Living Life

There has been a ton of new stuff going on in my life lately. Far more than this stability - loving girl likes. But I'm hanging in there and pressing on. Sandwiched between the very Dauntless trip to Glenwood Springs, and the nerve-wracking trip to Wyoming, I spent my first week at my new job as a Customer Care Manager at Level 3 Communications. That's basically a fancy term for a project manager. I was one of about a hundred new hires for this role, approximately half of which are scattered throughout the country.

I was thrust into five weeks of training involving tons of new people (no! Anything but new people!), more new information than I could possibly absorb, and a whole lot of confusion. But I made it through, and this week, we were all finally handed over to our new managers. I'm still in a bit of training for a few weeks before my manager starts throwing me my own orders to work on.

It's been interesting. I have never had a regular 8-5 office job before. Academia is pretty darn flexible, and my job at the cleaners, while full time, was only 3.5 days a week. It's not terribly far from home, and I manage the parking lot that is I-270 every morning fairly well. Thank goodness for podcasts! There are some cool people at my job, and I think I'll like working there.

Landing this job marks a significant milestone in my life. I finally, at nearly 33 years of age, have a job that will actually pay all of my bills, and give me good health coverage. I am finally on the verge of financial independence. Next year, I'll finally have the money to be able to pay for all of my medical bills as well. Granted, supporting one's self feels good to anyone. But to an Autistic, chronically ill, cult survivor with PTSD, Anxiety, and Depression, who wasn't even allowed to go to college until she was 22, this is amazing. I'm making enough that, though I won't have much left over, I can even afford to support myself in a place with such a high cost of living as Denver, and I can even do it while living alone. I even have a 401k and life insurance! I  might even be able to buy a house in a few years.

It's kind of amazing, when I think about it. Here I am, with a Master's degree, living alone in a city well over a thousand miles away from my parents as a single female, wearing makeup, awesome clothes, and just living my own life. Making my own way. Living in a way that I was taught for years was, not just wrong, but actually dangerous and even evil. But I feel so free. I'm actually getting to the point of loving my life. It may not be anything like how I imagined or wanted it, but who cares? I'm in a good place and headed for good things. At the end of the day, that's really all that matters. 

Summer Travels: Wyoming

The first weekend in June, Andy took me up to his hometown of Caspar, Wyoming, where we attended his niece's graduation party, and he introduced me to his family. I had never been to Wyoming before, so I got to cross another state off my list. Of course, I made Andy stop when we got to the state line, so he could take a picture of me by the "Welcome to Wyoming" sign.

We stopped at a truck stop in the middle of nowhere to get gas, get a snack, etc. I was wearing a shirt I had recently gotten at Old Navy, and across the front, it said, "Wild." I bought it because I liked the freedom that it represented. In my ATI days, I wasn't allowed to be wild. I was to be meek, quiet, demure, and the epitome of all things ladylike. I had to sit and speak and walk and behave in ways that were not natural to me. I had to tame myself. And I hated every minute. I felt like I was in a cage. I was being forced to live in a way I wasn't meant to live. It took me years to finally comprehend my freedom. So when I saw the shirt, I knew I wanted it. Let me tell you though- a shirt with the word, "wild" across it takes on a whole new, creepy meaning when an old bedraggled truck driver winks at you and says he likes your shirt. I stuck close to Andy after that, and decided not to wear the shirt around truck stops anymore!

Of course, meeting the family is always nerve wracking. But add to that the fact that my last experience with meeting the family of a significant other was painfully awkward, my anxieties were even higher than they should have been. Andy's family was nice and didn't pretend I wasn't there, so that at least was a step up!

Saturday, Andy and his mother taught me how to play poker, as that whole family grew up playing the game. That evening, Andy's brother, sister-in-law, and two of their (grown) kids came over to play. We played three games, and I actually didn't suck. It's amazing- three years ago, I could barely bring myself to play a game of craps in Las Vegas when my cousin Jeff paid for my entry. But I sat there and played three games of poker, over several hours, and just had fun, and was happy about not being the first person out every game. I even managed to talk to my parents about it without feeling like I'd done something wrong, or feeling that I needed to justify myself.

We weren't in Wyoming for long, but upon going home, I felt a sense of accomplishment. I had managed to meet a bunch of new people and not entirely embarrass myself, not have a panic attack, and actually have a good time. I also learned a new game at which I'm not terrible, and was able to hold my own for a while. I went home with a little more confidence than I had when I left. And that's really what this move has been all about. Small steps towards regaining my confidence. Small steps towards healing from the past. Small steps forward. As long as I'm doing that, I'm doing well. 

