Two Desks

I got a tweet awhile ago from a guy named Sween.  It said "My ideal job would have 2 desks.  One for work and one for flipping over in blind rages."  It made me laugh because I can see that scene from so many movies where somebody flips a desk or a table or whatever over in a fit of rage.

And I chuckled because I can see myself doing that.  In my youth I was a thrower.  I slammed my bedroom door so many times I loosened the brace thing and one day it simply fell.  After the subsequent conversation i stopped slamming doors.

I broke the turn signal knob off my first car in a fit of anger.  I was so embarassed afterwards that I didn't tell anyone about it.  I simply took the knob and stuck it in my glove compartment.  I had enough of the base of the knob to use that to signal with.  My dad had to drive my car once and asked me about it, that is probably the only reason anyone ever knew I had done that.

I cracked the antenna on that mini antenna knobby thing that used to come on cell phones because I would throw it across the car in anger.  Or I would throw it into the passenger floor board.

After admitting the cell phone thing to a friend she pointed out I should get rid of that habit because it's not a large leap from throwing a cell phone at the passenger door to throwing a plate at a husband.  I didn't take her advice to heart immediately, but very shortly after I started forcing myself to stop throwing things.

For awhile I cried when I was angry.  Almost exclusively in private.  Until I started working as a guard in a juvenile prison.  Crying from anger or frustration or despair or compassion was simply not going to work in that environment.  So I learned a different coping mechanism.  Swearing.  It was, for me, a way of accurately expressing how I felt.  You don't have to agree with me, but sometimes it just makes you feel better to drop the f-word.  Sometimes fudge or flock or darnit just doesn't cut it.  Brad Stein says that Christians should have their own swear words because "if you slam your hand in the car door, somethin' is comin' out of your mouth."

After I left the prison it took me a year or more to realize I had even shifted coping mechanisms at all.  It took me quite awhile to retrain myself back to crying.  Even now I swear way more than I ought to.  But, believe it or not, God and I are starting to work on that.  Just starting to get into some of the hard places that it comes from, so please be gentle with me.

All of this to say:
Tomorrow is my first Christmas without my Dad.  I told a friend this afternoon that the pain is less sharp than it used to be. And this afternoon when i sent that text, it was true.  But tonite, as I sit here facing Christmas Eve with just my sister and my mom, it's not less sharp, it's a different sharp.
Is one of us going to sit in his chair?
Will we still do our traditional family photo?
Will I make it through the next 24 hours without completely losing it?  I can handle a few tears with Mom and Sister, but I don't want to have a full-blown ten-steps-past-the-ugly-cry kind of breakdown in front of them.

I spent a wonderful day and evening with wonderful friends.  Friends who freely admit they don't truly "understand" what I'm going through but have walked this path with me more than anyone other than family has.  They were exactly the "therapy" I needed tonite.  I puttered around a bit when I got home, tidying up my schtuff.  And I walked past an end table I have.  One of the plants I got from my Dad's funeral is on it.  The plant is growing like crazy.  (I don't know what is better than a Green Thumb, but I have that).  I tend to touch or pet my plants.  I have two African violets and I love to take a few seconds and run my hands along their leaves to feel that fuzziness.  I sometimes just touch the leaves of my other plants as I walk past.  As I passed this particular plant tonight I had a moment's thought of running my hand over the leaves, but I have a bunch of stuff piled in front of the end table so I couldn't really reach the plant.  And just as quickly as I dismissed the idea of petting my plant, I had a strong but fleeting thought that I don't WANT the plant.  I had an image in my mind of picking up the pot and hurling it against something so that it breaks into a bunch of pieces.

But I have already trained myself out of throwing.  More importantly, destroying this plant does not change my reality.  Even if I broke the plant. Even if I cleaned up the mess.  Or if I had someone else clean up the mess.  Even if I set the thing on fire or threw it into the street or any other destructive thing I can think of.  My Dad is still dead.  He still won't be at the house tomorrow when I get there.  He still won't call me from his cell phone with a computer question.  He still won't be in "his" room playing spider solitaire and watching movies on TV.

As amused as I am by that tweet I mentioned at the opening of this post.  I know that destroying or even damaging something won't change the fact that my world no longer has my Dad. So, I will write this up and take my chances posting it on Christmas Eve.  I will cry hard after I hit publish and try to deal with these feelings now so I can be less fragile tomorrow.  And I will sleep.

