Tag Archives: grief

The Smallest Connection

To be human is to grieve, because if we grieve we are in touch with the swelling of emotions that make us so complex, the glue that permanently connects the puzzle pieces and fragments that make us human compared to the clinical diagnosis that seeks to pull us to pieces for fragmented labels of understanding. Grief is the soul, the definition of what it means to be human. You cannot be human without grief.

Oddly enough I can create fantasies in my head that cause me to grieve over and over again (which is why I suppose dramas and chick flicks are so profitable), but joining that to the real world is so much harder.

Once again I am drawn to think of him… And I know deep down in my heart that if I reconnect with that pain and grieve the loss of him – not just who he is but on some level the fantasy I made him out to be, I can draw my defenses down just a little bit more and connect with that realm of pain that promotes love and understanding. I loved him, and I still try to swallow that pain and stuff it down which is why in a rare eternity he can pop out of the blue and I’ll still talk to him rather than reject him.

I still hope to work through the conflicts that caused all this because I acknowledge I still love him to some respect, be it the real him or something imagined I conjured up in my head like the sorceress that I am. The illusioned piece of my head says “if you talk things out you can move on without him”, and the illusioned part of my heart says “if you talk things out it’ll draw you closer together, his problem is a fear of intamacy due to an unacknowledged level of emotional childhood abuse anyway”, and the the disillusioned part of my head says “you don’t need to talk to him to move on, it’s a lie. You’ve tried it before and it never works. Lay off the Oedipus complex for a while”, and the disillusioned piece of my heart says “stop trying to rescue him or salvage the past. You’re not a hero or a savior, so stop it.” So how do I grieve without becoming obsessive then… In grief we do carry people in our hearts that we live because we loved them, and it’s okay to express that… But this? There’s something very comorbid about it because it’s codependent. In truth I made him my savior to some extent, and for that I am sorry; not only is it inappropriate and too much burden to bare at a young age, but it’s obvious to me now that he was only playing out a cycle he lived at home through me, and I inadvertently perpetuated that dysfunction, which is in part the comfort he experienced being around me.

I wish I could rewind time with the knowledge that I have now and take it all back, but that’s not moving forward.

That’s where my confusion in all this lies… I don’t know what’s healthy to grieve and hold on too, versus cast out and let go of. I was too emeshed in him, and he just… I don’t know. I placed too much on him, and for that I am truly sorry. I know I’ve come to the pice of understanding when it comes to him before, but I keep revisiting it. I was blown away last October when he told me that he felt as if I understood him better than most people, as I not only believed it to be both true and false, but also dangerous. The sad thing is I feel as if I see him now clearer than I ever was able too in the past, and I think his information seeking was clarification for information I couldn’t provide at that time…. Again, I’m not his savior and it’s not my job to rescue him… Nor does he need it. Once he’s in the right place at the right time of his journey of understanding… If it every happens… He’ll do the work necessary to heal on his own. I doubt he’d want to acknowledge that anyone would have such faith in him (especially out of my mouth), but it’s true.

Truth

It would be nice if one of these days I could look back on us and rather than chronically saying sorry I could look on everything with loving eyes and say “peace be unto you.” Why the strange sentiment I don’t know, but somehow, just to acknowledge that as I have feels so right.

You’re Not Being Abandoned


To My Younger Self,

The one whose wounded…

The one whose scarred…

The one who’s afraid you’re going to be unloved the whole of your life…

It’s okay. I’m working on us. They aren’t your parents, they aren’t your family, and it’s my job to heal your wounds and let you know that. 

I’m sorry you hurt every time they walk out. I’m sorry it feels like they’re sneaking around you – I promise you they’re not.

Things are getting better, one day at a time, one step at a time. You don’t need to hate yourself for feeling wounded. It’s not your fault you were abandoned and abused. It’s not your fault. It never was and it never will be. 

It’s okay to feel this. You need too. You feel left out because I locked you out, and it hurts every time you see that door… Afraid you’re being locked out, afraid they’re gonna walk out… But you know what? Let them. They have their own lives, and we have our own to work on. We can have fun too. We can talk too. We can be meaningful and do meaningful things. You don’t need their light because it’s only going to mislead you; we need to find our own light and let it shine. 

It’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not a child anymore, and you’re now a grown-up… So to my inner child, the one who feels stung, bruised, slapped, kicked, and abandoned… Please… You’re okay. It’s okay. We’re okay. 

