Embracing Transparency

I talk a lot about transparency.

It's not just talk.

I believe in transparency--as a blogger, as a moms' group leader, as a friend, as a mom, as a wife, as a Christian, as a human.

I know I've said that many times before, but it was challenged again today--my belief was challenged again today--Oh yes it was.  Yes, it was. Yes, it was.

It's a real belief.

Is it really?  Are you sure?  Just how sure are you?

A lot of what I do is transparent.

Just call me a window.  A dirty and smudged window covered in fingerprints that has been repeatedly licked by the dog--but a window nonetheless.

It often looks like a cry for attention, I'm sure, but really, it's called being transparent.  This is why I share my parenting fails, my homeschooling fails, my wifing fails, my friending fails--allll my fails--along with a few of my triumphs.  It's why I share what it's like to grieve my sister and my friend at the same time, while dealing with family dysfunction (dancing backward, in heels, uphill, in the mud...).  It's why I share musings and life with autism, depression and a duck.  It's why I share about infertility, my incredible husband, chronic illness, and boy-motherhood.

I've been accused of being an over-sharer.

Eh.

I do this to help others--so we know we aren't alone, so we can look at a post, or a photo or a sentence and think, or say, "Oh, I'm not the only one who feels/thinks/says this."

You're not in this alone.  Everyone deserves someone in their corner.

Most importantly--Perhaps most importantly?--you're not in this alone, and there's no judgment coming from me.

I will hug you, cheer you on, encourage you, hand you a tissue, offer a simple "I love you, friend."

Whatever it is you need, you've got it.

I'm Not Sure People Understand Grief as Well as They Claim To

A few weeks ago a friend said someone (who knows what I'm going through) commented to her that I "seem sad."  My first thought was, "No shit--how else am I supposed to seem right now?"  My answer though, "Oh, I'm doing fine!"

I've kind of rolled that comment around in my brain ever since, just kind of marveling at the sheer stupidity of it.  I seem sad.  Hmmm.

Yes, I'm sad.  I'm grieving.  I'm mourning.  And I'm not grieving a distant cousin, I'm grieving my sister and my best friend.  I'm also living with a lot of regrets.  I'm LIVING.  I'm still alive; my sister and my best friend are not.  These are not women who lived to 'ripe old ages'; they died decades before what most consider lives well lived.  I have regrets associated with these losses.  I'm the one who has to live with these regrets.  They won't go away overnight. Nor will my grief.  I am living with a physical pain from this grief I would never wish on my worst enemy.  Grief is not a cold.  Grief is not a paper cut, or a broken bone. There is a mental fog that literally prevents me from thinking clear thoughts and putting sentences together.  Some days, just shuffling--and it's shuffling, it's not picking one foot up and putting it down so the other one can then do the same--one foot in front of the other is more of a chore than I ever imagined.  Grief is not merely emotional.  It moves in, camps out, and takes over your life.  And yes, I'm angry and a little bitter--with myself.  I feel like I'm banging my head against the wall trying to explain all of this to people, but here I am, yet again--another day, another blog.

Grief is one step forward, a few steps backward.  Another step or two forward, another few steps back.  And on, until eventually you've moved to a point at which you're able to make peace.  Death is not something you get over, or move on from or ever gain closure from.  The loss is always there.  You have good days and bad days, even decades later.  And that, dear friends, is the hard, honest truth. 

I feel as though many Christians have this--misconception?--about grief; I should be rejoicing, dancing in the streets, I don't know--and it feels as though I'm expected to just get over these deaths.  Your loved ones are now in heaven!  Yay!  God will comfort you!  It's okay to not be okay--but don't be not okay for too long, okay?  You seem sad and we can't figure out why!  Hurry up and get back to normal!  We don't know what to do with this side of you!  This is why people hide what they are going through; months and years later, their friends say, "I didn't know..." and "If only I had known..."  People just don't want to deal with the ugly side of life.  You're a drag, man.  Get over it!  Stop being sad!  I haven't quite mastered it myself yet, but at some point, you get good at faking it.  Life is great!  Life is good!  I'm fine, everything's fine!  You do this to please those who are uncomfortable with your situation.  You find yourself comforting those who are supposed to be comforting you.