Summer Travels: Glenwood Springs

Memorial Day weekend was an eventful weekend, to say the least. It began early Saturday morning, as a certain someone thought it would be "awesome" to leave by 6 in the morning to drive through the mountains for a three hour trip to Glenwood Springs, in the middle of the Rocky Mountains. Granted, it was a gorgeous drive, I just fail to see why leaving at 6AM was necessary. That said, we did make a stop at Starbucks, which made things a little more tolerable... Actually, I'm being dramatic. For some unknown reason, I was wide awake before the alarm went off at 5:30.

The drive was gorgeous. We drove through both Vail and Aspen, and a few times, reached altitudes where there was still plenty of snow on the ground. In other places, mountainsides and meadows were in full bloom, and the lakes we passed were breathtaking.

Our first real activity after arriving in Glenwood Springs and meeting up with Andy's friends, was white water rafting. I had always wanted to do this, and when Andy asked if I'd be up for it physically, I said I'd make it work! It's definitely not the kind of thing I'd be advised to do by any medical professional, given the state of my health and the fact that I have a loose piece of bone hanging out in my spine. But I was determined to do it, and made sure my back brace was cinched as tightly as it could be without actually suffocating me. When we got to the river, our guide asked for a couple of volunteers to sit at the front of the boat. In other words, he needed volunteers to sit in the scariest spot, and take the most water up their noses. Of course, I was immediately like, "Ooh! Pick us! Pick us!" As no one else was volunteering, they picked us. Andy normally would not have opted for the front, but he knew he was dating a Dauntless, so he managed to allow his Erudite self to sit in the front.

We got going, and boy, was that a ride! There were several times we'd come up to some rapids, and Andy and I could see the several foot drops into the rocks, and we would yell, "OH CRAP!" As we were thrust into the rocks and assaulted by walls of water in our faces. I should probably also mention that the water was about 40 degrees. Talk about cold! After two hours of bouncing out of our seats, holding on for dear life, and having so much water shoved up my nose I wondered if I was going to drown while in the boat, we made it to the end of the trip, and we all went back to our hotel to change. We went out to eat later, and how Andy's friends still had energy left after that to keep going while Andy and I decided to call it a night, I will never know. Sitting at the bar in that restaurant, I realized I had never in my life been simultaneously ravenous and so exhausted I was in pain from being so tired. Usually, I'm exhausted, but I'm more hungry than tired, so I eat and then go to bed. Other times, I'm very hungry, but I'm more exhausted than hungry, so I go to sleep without food. But this time, I was so hungry and so tired, that I simultaneously wanted nothing but sleep, and nothing but food. It's an odd feeling, let me tell you. Add to that the odd lady sitting next to Andy who decided to make us her best friends and talk to us about everything under the sun, and we had a bit of an odd night.

I slept through breakfast the next day, because...EXHAUSTED. Once I got up, I started taking inventory of my bruises from rafting the day before. My word. That was a LOT of bruises. I looked like I had been mugged! Andy kept patting my knee and I'd yelp in pain for about a week after that. I still say it was worth every bruise and every sore muscle!

The day after rafting, we went to the amusement park there in town, which is built on the top of a mountain. Roller coasters at 10,000 feet? Yes, please! I again wore my brace, as I was participating in activities no doctor or physical therapist in their right mind would clear me for. But my brace proved extremely effective, and I suffered no more than a few more bruises and sore muscles. We went on a barn door swing that went way over the side of the mountain, with nothing but the town and the Colorado river several thousand feet below. We also went on the more typical carnival swings that again went out over the edge of the mountain. It was an exhilarating feeling to be swinging out over nothing. I loved it.

At the end of the day, we went for a soak in the Glenwood hot springs. That was a lot of fun, and very relaxing. I will give you one piece of advice, though: Do not drink an individual sized box of wine (equivalent to three glasses of wine) on an empty stomach, at 8,000 feet, while in a hot springs, and in a mere 20 minutes. Nothing bad happened, I just...wouldn't recommend it. After that, we again went for dinner, and then said goodbye to Andy's friends, as we wouldn't be seeing them in the morning.

We headed home the next day, and while I was popping Ibuprofen like candy, the drive was nice. Not only does that weekend hold a lot of great memories for me, but I also love the decisions I made. The decision to go on a trip with just Andy, and four other people I had never met. That's never a comfortable thought for me. I'm not great with people, and I'm definitely not great with new people. Between being a highly introverted INTJ, Autistic, with Anxiety disorder, and a bit of an unusual past, it's just never very comfortable. Not only did I go on a trip with a bunch of strangers, but I also decided to go white water rafting and to go on various rides, all of which pose a threat to my back. I broke my back nearly 20 years ago, and in that time, I have been extremely careful, mostly because I have had to be. But not only have I just been careful because I have needed to be, I have also avoided risks because of what could happen. And while there is a time and place for that, I do finally have a brace that is extraordinarily effective. I decided that the risks, with that brace, were worth taking. I wasn't going to let the "what ifs" keep me from doing things that are very much me. Dauntless things. Things I have wanted  to do since I was a small child. And guess what? My courage paid off. My refusal to let a possible, but unlikely, outcome daunt me, resulted in some amazing experiences and memories I will love forever.