Just grieve…

Be that lighthouse. 

Become one within me. 

Breathe. 

Controlling others won’t heal your loss, but grieving will. 

Breathe…. Just breathe. 

From the Edge of the Cliff

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Yesterday morning I was riding on the bus and ready to cry….

Then I got to the coffee shop ready to cry…

Then I got into work ready to cry…

I just don’t get it. How is it when I make space for myself to cry it doesn’t happen, but right when I don’t need it too and am forced to stuff it down it comes.

The thoughts…. what was I connecting too. I know it was real, and based on the past, not some conjured up vision of something that will never come to pass based on the hypnosis of music and time. It’s much easier to cry by finding the backdoor to connect with the emotion than it is to connect with on my own; I’m sure something profound and damnable can be said for this. Music, anime, reading something sad… all of them help me to connect with the emotion but it’s still outside myself… still…. thoughts… what was I thinking.

Statements such as “what happened to you was not okay” have suddenly taken on a new depth and meaning; no longer do I just silently agree and thank them for their kindness… there’s something to be internalized now. The hardest chapter for me to go through in my recovery work – the precious child in a healthy family, it details what good parenting looks like and suddenly…. images of my childhood resurrect from the grave.

My dad pulling the silent treatment on me when I had a question for him… then I would beg and he’d get angry…. then I’d ask once, wait by his side for a minute or two, and repeat the question again in case he didn’t hear me…. then wait a little longer and say “I love you” to see if he was in fact able to hear me or was ignoring me…. he’d say nothing, and I would leave upset.

My mom…. so many injustices. In a healthy family the parents pay attention to both children to understand their behavioral patterns; she however played favorites based on who the father of the child was, and their sex. I, being the oldest and female, would be shamed for my emotions. I was labeled crazy, unstable, a bitch, and told it’s my fault for being 10, being 12, being 13, and so on.

I remember sitting at the dinner table at my Nana’s house in Orlando – to my left was my brother, to my right and at the head of the table was my dad, and across from me, to my dad’s right was my Nana. I’m *trying to eat her food and I had my elbows on the table… I was uncomfortable sitting there and needed to lean forward, and because of my discomfort I kept forgetting her command and kept putting my elbow on the table. To remedy this situation, Nana stabbed my arm with a fork… and it hurt… a lot. My father who was supposed to protect me and stand up against this injustice instead goes “Well, you should have listened to her – maybe next time you’ll learn.”

Maybe next time I’ll learn…

Maybe next time I’ll know better…

Punishment was swift, brutal, didn’t match the consequences of my actions, and inappropriate for a young child… but eventually I learned…

I learned that every time I was punished, it hurt, and I was a failure. I was a terrible child, and it was all my fault.

I learned every time that love is determined by my ability to obey… there was no repair work, there was no “lets sit down and talk this out” with affection and reinforcing value and self-worth after, only more restrictions.

I’ll never forget the day I got into that fist fight with my step-father when I was 10… his trigger was slammed doors. If you slam it, he will storm in screaming in your face at the top of his lungs, face as red as blood with spit coming out of his mouth… my mother supported it. I punched him so hard they claim I fractured his rib…As awful as it sounds, because it is, I hope I did. They didn’t bother going to the doctors to check it out so who knows if they were telling the truth; manipulation has always been my mothers fondest tactic.

*Note: Syrus is my autistic son, whom I love to death*

Mom: “A friend of mine has 2 boys with autism and works in homeopathic/natropathic medicine; she was telling me about her kids behaviors and how she managed to cure her children of their autism through supplements that they take to remove the excess metals from their brain. Their personality was still the same, but the behaviors were gone.”

Me: *panic coursing through my veins at the rights violations they have committed, threatening my sense of safety and my sons.* “What behaviors exactly are we referring too?”

Mom: “You know, the autistic ones”

Me: “Why would I wan’t to change that?!? Don’t you know how awful this sounds? You’re suggesting I change my son when I love him for who he is, as he is, autism and all, and you still haven’t told me what behaviors you’re referring too. Don’t you know how unethical this sounds?” (I knew she was full of shit at this point and was lying – she has no friends, and she certainly doesn’t have any that match the perfect packages she’s trying to project)

(mom’s boyfriend steps in)

Randy: “Why does it have to be about ethics? This is about medicine, not ethics. We’re not changing him, we’re just trying to make his life better. Do you know how many documentaries I’ve watched of autistic people who were never able to communicate, and then one day they managed to use a computer and finally expressed how much they hated it – don’t you think you’re actually harming your son by not doing this?” (referring to the bullshit videos they asked me to watch on curing autism, which includes, but is not limited too, swallowing ocean water which would kill anyone).