Many people have suggestions for you--have you tried therapy?  What about Vitamin D?  Are you on anti-depressants ("Ummmm.... Maybe you should increase the dose...")?  What about therapy?  Are you taking care of yourself?  What about a manicure or a massage or shopping?  Maybe you've taken on too much and you should put your kids back in public school--you seem overwhelmed.  What about therapy?  Have you talked to your doctor?  Ohhhhhh, have you heard about this vitamin infused water that worked for my great uncle's fish's cat's aunt when she lost her husband.... Oh, and have you tried therapy????  You should really try therapy!!!!

I'm so tired of people telling me they're sorry.  Everyone is sorry.  That's great.  You want to know something?  I'm sorry, too.   

I'm going to throat punch the next person to suggest therapy and/or tell me how sorry s/he is.

The other thing about grief is this: it's cumulative.  You may have 'dealt' with past grief, you may have come to a place in which you were at peace, but damn, let me tell you--with a new death, it will come right up and bite you on the ass all over again.  For example: I had a really difficult day last week.  I managed to keep it sort of together (by my current standards), but that night, after the kids went to bed, I opened our pantry and it smelled like my Nan's kitchen.  The scent of coffee was overwhelming, and I just stood there in my pantry like an idiot, just crying, and inhaling the coffee scent over and over, missing my grandmother because I could really use her comfort and words of wisdom right now.  That is cumulative grief.

I went to church last week for the first time since before my sister died, and realized it was still too soon.  Just getting through the doors was a monumental feat.  While some friends understood my body language and kept their respectful distance, I still felt inundated and overwhelmed and could not answer "how are you"; I waved friends off when they asked, I escaped, and choked back the tears, unsuccessfully.  In all honesty, I felt like it set me back a bit in my 'recovery' process.  I did not go this week.  Unless there is a way for me to deflect attention from myself, I'm really not up for it.

I saw a social media post the other day about a woman who had to have her 19 year old cat put down.  Nineteen years old.  For nineteen years, they'd been together, through thick and thin.  When she needed comfort, she turned to her cat.  And on this day, perhaps when she needed comfort the most, her best friend wasn't there.  And I guess that's another point to this post, and the misconceptions about grief--when you need comfort the most, on that day when the person you've always turned to isn't there, what are we supposed to do then?  When we think of that funny joke, or we've had that bad day, or the good day we want to celebrate--that person isn't going to be there on the other end of the phone.  Like my Nan.  Or Shawn's mom.  We need their comfort, their words of wisdom, whatever it is they can offer during these times especially--or we needed to apologize--but it's just a dial tone.

There's still so much about grief I don't understand and I continue to learn as I go.  I suppose I will continue to try to teach as I learn as well, because, well, someone has to--right (hey, let's normalize grief!)?  Admittedly, your grief journey may not look the same as mine, and you may read this, wondering what on earth I'm talking about.  I welcome an open discussion.  If your journey has been easier than my own, good for you.  If I have offended you in the past with my response to your loss, please know I am sincerely, horribly apologetic (yep, I just said "I'm sorry,"--feel free to throat punch me), and my reactions in the future will be vastly different.  I'm horrified with the things I've said to people suffering from grief, the things that now seem so trite, so rote, so--wrong.  And while I meant them to be heartfelt--they were still so wrong to those I said them to.  Friend, I love you, and I have no proper words.

Barely a Whisper

About a month before my friend died at Christmas, I made a post to social media, "Nothing Can Take My Hallelujah," with my comment in all caps, "DECLARE IT."

Oh my friends, up until the recent past, my hallelujah has been so loud, so declarative, I've felt it so deep. My hallelujah was SO. SURE.  I was positive nothing could shake it. I felt it deep in my bones.  I dared the enemy to give it his best shot. I taunted him. I prayed bold, dangerous prayers.  I've sung with my heart open wide, even in the trials with Avery's health and my own and Ezra's heart, even when tears have streamed down my face, I have declared it well with my soul--God is in control, I know on Whom I could rely.  My arms held high in adoration, or across my chest in a hug, I sang to my Sovereign Savior.

