Summer Travels: Wichita

Monday, I found myself spending most of the day in the car, driving the long, straight road between Denver and Wichita. As many of you know, I have spent the last nine weeks unemployed. Due to an unexpected delay in my start date for my new job, I wound up with an extra week on my hands. I was not made to be someone who does not have a job to do or classes to attend. The months of unemployment had worn on me, so, at my mother's suggestion, I decided to take a few days and visit my amazing friends, the Loflands.

I left Monday morning, happy about spending a few days with them. As I have said in other blog posts, they have been life savers for me, and I very much feel like I'm visiting a brother and sister, and nieces and a nephew. I'm in a much better place in life than I have been in until recently, so I was surprised to find that the closer I got to Wichita, the more depressed I got, and the more I wanted to cry. I hadn't struggled with so many thoughts and feelings regarding my ex in several weeks. Not even on his birthday, earlier this month. I tried to push things out of my head by focusing on the latest podcast I've been binging on (yes, I binge on informational podcasts...I have to fill the need to learn somehow, since going to school forever isn't a viable option). It helped, but it didn't totally do the job. About the time I turned off of I-70 for the final 90 minutes to Wichita, I realized something: The last time I traveled this road, I was in a very bad place in life. I was just barely managing to keep it together (and by that I mean...living), and I was still so crushed by everything, it permeated my thoughts nearly every waking- and even many sleeping- minute. On top of that, I was still severely injured by the accident that I'm still not sure how Ryan and I survived. Even though I'm in a much better place, I found that the emotional center of my brain was realizing that every time I had driven that road between Denver and Wichita, I had been in serious emotional distress. While I managed to control the severity of the emotional disturbance somewhat, I found myself shedding a tear...or ten...as I relived some rather horrific memories.

When I got to the Loflands, and was greeted by a very enthusiastic Daisy (their puppy), Becky, Missy, Benji, Jerusha and Christen, I finally felt a lot better than I had for the past several hours. As the drive went on, I had found myself worrying that once I got there, I'd be hit by the same barrage of agonizing emotions I had felt every other time I had visited. Thankfully, that wasn't the case. The kids went to bed (they'd been allowed to stay up late to see me), and Jerusha and Christen and I went out to the back porch with some wine, and spent a couple hours having the kind of conversations that only three INTJs who are survivors of the same cult and have all left the church can have. We mostly argued about politics (I'm still more conservative than they are), I gave them a brief lesson on the fall of the Whig Party, and the rise of the Republican Party, but of course, it was all very civil, and the three of us have a really good mutual respect for each other, which allows for awesome debates.

After I went to bed, I pleasantly surprised myself by actually going to sleep (insomnia is a huge issue right now), and going to sleep happily. I didn't cry myself to sleep as I had done many nights before in the Lofland house (no, not because of them!). As I went through the activities of the next day and a half, and then started my way back home, I found myself musing again on grief and emotional distress. It takes a lot of time to heal, yes. I'm definitely not "over" everything. I still think about things far more than I would like, and I still feel way more emotional about everything that happened, though I wish I did. I'm not sure it will never not hurt to think about what all happened. There will always be things that come up (like the drive to Wichita), that will bring up those sad and angry feelings again, even if I'm feeling really good at the moment.

As I drove home, I realized that I have clearly done a lot of healing. The fact that the drive to Wichita was hard for me was not a sign that I'm still in agony, or that I'm not far enough along. That's a sign that I'm human and, contrary to popular belief, don't have sludge being pumped through my black, cold heart. Though it surprised to at the time, I realized the fact that I wasn't more undone by the memories and emotions, didn't end up sobbing, and managed to keep from ending up a giant ball of agony is proof that I have done an impressive amount of healing between the end of December and now.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, grief takes many forms, but then, so does healing. Both take time. Both can strike at unexpected times. The grief means I'm human, and the healing means I'm rising from the ashes. Just because I am doing well in Colorado, have an awesome new guy in my life, and am about to start a better job than I ever hoped to get, does not mean I will not still feel hurt and angry, nor does it mean that I will not mourn what was- and what wasn't. In fact, in my opinion, being able to be happy with my new life while mourning my old one is actually a sign of strength and bravery; instead of letting what happened to me ruin me and my life, I dared to imagine a different life, in a different place, with different people, and doing different things. I dared to seize life by the scruff of the neck and refuse to let it get the better of me. And that, my friends, is as Dauntless as it gets.