Me: “No, those individuals do not make up the whole of the autism community, especially concerning those who take pride in their autism/aspergers; it’s part of who they are and they take pride in themselves, advocate for one another, and were even outraged when they changed the aspergers diagnosis to autism spectrum disorder because it erased a part of their identity, their community, their culture as a whole – yes, I’ve seen the videos of autistic people able to communicate for the first time through technology, and I work as a DSP advocating for adults with disabilities. They’re an amazing group of people, and so is my son. Please stop shaming me by suggesting I’m harming my child by not “curing” him because I refuse to take up your cause when that’s not my decision to make – thats his to make as an adult, and again, you haven’t told me what behaviors you’re guys are talking about, and it is all about ethics because how you treat people is everything in this world.” (I hope my son never looks at himself as worthless because of his diagnosis, he’s so much more than sensory differences and delayed learning)

At this point my mother precedes to attack my intelligence, and I retort by telling her I’ll talk to her “facebook friend” and asked for her name so I can reach out to her about her experiences “curing” her children (because it either serves to humor my mother or trap her in a corner to prove shes lying – it happened to be the latter of the two).

Mom: “Well, she very hard to get a hold of. I usually just leave a facebook message but it can take upwards of two months until she gets back to me.”

Me: “Thats okay, I’ll do that then. Whats her name so I can leave a message; I mean you told me she found out about Syrus and his autism by going through my facebook and confronting you about it, so if shes so interested in me and my son then you should have no problem with me talking to her. Whats her info”?

She never could give me any information… in the end it was a giant lie. She didn’t have a friend with autistic children who worked in holistic medicine, she was referring to herself digging thorough bull-shit bogus medical videos and crap and wanted to experiment on my son to make herself feel better about being a grandmother. Shes told me more than once she feels uncomfortable being around him because of his disability, and wont take any time to spend with him alone… you know, what grandparents are supposed to do. 😦

No family support. I spent my life raising her kids… Jamie crying his eyes out because he missed her, cognoscenti enough as children to blame my dad and say it was his fault we were taken from her (kidnapped), but not old enough to know she threw us away in exchange for dating her high school bully who eventually beat the shit out of her…

I still haven’t explored much of my relationship with my dad at all in therapy. Trying to keep the codependent/love addict modal in place, knowing full well how the cycle goes, I’m a love addict, my mom is a love avoidant, and the #1 complaint I’d hear about my dad from women is how needy and clingy he is… and he is. He’s a love addict too. At 13 I’m sitting in his car watching him ball his eyes out wailing out loud 2 years later over my uncles suicide… my dad found him. He’s banging on the steering wheel mourning the loss of his brother and I felt so powerless… so hopeless… I’m so sorry for your loss daddy…. I’m sorry you had to be the one to find him…. but I’m so proud of you in your recovery work too. It’s okay to grieve, it’s okay to cry… if only I had the ability and know-how to say that too him, but I was 13… theres no way I could have…

But I digress… none of this is meant to blame, but connect with pain… thoughts that bring me to the cliff where I can cry; the emotional precipice where I can connect with my inner child that I rejected.

I remember lying in my bed for ages when I was in 5th grade… so about 10. I hated everyone and everything, and was when I attempted my only suicide attempt.

I look at my son… he’s 7… I was just a baby… a baby who wanted to die. What could I know of life, other than shame, blame, and no healing to be found.

“Stop feeling sorry for yourself”

I’m not… I’m a child in grieving. I lost my mother as a child, and then I found out she didn’t want me. I was kidnapped as a child by a man who’s supposed to be my father, but I had no real relationship with him… and it was nothing but dominance and control. My sense of self-worth and value based on my ability to follow commands.

I’m terrified I do this to my son, but it’s so hard to raise an autistic child… the parental handbook goes out the door.I’m thankful I’m not the mother my mom is, but I’m terrified I’m an awful mother… it’s so hard to find the balance. I dont want my son to hate me the way I hate my mother… nor do I want him to chronically live with the feeling that he’ll never be good enough as I do with my dad.