And tomorrow I will love my family.  I will let my loved ones know that I care, that they mean something to me, that I am glad they are a part of my life.  Because none of us can guarantee that those loved ones will even make it to New Year's much less make it to next Christmas.  If you had told me a year ago that in less than 4 months my Dad would be dead, I probably would have punched you.  I would have told you to shut your mouth and not speak that into my life.  I don't truly have any regrets, but I do wonder if I would have done anything differently if I had known it would be our last Christmas as a family of 4.

Take the moments this Christmas to kiss your daddies and hug your mommas and squeeze the babies.  Say that you love them, out loud.  take their face in your hands and look them in the eyes and make sure they hear you.  Tell them how much they mean to you.  Don't take any chances this year by leaving something that important unsaid.  Don't be in a rush to get to the next thing.  Savor the moments.  Note the scenes around you.  Store up the memories for later.  You may need them sooner than you think.

don't know my own strength

It's been quite awhile since I posted.  I would love to be able to say that's because i've been noveling furiously for NaNoWriMo.  That has had it's place, but I haven't spent every waking moment noveling.  If I had, I wouldn't be less than halfway to the goal with barely a week left to go.

This week has surprised me.  I've been seeing a counselor and I shared with her last week that I am very aware of my emotional state most of the time.  I can feel, like inside my chest, when I am getting what I have come to call "fragile."  That moment, or day, or situation, or worn-down-place where I know the wrong word, the wrong song lyric, the right hug will reduce me to weeping.  In those moments, at those times I close ranks, so to speak. I pull back from relationships that might strain me, which to be honest, there are very few of in my life.  I pay closer attention to the radio and jump away from songs that I know have nailed me in the past.  I pay a different type of attention to conversations with friends to try to keep it steered to safe topics.  Since the funeral in April I have only cried in front of three or maybe four people.  Like seriously lost it cried.  The can't talk kind of cried. One of those people is my mom.  Since the funeral I haven't cried in front of any of my other family.

I have only had a few "bad" days.  One or two a month where the old weight, the old heaviness, the old apathy show up again.  And I struggle to make coffee.  I struggle to focus.  I struggle to care.  But they are the exception.  They are still very hard and extremely frustrating because I can't control or predict them.  But I can deal with once or twice every month or so if it means the rest of my days feel like most people's days feel.  Not weighted.  Not heavy. Not apathetic.  I can deal with a few days.

I have had a number of people tell me at various points that they are proud of me for how I'm handling "everything."  Some have even said they are impressed at it.  For the most part I have graciously accepted the compliment and inwardly deflected it.  I have said to a few of them:

I don't know any other way to be. 

This is who I am,

this is how I've always been.

But a very dear friend of mine lost her father two years ago this weekend.  She moved away from her home state 7 months prior to that, moved to a 2nd different state weeks prior to that, got married in there, oh, and switched careers.  She changed jobs again afterwards.  

In the last twelve months I lost a job, made a plan to return to school, Dad got sick, I got a job, I nixed the plan for school, and dad died.  Oh, and I dated a dink for a couple weeks.

As someone with a degree in social work, I know that list of major life stressors that can cause all sorts of problems etc.  Marriage, Death and Career are 3 of the biggest things on that list.  Moving is very high as well.  She and I were talking the other day and she said that she was totally not motivated to work on stuff around her house.  But then she told me all the stuff she had already done.  I told her I thought she was doing great. I forget exactly what she said, but I think I answered with 'there will always be bad days,' mostly because she has reminded me of that repeatedly.  At one point I finally said to her:

Considering what each of us has been 

through in the last couple of years,

I'm surprised neither one of us 

is curled up in a fetal position 

on the floor 

in a closet.

A lot of days I am.  I am astounded that I continue to function.  I consider that it has been just over 7 months and I've kept down my job, continued to pay my bills, kept my apartment, maintained my friendships, and don't come home crying every night, or even every week.  Some days it feels like it's already been years.  I feel kind of awful for even saying it, but it almost feels like it's "always" been this way.  And, some days, it's fresh and the wound re-opens and the quiet tears on the way home turn into heaving, not breathing, beyond-the-ugly-cry sobbing once i make it safely inside these 4 walls I call home.