Fire and Grace

While it's true that Pinterest will suck away one's life if one is not careful, it is also true that Pinterest can, on occasion, be the source of profound inspiration or wisdom. Tonight (or, shall I say, this morning), I found myself profoundly struck by a quote one of my friends (the lovely Hannah Robertson) posted. It said:

"She had fire in her soul, and grace in her heart."

And, as sometimes happens, I caught my breath. Yes. Yes, this. This is the mark of a well-balanced person. A successful person. I don't remember whether or not I have mentioned this- most of my early posts are still far too painful for me to re-read yet- but I found myself in the hospital at the end of August last year. Every time I spoke with the doctor or the social workers, they would always say the same thing: You're not worthless, your life has value. What struck me was that all of the other patients there needed to hear just that. They felt worthless. Devoid of value. That was not my issue. I always responded that I know my life has value. I know I do a lot of good. I know I'm not worthless. I've known this ever since I read the Divergent series, and Veronica Roth gave me the chance to see myself through the eyes of others, in the character of Tris. That wasn't my issue. 

What was my issue? My fire had gone out, and I could no longer find the will to re-light it, nor the grace to accept that yeah, sometimes other people will completely screw things up for me, and the only thing I can do is take it, and go on. I was tired. No, not the kind of tired that comes from running around all day. Not the kind of tired that comes from trying to do well on a math test. Not even the kind of tired that comes from working so hard to achieve a goal, and yet falling short. I was 32 years old, and I was tired of life. I was tired of doing my best to do everything right. To never mess up. To always do what I'm supposed to, and yet still having things completely and totally screwed up by someone else. I was 32 and had never messed up anything important in my entire life. And yet, my life was still a living hell. Why keep going; why keep trying, if other people were just going to come along and screw it all up anyway?

I was 32, and had been dealing with PTSD since I was 3 years old. That was at the hands of my brother and sister. Then another PTSD- causing event occurred when I was six, mostly having to do with my brother. At 12, I was severely bullied in school (as most Autistic children are at some point), and again, wound up with even more PTSD issues from that. Finally, at 13, my parents enrolled our family in a cult, and subjected me to nine years of fairly severe abuse, causing the worst of my PTSD issues. Later, my sister became so toxic I had to cut her off in order to retain my own sanity. The older I got, the more my health declined. Even after my Celiac diagnosis, there were (and are) still too many unanswered questions and unresolved health problems. The older I get, the more my pain increases and my joints (among other things) deteriorate. I didn't do anything to cause the constant pain I have experienced for two decades. I always took care of myself. I just happened to be saddled with an unfortunate set of genes. And then he came along when I wasn't looking for anything, was better than I could have ever imagined, and then I experienced so much betrayal at his hands. 

After so many years, it all just kind of blew up. Of course, dealing with chronic anxiety, PTSD, depression, and Autism (which takes things that would be traumatic for anyone and magnifies them by about 10x) is hard on the best of days. Sure, I cope unusually well, as all of my doctors and therapists remark on a fairly regular basis, but I'm only human. I may have a fire in my soul that a lot of people don't have. That explains how I have exceeded expectations in most areas of my life. I have a drive that refuses to allow me to admit defeat. But the fire isn't unquenchable, nor the drive unstoppable. It takes a hell of a lot, but my various issues can become nearly insurmountable. 

I'm not even entirely sure what my point is in writing this post. The biggest reason I'm writing this is to help me process. I suppose the most significant thing about that Pinterest quote that struck me was...grace in her heart. At first, I thought it just meant grace toward others. Grace to forgive, and to move on. Grace in spite of the fire. But the more I write, and the more I think about it, I think it's far deeper than that. Grace that not only forgives in spite of the fire, but in fact, grace that keeps the fire burning. Grace that is able to take the hits and still keep going. 

No, I'm not criticizing myself for nearly giving it all up. It takes a lot of grace to be able to accept help and to ask for it. I remember both my psychiatrist and one of the social workers commenting to me that I was not in the hospital because I was unhealthy, as were most of my fellow patients. I was in the hospital because I was healthy and recognized that I needed help. That was hard to understand at the time, but it's true. The unhealthy response would have been to just put myself out of my misery. But I didn't. I went to my mentor, Dr. Hoffman, and his wife, Margaret, and asked them to help me, which they did. I then went to the hospital. I went to my friends. I took trips every weekend so I could just keep going. I moved a thousand miles away, to start over. 