This. These are the tears I needed. They’re not heavy… the dams not broken… but the seed has been planed.

I guess it’s time to start working out of that breaking free workbook…. I need a more guided measure to connect with this pain and find the injustice. It’s one thing to be told what happened to me as a child was not okay and then rationalize it with the strengths I developed as a result of pain…. it’s another thing to feel it for myself… the very thing I stuffed away as a child. The very reason I grew up hating everyone… this is it… no one was there to comfort me or mourn my loss, to feel my pain or contextualize it and put it in it’s proper place to allow for healthy grieving. I carried blackness in my soul to protect me; if I didn’t feel the pain then I can mechanically get through my life until I turn 18 and leave this shit hole. Everyday was a countdown to when I could move out. Every. Damn. Day.

I wish I could apologize to the people I pushed away with my problems… I was a child looking for healing putting too much on others because there were no adults to help lead me through this…. especially him. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to apologize to profusely to him for the baggage I dumped on him…

No one taught me healthy boundaries…. but then again, looking at everything that’s unfolded in his world… there’s a journey of healing that awaits him, and I wish him the best of luck. If only I understood what was really going on…

Dear Jason,

ごめんなさい…

ごめんなさい…

ごめんなさい…

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Once I realize what was not okay in my upbringing, I’ll be able to establish whats not okay in how I’m treated as an adult…. this is the root of self-respect.

 

Numb for Words

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I am so tired… Drained. Exhausted. Beside myself in weariness and weakness. The journey inward is exhausting. Self-care is exhausting. Emotions are exhausting. Everything is just… So… I can’t put it into words. This is one of those moments I wish I was more familiar with languages beyond my own, since the English language is both confusing and left in wanting for depth in its meaning.

I’m hungry for meaning.. I’m drained by meaning.

Somehow I still don’t grieve… It’s like a tidal wave that threatens to break but never does, leaving surfers everywhere bummed out and disappointed.

Disappointed… This word resonates with me somehow… Is that why I’m so tired inside? Am I disappointed in myself; disappointed that I’ve suddenly stalled on the emotional front of healing but immersed in literature that keeps me moving forward? It’s possible, but it’s not everything I’m connecting with.

Feeling sad somehow would be better in this moment for at least the source would be more discernalble without all this stagnancy…. Am I being impatient with myself, and my psyche won’t allow me to break anymore than I’ve conquered? Ugh… I’m tired… So tired…

There’s so much I should be happy about too; got home from a doctors visit where I stepped on a scale for the first time in 6 months and found out I lost 25 pounds without trying, I hung out with Alex today and discovered the most gorgeous wooded area in Newmarket with trails and dams and richness from all angles. I got money in the bank account and am able to afford ubers for the next few days. My laptop was finally fixed and I can pick it up tomorrow… There’s so much to rejoice… It can’t be the new SSRI’s I’m taking, which I have to say, I’m pretty impressed with. After 6 months of use the neuro receptors for seretonin should have created more openings to allow for emotional regulatity, so I won’t be on them forever (which is always my fear). I have no problem with other people taking anti-anxiety meds or anti-depressants and respect everyone who does, but the moment I take them I fear I’m crazy and condemned…. And Ben…

Ben.

His damn tone of voice when it comes to me taking medications bothers the fuck out of me sounding arrogant and conceited; it was becaus of our fight I was brought so low to this point and now… I have next to nothing in terms of trust for him. There’s so much anger and hurt and feelings of deception around him… But I don’t want to think on that now; between stressed and being tired, I’ll take tired any day.

i miss me. I don’t know why I feel compelled to say this but I do… I miss me but yet I’m right here… Why does something feel so wrong?

What have I done…

Beauty Towards the Bottom of the Well

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After my coffee shop venture this morning I swing by wild mind meditation shop to see if they had anything available I could use to connect with my grief… Found out about this amazing meditation app that you can use and see who’s meditating anywhere in the world – beautiful. Still, I didn’t get what I was after…

i knew I wanted to grieve, but I know I didn’t want to be home… For whatever reason it just didn’t feel safe enough; most likely anxiety triggers in the home, or too many things to distract myself with, I don’t know. I was so ready for tears this morning but then I tried my best and couldn’t do it. I went to a cemetery in town where the river runs right up against it.. It was stunning, and the concept of mirroring came into play for just a while.