And now--now, I can't raise my arms. I can't even stand for worship. I sit in my seat in the fetal position with my arms wrapped around my legs.  I am shaken to my very core.  I silently beg to be made invisible; I want to be there, I know I need to be there, but I cannot handle being there, I don't want to be seen or have to interact.  I can't raise my voice.  I can barely whisper a prayer, the words to songs, even by rote.  I can't choke them out, for the tears that block their way.  I want desperately to feel something, to feel anything, but it's just not there.  I don't even feel anger, I don't feel bitterness, I'm not sure what I feel.  I feel a sadness sometimes so intense it's physically painful and it doubles me over.  Sometimes there are tears, other times, there's just nothing, I'm left feeling empty.  Sometimes I suddenly feel too much and I desperately yearn for nothingness again.

There is no in-between.

I am tossed overboard, clinging to the driftwood that is my Abba.  Clinging to those He gives me during this time as I'm crashed about by the rapids.  Reminding myself that a wobbly walk is better than no walk at all, as my tired, worn out body is bruised and battered by the sharp, slippery, moss-covered rocks and boulders along the shoreline.

My body is bruised and worn out, my mind is numb and all at once racing, my soul feels crushed and spat upon.

My hallelujah may be barely a whisper forming only inside my head, but I know--God is still in control.  He is still the One on whom I can rely, and still my Sovereign Savior.

Excuse me? Hello? *taps mic* Is This Thing On?

Um, is this where I air my family's dirty laundry?  

Because I'm getting damn tired of trying to be the good person, the good Christian, the one who forgives and keeps on going, the one who walks away, the one who sets the proper example for her children.

For years I've done the better part of keeping my mouth shut, of not sullying the names of my parents, no matter what was said about me or to me.  I've never publicly spoken against them, I've never said anything they wouldn't have a chance or reason to defend themselves against.  I've carefully worded my blog posts so as to not drag their names through any indefensible mud.

Forgiving and moving on.  And again.  And again.

Then our mother turned my sister's viewing into her own personal circus.  Wait, I'm sorry--her daughter's viewing, not my sister's, not our cousins' cousin's, not her grandchildren's mother's, not my sister's husband's--to be clear, HER DAUGHTER ONLY.  She was the only one with the right to grieve.  It didn't matter we were all hurting, my mother's 'hurt' took precedent, and she lashed out in true Janet fashion.  And that look she gets on her face when we all know we're in for it, when she's about to go on a tear, and she did not fail to disappoint.  She demanded things from my sister's husband at the viewing that had not been rightfully hers for several decades.  Even if I tried to explain everything to you, you would think I was busy writing a screenplay.  Excuses will be made for my mother's behavior, as always happens; she's a grieving mother, she didn't know what she was doing, she wasn't in control of herself, blah blah blah... Yep.  It's always someone else's fault in Janet's world.  It's her world, we just get to live here.  

Our father didn't even bother showing up.  Didn't even send his condolences or regards. Typical, head in the sand, emotional neglect, in true Paul fashion.

I don't know what I expected.  Well, yes--I do--I expected exactly that from both of them.  Why should they change now? 

But--some still small part of me had some still small stupid hope.

I'm tired of it.  I'm sick of it.  I'm done with the cheerers-on of happy family reunions, the ones who have heard I'm the problem, the ones who genuinely believe they mean well, the ones who have only ever heard one side--one very toxic, sick side--and relentlessly beg me to kiss and make up.  I'm done.  I can't do it anymore. I won't do it anymore.  Unlike with my sister, there is no regret with my parents.  I do not look back, only forward.

I am not the problem.  

I was certainly part of the problem at one point, but I chose to leave it behind me.  I had to.  I couldn't keep getting sucked into it, leaning to every whim of my mother's like a small child, even though I was a grown woman with a family of my own.  It was toxic, it was unhealthy for myself and my family, especially my children.  It was powerfully destructive.  

Working through it, I was shocked to learn what my sister and I dealt with went back for years into our childhoods.  I thought we had lived this great Wonder Bread, white picket fence childhood, until a therapist put a label on it--maternal emotional abuse and paternal emotional neglect.  

I worked through a lot of it, and I even forgave my parents.  I needed to, for myself, and for my family--and again, to lead by example for my children.  I needed to forgive so I could come out on the brighter side, not the bitter side.  Contrary to what many people believe, I do not need to have a relationship with them once I'm forgiven them.  I do not need to continue to expose myself and my children to their behavior.  Part of forgiveness means that I can wish them well, that I can pray them, and hope to see them in heaven.

