be the same ever again.  You have no numb in which to retreat.  There isn't any buffer from the pain any more. You aren't necessarily bleeding from deep stab wounds, pumping blood out onto the floor, but instead your body is just weeping road rash.  Everywhere you touch or where your body comes in contact with life is just raw.

This is when it's supposed to be better, so everyone has moved back into the rhythm of their own lives.  Don't get me wrong; they should!  Its just lonely over here by myself.  I know that I'm not pretty to look at anymore.  My tears have permanently stained my cheeks.  I have new wrinkles and a ton of grey hair.  I think about letting my hair go silver to show how I feel inside.  I feel old.  I am tired.  I've lost the majority of what little fight I had.

Still I put on my bra and attempt to go through the day, feeling like it's a fruitless gesture.

It is a fruitless gesture.

This is the barren part of my life.