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I sat by the water and cracked open the book I immediately felt drawn too from the library called “Healing Through the Shadow of Loss.” It was perfect because it was a general sense of the ways we grieve and the the wisdom contained therein, versus the “someone has just died” grieving; I so needed this. I needed to read this book. It’s small enough that I finished it in one day, but sooooo many pieces of my life I was able to connect with towards my journey of growth and healing.

We grieve only that which we have loved, and the transient nature of life makes love and loss intimate companions.

This.. This made me connect to myself in a way I hadn’t done in years… The logic follows that if I need to grieve on behalf of so much pain and loss I’ve endured, then I must have loved myself at some point in time… Which means I’m worth the struggle. That’s a huge breakthrough for me.. It brings me closer to the edge of tears, but not enough to throw myself from the edge of the precipice towards the ocean below… But at least I’m more prepared.

When we have other losses in our life that we haven’t addressed, our grieving process can be contaminated; become an observer of your experiences without judgement – this is known as witnessing your state of concsiousness

I always referred to it as being a 3rd party observer, but it’s something I’ve been in touch with lately. This clarifies so much in terms of how I’m supposed to grieve with boundaries for myself to protect myself from falling too far down the rabbit hole.

When we are overwhelmed, it is difficult to think clearly or hear what is being said to us. We are lost and at the mercy of our environment. Healing asks us to be present, concsious, and aware. By paying attention to the little losses inherent in each day, we come to be more in tune with our responses to life’s bigger losses. As Gloria Vanderbilt said – each loss somehow echoes that first loss, the one we know so well. Something falls into place, so familiar it’s almost a relief.

When I read this I came to understand my panic attacks that surround change; when change arises I’m unable initially to handle it because I don’t know how to handle grief… I’ve been severed from it. Looking back I remember people telling me “just get over it” and “stop feeling sorry for yourself.” I wasn’t feeling sorry for myself, I was a child in mourning who didn’t know how to handle the complexity of emotions I was facing – thrust from the innocence of childhood into the world of adulthood with no guide to show me how, and only the rouse of religion to create a false anchor of stability within me. It was another moment where a piece of the puzzle in my life fell into place – something I’d never connected with before. I’m proud of my insight.

Healing is spiritual, curing is medical. Healing is an active process; we must participate in our own healing process. Healing is a gift we give ourselves in the moment we decide to stay open to that which has broken us. “To heal” comes from the words “to be whole”, a etymological root derived from the belief that when we become sick, we loose our wholeness; healing includes integrating the brokenness back into ourselves to be whole.

Gried has become something so beautiful to me… We are born with grief from birth the moment we leave the safety of our mothers womb, a place what was nothing but safe and secure, and we were thrust out of it. Children it seems cry when they are born because the first thing they come to experience is loss… No wonder the first thing we do is hold them and nurture them. We are promoting healing as the first step towards our journey in life…

This too makes me sad. My mother would tell me how she felt robbed with me when I was born because she wasn’t properly medicated and felt the blade of the c-section as I was born, and fainted from the pain, losing the first few hours I was born.

Speaking of my mother, I sat with the concept of “ghosting” – when you block off all communication with someone and walk away… It’s amazing how I never feel grief in those situations… Except for when I was the victim of it; don’t get me wrong, my dad was known to pull the silent treatment when I was a child (which I now know is a wall that’s used as a defense mechanism and not a healthy coping skill), but the silent treatment and ghosting aren’t exactly the same… No, there’s only 1 man that ever left me so devastated with that move, and I learned it from him. We use it as a way of separating ourselves from an emotion we find painful and threatening – remove the person and you cut off the danger from the emotions that are trying to surface. I never grieve when I cut someone out and it feels like I should… That’s basically my moms family right there. :-/ I don’t know how to even approach it because my fear is that I’ll want to run back to them but I can’t… I just can’t do that anymore. I can’t change them, and I’m not strong enough to deal with their dysfunction, nor do I want my son exposed to it; hell, she’s such a bitch she wants to change my son by “curing his Autisim” through bullshit homeopathic remedies like swallowing ocean water (which will kill you) and tons of pills to “remove the toxic metals from his brain that the vaccinations caused.” She is by no means a safe person to be near my son, and I’m glad she can’t call herself “grandma” – on her end it shows she’s not identified herself as a grandmother, and on my end it means there’s no real connection to feel guilty over severing. What kind of grandmother seeks to change her grandson to feel better about herself? More importantly, in what ways did my mother change me to do the same… Shit. I never even thought to ask myself that question till just now. This makes me sad… But sadness is good. This means I’m taking another step forward in the right direction.