I lost my sister.  Everyone lost someone the day she died.  Just because we had our differences and did not have a relationship--I don't think we were capable of having a normal, typical sister relationship because of the damage done by our parents; some part of me was able to move on from it, and some part of my sister was held back--does not mean I don't love her.  It does mean I do not intensely feel the incredible pain of her absence.  

I am the one who has to live with the regret of not picking up the phone.  I am the one who has to live with all of the regret leftover from a damaged relationship. There are moments and events and things I won't get back.  I am the one who has to miss my sister for the rest of my life.  I am the one who has to stand up, and not only forgive my parents all over again, but I also need to answer the call to serve as a lesson to those of you who have been thinking about sending that text, or making that phone call, or extending that invitation in a damaged yet reparable relationship.  Do it--and do not wait.  

And if unforgiveness lives in your heart?  Please work on that as well.  I won't preach to you.  I know it's hard work.  But please know you're never in this alone.  

Please--if any good can come from this, along with what I am hoping are newfound relationships with my sister's children--please, allow me to be your example for the best.

Please Don't Ask Me How I'm Doing...

... Because I don't know how I'm doing.

Because I can't handle answering that question right now.

Because I know the many answers swimming around in my head, but I also know that few of you are prepared to hear them.

Last week, two months to the day after my sweet friend Angie died, my sister died.

Yep.

Those words--my sister died.  Just like that.  My sister died last week.  She's gone.  My sister is dead.

I can't say those words without a deep sob of anguish welling up from places so deep within myself I'm doubled over.

WHY?  It's not fair.

No, there's nothing you can do.  I don't know what to ask for.  Please don't hug me.  I don't think I can do meaningful hugs right now.  There is a pile of condolence cards on my kitchen table.  I can't bring myself to read them quite yet.  No, I don't really want to talk about it.  I don't think I can handle it, and I don't know how to talk about it.  I'm not capable of having this conversation right now.  No, I don't want you to pray over me, but what you do in the privacy of your own space is your business.  Really, I cannot handle any of this right now.  So please, if I say I don't want prayer, or I tell you I'm fine, please just take me at my word.  I've been sending Shawn to work.  I'm telling myself I lost her years ago and I'm at peace with this, that I've already grieved and mourned her loss long ago when our relationship ended.  But I don't know if that's really true.  It's a bald-faced lie and I know it.  I'm pissed off.  I lost any chance at ever having a relationship with my sister.  And I'm still grieving Angie.  This is a brand-new wound on top of an already still-fresh one.  The viewing is tonight; I'm going, but I don't think I can go in and see my sister--like that.  We're burying her tomorrow.  I can't even comprehend it.

But I'm fine.  I'm okay.  No, really.  

So please just don't ask me how I'm doing. 

When Grief Overwhelms

When I was picking up prescriptions the other day (without my boys, thank goodness), a women approached the pharmacist and tech, telling them she knew she hadn't seen them in a while, but just wanted to say a quick hello.

Both the pharmacist and tech turned white as bleached sheets, and looked as though they'd seen a ghost.  The pharmacist stammered for a moment, whispering, "Oh my goodness, we thought you'd died....."

The woman broke into a huge smile and began her story.  

Four years ago, this woman's doctors had given her less than 6 months to live.  They stopped all treatments, put her in hospice care, and the cancer continued to spread throughout her body.  Before the six months were up, the cancer miraculously stopped, and she, "... danced (her) way out of hospice care without a trace of cancer in (her) body and not a single cancer drug beating it!"

I could tell she has not squandered a moment of these past four years.  I could tell she knows to whom she owes this miracle to.  I could just feel the immense joy and gratitude rolling off her.  She is healed by the grace of God, and it is a beautiful, incredible, amazing thing.

My lips were trembling. My hands were shaking. I was sweating. My stomach was queasy. The tears were pushing their way out of my eyes.  I was silently willing my sweet pharmacy tech to please just hurry up and finish ringing me through so I could get out of there and get to my car before I completely broke down.  

Noticing my distress, she asked if I was okay.  "Oh! Mmm hmmm," I shook my head vigorously up and down, trying to look as upbeat as possible, responding with what I hoped looked like eagerness, as much as my body and emotions would possibly allow.

Once the tech handed the prescriptions to me, I nearly ran from the store to my car, where I broke down in sobs.  