It may not have seemed or felt graceful at the time. But it was. I gave myself the grace to ask for help. It took a long time, but eventually, that fire got relit. Am I completely over everything that happened? Not by a long shot. I'm not sure a person can ever completely get over something like that. But I have the flame again, and it continues to get stronger with time. 

I don't even know how much of this, if any, made sense. But fire takes a lot of courage to feed and maintain. That is true. Grace, however, takes even more. It's easy to mistake cowardice for grace, or grace for cowardice. In reality, the two are worlds apart. True grace takes far more courage than we give it credit for. Grace to forgive, grace to ask for help, and grace to move on. 

It's funny- I never really thought of myself as much of a graceful person. No, I'm not perfect. Yes, I have a long way to go. But I do have a lot more grace than I ever gave myself credit for in the past. And I suppose, it's high time I start to be more mindful of grace in my life, in all of its capacities. 

Disclaimer: I do just want to say...yes, I know there are people in life who have worse situations than I do. I know there are people who would like to have it as good as I have it. I also know that I have been through a lot of things that a lot of people never go through. I'm not looking for sympathy here, or high fives. I'm just expressing my experience and my feelings from my perspective as I walk through my life. And that's all I can do.

Waves of Grief

Sometimes, it just hits. A wave of grief so overwhelming, it's hard to figure out where the next breath is going to come from. How that feeling of your gut just being ripped from your body is ever going to go away. That happened to me on Thursday. It happened again tonight.

Ever since my brother died, whenever a family I know, or feel any kind of strong connection to, loses a child to death, I'm overwhelmed with grief. Not only is it a bit of a grief trigger for me, but I also feel overwhelmed for that family. I know the hell they have ahead of them. I know the path they have to walk is often dark, cold, and hard. And my burden for them is so heavy, I can barely breathe.

Thursday, I found out that 19 year old Rachel McCrary- a lifelong friend of my friend Mandi, and about whom I have heard stories and received countless pictures of her during Mandi's and my days of snail mail correspondence- had died suddenly, in a car accident. While I have never met the McCrarys, I feel like I have. I feel like I've known them. And my heart aches for them and their loss, and what that means for them, the rest of their lives.

When I got the news, I had just gotten out of a dental appointment. I was so stunned and overwhelmed by an indescribable wave of emotions, I couldn't go home. So I wandered. I walked through various stores, looking a little at some furniture options, but mostly, trying to just keep moving. If I didn't, I'd collapse. I'd fall apart. And later that day, I did.

I was explaining things to my guy, and suddenly, I was in tears. He asked me what I was thinking, and I barely managed to get out, "I miss my brother," before ending up in sobs. Grief is a funny thing. For a long time, it's all you can think about. Then life starts to go back to normal. Years can pass with little more than a few pangs of conscious pain. Then something happens, and the loss is once again more than a soul can bear. As I sobbed, effectively giving my guy a salt water shower he didn't need while he held me, it felt as though the loss was brand new.

And in a way, it is.

Grief is a lifelong process. Even long after we manage to adjust to living life without someone, we experience things that make us grieve a long ago loss as a present loss. Because it is. I remember grieving my brother at my college graduation. He would have been so incredibly proud. And again at my grad school graduation. And and our cousin Jason's wedding.

The past ten and a half months, I've been grieving my brother in a new way. More than any other time in my life, I have needed him in the last almost year. I'm not going to deny that I have had an amazing support system. I have had people step up for me in ways that quite literally saved my life. And I'm so grateful. I really am. But I needed my big brother. He'd be 42 now. And he would have been here for me, arms wide open. He always adored me. He wanted so much for me.

Thursday night, as I talked to my guy about Rachel, and about how hard things like this are for me, I felt so overwhelmed by my loss. And tonight, I got home from hanging out with Mandi and Jim, who just returned home from Rachel's funeral, and it hit me again. Today is May 16th. On the 28th, my brother will have been gone 23 years. I climbed in bed and the tears again overwhelmed me. I write this through blurry, tear-filled eyes. I stop every couple minutes as it all overtakes me.

The thing no one really tells you about loss is that it's not a one-time thing that occasionally makes you sad throughout the years. My loss didn't begin and end on May 28, 1993. It began there, but it continues. Every day. The last almost year now, aside from all the other huge changes and losses that have come so close to killing me, I have lost my brother. I lost his presence at my graduations. I lost his presence when I was trying to survive. I lose his presence now. My ability to call him in tears and have him tell me I can do it. That everything is going to be okay.

My loss isn't almost 23 years old. It's almost 23 years long. And I have to say, realizing that and dealing with it takes one hell of a lot of courage.