Everything Stays the Same

It has been over 2 months since I last posted.

In 3 days it will be one year since Daddy died.  Wednesday it will be 52 weeks, Friday it will be 365 days.

I still can't make myself say "passed away"
That's too gentle and easy.  It's not heartbroken enough.  As someone who prides herself on choosing the right word to evoke the desired emotion or feeling, passed away just doesn't do it.

A friend of my mom's reminds her
You'll never get over it,
but you will get used to it.


I kind of don't want to. It has been a year and I still rail at God for what He took away.  I still shout at him that It's not supposed to be like this. It wasn't supposed to be like this.

And I look around at my life.  And nothing has changed.  Except for a broken heart.

I am still in the same cozy 2 bedroom apartment.
I still have the same solidly running American-made car.
I still have the same job (basically) that I've had for 3+ years.
I still have no savings to my name.
I still have over half my credit card available limit used up.
I still have 3+ started novels that haven't gotten finished. And I haven't edited the first one I did finish.
I still haven't gone back to school.
I still haven't launched my freelance business.
I still haven't learned piano, in spite of specifically asking for a keyboard for my birthday last year so I could learn.
I am still single and just hope and pray that someday, someone will see a beauty and value in me that makes him want to stick around for more than a few dates.
I am still well into the "overweight" BMI range.
I still haven't memorized any more Bible verses.
I still have utterly sporadic and completely inconsistent "quiet time."
I still haven't started any of the groups I said I wanted to start.
I still wish I had said that one thing to Dad that I put off until it was literally too late to say.  I said The Important Stuff.  But there was this one thing. And I don't honestly think it would have made any difference to anything, but I still wish I had told him.

I am getting used to the broken heart.  I am still in shock.  I can go days and sometimes weeks before it really hits home that he is gone.  And the weirdest stuff sets me off.  Random lyrics that have nothing to do with loss.  Watching an episode of Bones where Booth finds out his dad has died.  My dresser being broken ... the dresser that Daddy put together for me.   And of course the obvious stuff.  Anniversaries and holidays.  Red Trucks.  Old school country songs.  Going to the cemetery.  Not being able to go to the cemetery because it is in Iowa.

And everything stays the same.  The whole of my life is almost identical to what it was a year ago.  I have the same questions for Dad and the same insecurities.  I have the same habits and pitfalls.  I still cry much too easily and don't talk directly to people about things I want to say or want to know.

Since I know most of you are my friends and know me personally, I know some of you are shaking your heads and saying that I've changed a lot or I've come a long way or whatever.  But that list has not changed. And that list are the things that Daddy would notice.  He probably wouldn't notice if I had gotten over an insecurity or two, he would notice if I could afford to buy myself a couch.  He wouldn't notice if I had memorized more Bible verses, he would notice if I was keeping my car clean.  Yeah, maybe he would notice, but he wouldn't have said anything.  He was truly, literally a man of very few words.  And I had so hoped that losing him would change something in me and make me more like him.  But so far .....  not so much.

So far ....  Everything stays the same.

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.

Reduced to a single word

Help.

These last couple of weeks I've noticed that most of the time when I try to pray, my mind gets all jumbled. My thoughts get mixed up. Connections don't connect the right dots. I've struggled with depression off and on for most of my life (only realized in hindsight), but one of the things I know about the bad bouts is that feeling that you are truly, literally losing your mind. Like you are somehow aware that your mental capacity is not functioning like it is supposed to be. I'm not talking wondering if you shut the oven off or not. I'm talking about something so much deeper and bigger that I don't even have an example.

So these last weeks, probably months really, I've prayed a lot of

helphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelphelp helphelphelphelp prayers.

It makes me think of Romans 8:26 "In the same way the Spirit also helps our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words" Because sometimes I can't even really articulate any words at all.

I find it ironic because I can sit here and articulate the problem to all of you, but I can't even ask God to do anything more than Help me right now.

I was thinking about this the other night as I laid in bed, waiting for sleep to show up. I think the difference is that He truly sees right through me. With most of you I can fake it. I can be ok when I need to be, I can shed a tear or two, I can be honest and tell you I'm doing fine. I can be strong and get through the day or situation or conversation and save The Ugly Cry for later. But when it comes to Him, there is no hiding the shattered heart I'm carrying. There is no 'being strong.' There is no such thing as 'small talk' with God. You don't say "How about the Brewer's?" when you approach the throne room of heaven. There is nothing else to say or see or acknowledge but your deepest heart and Who He Is.

In all honesty, I don't want to talk to Him about the weather. I want to talk to him about how much it hurts right now. About how I don't understand, and I don't want to hear the oversimplified bumper sticker answers people toss around. (I actually haven't had a single person give me a bumper sticker answer, but I hear them in my head). I want to hear that He Still Loves Me. That He Still Has A Plan for Me. That He is Still In Control.

That this was not a cosmic accident.

A cosmic accident he'll apologize for when I get to heaven.

The LORD gave and the LORD has taken away.

Blessed be the name of the LORD."

Job 1:21

I hope that this sad time is the worst I'll have in my life. Even after I typed that some part of me thought "You know that isn't even possible for this to be the worst ever."

It sounds incredibly presumptous even to myself, but I have a slight twinge of Job-ness right now. That I can continue to write in spite of the hole. That I can continue to pray in spite of the lack. That I can continue to praise, without the blessings.

There are so many bits and pieces and starts and stops and nonsense and gibberish in my head. I continue to be reduced to that one word. Or sometimes, that one sob. And when I can see the light, I am so very grateful that he doesn't require eloquence to respond. That he does see right through to the core of me and loves it in all it's brokenness and ridiculousness and selfish-pettiness. That he understands the spiritual translation of that sob. And responds to it. That he feels and understands my hurt. That he is doing what he can to comfort me and lessen that pain, while still being the God that He is who is In Control and Knows What's Best for me. I am trying to rest on that.

^{Psalm 27:13}

I would have despaired unless I had believed

that I would see the goodness of the LORD

In the land of the living.

¹⁴ Wait for the LORD;

Be strong and let your heart take courage;

Yes, wait for the LORD.