I rejoiced for this woman and her family--oddly enough, many of my tears were from gratitude and absolute joy for her healing and this second chance she'd been given.  Oh my gosh, can you even imagine?  Just the sheer beauty of it!  How amazing, oh Abba, we praise You!  I could not contain myself and I just overflowed from the emotions I was feeling related to her healing.  

And on the other hand... 

I cannot contain my sadness.  At times, it feels unending. I am just so incredibly sad. And it just hurts.

But I wasn't angry with God as I cried.  I wasn't trying to rationalize anything, or argue with God or wonder why this woman got to live while my friend died.  

I was just--once again--overwhelmed with what feels like selfish sadness.

I just want my friend back.  

It's something I continue to struggle with.  Sadness.  Selfishness.  

Do I want Angie back?  Yes, I would give anything to hug her again, to hear her tell me she's not going anywhere, to just hang on to her as tight as I possibly can and not let go.   

But would I actually take her away from what she's experiencing right now?  Absolutely not.  That is the most selfish thing I could ever possibly do to a friend.      

I wrestle with my emotions so much.  I wrestle with what I know to be true.  I wrestle with the promises given to me by Abba.

I'm tired.  I'm worn.  I'm weary.

And I am just. so. sad. 

The Home Which Built Me

My parents divorced when Noah was a little older than Ezra.

At the time, it was the shock heard 'round our family.  

In retrospect, it should not have been.  All the signs were there.  They had been for years, but I was so self-involved with my own crap, I couldn't see any of them (didn't want to see any of them?).

It was around that time, perhaps a year or so later, Miranda Lambert's song The House that Built Me, came out.  Man, that song rocked me to my core.  It was everything I felt, and more, about the divorce and about losing the family home I'd grown up in.  It also then became about losing my grandmother's home I'd spent summers in, when my mother sold it as well, and losing the vast majority of whom I considered to be my family for my lifetime up until that point (including my parents and sister).  My family imploded, and relationships have been long lost.  

To this day, I still have to change the station when that song comes on.  It cuts so deep, I just cannot listen to it all the way through. The few times I have, I've always completely lost it.

Have you ever had a song (poem, book, anything) with that much power over you?

Tonight, as the kids played and the house was just alive with all of us, I hit play on YouTube for a soundtrack to our usual ridiculousness, and this particular song happened to rotate through.

I started to panic--today has been an awful, horrible weepy day for me.  I did not need this.  My family did not need this.  I did not want anymore emotion today.  I started to reach for my phone.  Turn this off.  NOW.  Make it stop.  PLEASE.  The littles were having fun.  Avery's face had been plastered with a huge grin, nothing but giggles escaping him all afternoon as he'd played with a visiting friend.  Shawn and Noah were messing around in the kitchen.  Ezra was getting in anywhere and everywhere he could.  I didn't want to ruin these precious moments for my family.  Selfishly, I didn't want to ruin these moments for myself.

Then it hit me.  I looked up, and I looked around, studying each person for just a moment, intently. 

The song still played, the words mere background noise to me.

This--right here, THIS is the home that built me.  These people--my beloved menfolk--and God, my friends, our church--it doesn't have anything to do with a building at all!  THIS is the home that rebuilt me. And the rooms in this 'home'?  Filled beyond belief with riches, more than I could ever imagine. THIS is where I found myself.  THIS is where I figured out who Amy is.  THIS is where and how I figured out the path God needs me to be on.  THIS is my home.  THIS is where I belong.

My loves, it has to do with the people! The people who love you more than anything and would do more than anything for you, and you would do more than anything for them, and The One who already has done more than anything for you--THIS is the home which has built you!  If you feel He hasn't, will you give Him the chance?  Will you give Him the opportunity?  Will you open your heart and your mind and your soul to the possibilities?  Please?  People will falter and will let us down--but God, oh my loves--God, and His son--they never will.  Look inside this home which has been so carefully and lovingly crafted just for you, and see the depths of love, and the deep burden which is carried only for you!  Will you please trust me on this one thing?

So tonight, for the first time since that song was released, I listened to the entire song without breaking down into body-breaking sobs.  Rather, I sat back and watched my family.  I smiled.  I laughed.  I gave praise.  And, I loved a lot harder.  

And that song took on an entirely new meaning for me.

And this, this right here?  THIS is the home which built me.

"By wisdom a house is built, and through understanding it is established; through knowledge its rooms are filled with rare and beautiful treasures."

Proverbs 23:3-4