Hopefully, we'll go rafting once more before the summer is over, and many more times in the years to come.  It was SO much fun, and completely worth the soreness and exhaustion after! I think this was the most fun I had had in over a year. Moving to Colorado was the right move. I love it here, and I love all the Dauntless things I can do. I can't wait to do more things in this glorious place!

Independence Day

I sit here this evening, thinking about what an improvement today has been, over last July 4th. I remember waking up on July 1st, after a rough month of depression and PTSD issues triggered by all of the Duggar drama, thinking that July was going to be great. It was my birthday month, I had a brand new puppy, I had some great things planned, and I had this amazing boyfriend that I knew was with me through thick and thin, forever. But that afternoon, my whole world turned upside-down, and thus began the string of events responsible for creating this blog. The boyfriend that I knew would never ever leave me, came to me and did exactly that, telling me he needed some time. He broke up with me, but left me with every reason to believe he wanted to work things out. I honestly thought things would work out with us, but I was nevertheless devastated, confused, even angry. It was a pain deeper than any I had ever felt, and being a chronically ill 30-something cult survivor with PTSD, whose brother died when she was 9, and who has zero relationship with her own sister, that is saying something.

A few days later, on July 4th, I found myself in Northern Kentucky, staying with my parents and our cousin Ethel, with my lively puppy, Rue. I spent the afternoon at Barnes and Noble with Tamara, one of the people always responsible for keeping me sane, and my third mom (yes, there's a story there). We were looking at books on anxiety disorder, so I could learn better how to control it. My parents went to their usual 4th of July picnic at a friend's summer home, and invited me to come along, but I just couldn't. There were too many people there who had known me my whole life and would ask too many times how I was doing, and several who would ask how things were going with Z. I just couldn't do it. Any time I thought of or talked about him, or anyone asked about him, I felt as though I had been stabbed in the gut, and it took all the strength I could muster not to double over, clutching my stomach, sobbing, and gasping for air. At that point, I was doing well to manage to eat three bites per meal. I was so upset, I couldn't eat. I'm normally a stress eater. But in the worst moments of my life, I have been pushed beyond, to the point of not being able to eat at all. The very thought of eating made me feel ill.

So I stayed home. I laid on my bed at Ethel's house, and FB chatted with a good friend of mine (you know who you are), who was dealing with her own relationship crisis at the time. Just a couple weeks before, we both had been very happily in relationships with the guys we were sure were The Ones. And there we were on the 4th of July, me in this unsure and devastating place of being broken up but not sure what that meant, and she, being in this place of knowing she needed to break up with him, but not wanting to. So we talked, for hours. We talked about the pain, of love found unexpectedly, and of love in jeopardy. The time I didn't spend chatting with her or tending to my needy puppy, I spent reading my books on anxiety. It was hands down the worst 4th of July I have ever had in my life. I just wanted to die.

Fast forward to this year. Andy was on call for work, so we couldn't venture far from his house. But I kept telling him that anything would be an improvement over last year. And it was. It wasn't the most exciting 4th of July I have ever had, by any means. But I got to spend the day with a guy who loves me, and who also understands that this time is rough for me. The last month or so, leading up to July 1st has been rough, and has involved more tears than I would like to admit. But he has asked me to be honest and not hold things in, and I have decided to be brave and honest. I would like to say that now, being with Andy, all of that pain and confusion and anger is gone. It's not. I'm not sure it ever will be fully. I'm not sure a person ever fully recovers from something like this. But I have someone who only expects me to be human, and so far, I have been able to muster up the courage and humility to accept that. And today had surprisingly few twinges. Andy put a goat roast in the crock pot for dinner, and it was delicious. While he worked, I watched tv and spent an outrageous amount of time napping. At the end of the day, he asked, "Better day than last year?" I was honestly able to say, "Yes, much."

It's amazing to me how much healing has taken place. And at the same time, it's amazing to me how little healing has taken place. But regardless, I'm well on my way to being even healthier than I am now. As we celebrate our nation's independence from Britain today, I also celebrate my own. The more I heal, the more independent I become, and the less my well being has anything to do with the events of last year. And it's not just that. Eleven years ago, I wasn't free. I was stuck in my parents' home, in a cult that I was working hard to escape, but couldn't, just yet. I was also far more ill than I am now. My undiagnosed celiac disease was wreaking havoc on my body. It was hard. I wasn't free. But today, I am gaining freedom from the grief of the last year, I am free from the cult and the unhealthy grasp of my parents (though today they deeply regret ever getting involved in all that), and while I'm a long way from healthy, I'm far, far healthier than I was a few years ago.

So today, I celebrate my independence from all of the things of my past. No, it's not total, and likely never will be. But it's a process. And as long as I have the courage to keep pressing on in that process, I'm doing just fine.

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.