Almost a month ago a friend got married.  It was the first wedding since Dad died.  I cried a few tears watching her dad walk her down the aisle.  I cried a few more when her husband vowed to be with her "through every joy and every loss."  I cried a lot more when she danced with her dad to the Stephen Curtis Chapman song Cinderella.  But, I didn't escape or run away. I didn't cry on the way home.  I didn't weep when I got home.

My Aunt and Uncle came to our house this year for Thanksgiving.  We have never had Thanksgiving at our house.  Ever.  But they had their family Thanksgiving on Sunday so that they could be out here with us this year.  That touched my heart so much.  I decided to try to do something tangible to thank them for coming out.  I found out what kind of pie my uncle likes and made a Double Crust Raisin pie.  I also made a Pecan Pie in case the raisin one didn't turn out.  I took them over tonite because I also made a Pumpkin pie at mom's request and I knew she had made a chocolate cream, and oh my good gawd in heaven there is no way we can possibly eat that much pie if we wait until Thanksgiving to start!

When I pulled into our driveway I saw our family van that we gave them after Dad died sitting in our driveway.  That alone almost did me in.  I almost sat in my car in the driveway and wept.  Almost.

I took all 3 pies into the house and told my aunt and uncle that Suzie Homemaker made a visit and pulled out the raisin pie.  Uncle was very excited.  One tear escape when I told them I made the pie because I wanted to show them how much I appreciate them coming out here this year.  I made it through supper.  I made it through a game of Runs and Sets.  And 3 games of euchre.  But on the way home, Rascall Flatts was on the radio.  That did me in.

I've been crying off and on writing this whole thing.  When I typed "the funeral" the first time up above a few paragraphs I sobbed myself out of breath. twice.  But I came back to this.  I kept on.

I go to work every day.
I walk on my lunch hours.
I pay my bills.
I talk to my friends.
I spend time with my family.

I am not curled up in the fetal position on the floor in the closet.

As I write this, on Thanksgiving Eve, I recognize the God-given strength I carry.  I acknowledge that until this, I didn't know my own strength.  I accept that some consider it impressive for me to be at the place I am, emotionally, mentally, vocationally, relationally, whatever else -ally you can think of.  And, if you have spoken that into my life I thank you.  I thank you for speaking truth where I didn't see it.  I thank you for seeing me in a way and from a perspective that I can't see.

And if you are curled up in the fetal position on the floor in a closet.  The only thing required or requested of you right now?  Just. Keep. Breathing.  Consume some sort of sustenance every once in awhile.  Smell fresh air if you can manage it.  Let the sunlight hit your skin when you can.  And lay all of your weigh and heaviness and apathy and whatever else you struggle with, in God's hands.  Allow him to put his arms around you and hug you and hold you safe and protected.  He will take good care of you.  He will bring you through this.  He has been down this path himself.  He will not leave you.  He will take you down your new "normal" path and show you things you wouldn't have seen otherwise.  I promise you, in the end, You will see how everything has woven together and what purposes it all served.  Until then, just breathe, just let Him hold you.  You will one day realize that you also don't know your own strength.

~day 5~ They didn't have to

Today is my dad's birthday.  He should have been 61.  This is how I remember him, probably how most of us remember him.

I asked a few friends to pray for me today that I would be able to work all day without breaking down.  Mostly because I didn't want to just lay at home and cry.  Also because I didn't want to take any vacation time cause I'm planning a trip away in December. And I made it.  Only by the grace of God.  I had two or three moments where I thought for sure it was over.  But I shook myself and buried my brain in whatever task was in front of me and I made it.  But at 5:02 I posted a picture on facebook wishing Dad a happy birthday and the tears started. 

After dinner with mom and sister and planting the bulbs from the funeral plants I headed home to bury my head in facebook and network television.  Mom called to tell me her sister had called and had a picture to text to me.  She warned me it would make me cry.  When I got it, it did. It was my aunt and 3 of her grandkids and our full-size family van that we gave them with a Happy Birthday balloon.  Mom didn't realize right away, and had to tell me, that they had gone out to the cemetery where Dad is buried.  They took the picture there. 

Hope is knowing that there are people who "get" your grief.  Hope is knowing that they will do the thing you can't do (drive 2 1/2 hours to visit that cemetery).  Hope is knowing people will do the thing they don't have to do just because they love you, just because they understand, just because they don't want you to feel alone.

Happy Birthday Daddy.  We love you.  We miss you.