I was drawn to think of grief in the context of culture, and as pro-Christian-male-dominate-white-America, we have no culture of grieving. We don’t honor the dead by welcoming the pain as part of our lives and working through it – we cast it aside and tell people after 2 weeks to go back to work and get over it. Being the creative type that I am, I want to make an urn.. A grieving urn, and every time I grieve I write about it, and keep it in the urn until I’m able to burn the pages through my own ritual that I create… And I want the urn to have holes in the side that represent how we can’t keep it all perfectly jarred up; tears, like water, needs to flow from a vessel. If grief is the container, then that container holds loss and all its experiences. If only we weren’t conditioned to shame grief as a bad thing…

The sufi poet Rumi said: Be the thirst searching for water. What would it take to be loss searching for grief

I left the cemetery after connecting with the tombs that bare my last name, and noticed how they had become lost and forgotten to time… No one leaves them offerings every year. I fear that’ll be me someday… A tombstone that says Simpson with no one to care about me enough to pay their respects.

I went home and tried again to cry… Read some more, put on the moving art series from Netflix, and tried to connect within myself… Whenever I tell myself “it’s okay. I need to grieve. I want to grieve.” I get so close to the edge of tears but don’t make the leap… I need to though. In the end I trust the process I’m on, and know I’m doing what’s best for me. I’m getting there. I’m growing. I’m learning to love… I have faith it’s going to be okay.

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Murder

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I’m out and about with my dad at nighttime in this highly crowded place – most likely Florida and during Mardi-gras. People have drinks in hand and as they walk down the street, and a few were a little too obnoxious. We make our way to the car whens some heavy African american dude tries to get into a rumble with my dad. My dad tries to get him to back off, but then they exchange words and a gun is produced from the fat guy who picked a fight. Before he can fire in his inebriated state, the gun falls to the pavement and my dad scrambles for the gun. I try to stop them from a fight but getting the gun out of my dad’s hand so no one would get hurt, and I dont know how it happened, but as I was trying to take the gun from my dad the gun fired and it shot and killed him on the spot. I wept bitterly over my father. I really dont know how it happened, but I blamed myself – even though I didn’t pull the trigger. He was pronounced dead on the scene.

I wasn’t arrested right away, but a detective did take me to some school. He was also heavy set, white, dark hair, brown eyes. “Remember this?” he asked. “No” I replied, what is this place – and why are we here? It was a classroom with a single classroom desk in the middle of the room and no chairs. It was in some massive business building on about the 17th-23rd floor. It had the traditional 90’s school floors – white cut out tiles that were made of some kinda linoleum or plastic. No matter how much you mopped it, there was always dirt. Anyway, the detective starts to ask me questions about the room and if I remember it. I said I have no memory of the room itself, but I have a bad feeling about this place that I can’t put my finger on. Then he told me this is where I murdered a little boy when I was a child. I was dumb-struck and couldn’t believe it. Then we went through the details of how it happened. It was also an accident, but they let me off because I was a child, and I genuinely had no clue what I was doing – I was too small. As he tells me the details my mind starts to unfold as I envision what he said and was made to believe it. “Where did he lay?” I asked the detective. He pointed to the floor. I broke down over that spot and wept bitterly. First I killed my dad, and now I’m forced to remember killing this little boy who was no more than 4 or 5 when I was his age. The gun back then belonged to the teacher and he irresponsibly left it out, so he was charged instead.

Never the less, people start going into the room when another gentleman shows up; he was a light-skinned African american, about 35, handsome – dressed in a wal-mart blue button-up shirt and jeans. Both of us were under the impression he needed to speak to the detective, but he was there to speak to me. I step aside for them to talk and he approaches me for a chat. He asked me about the details as to what happened with my dad, and I explain them. I bitterly wept again having to try to relive the trauma. When all was said and done I told him I knew what happened was an accident, but legally I’m held guilty and plan to plead “guilty – no contest.” Someone had to pay for what happened and I felt too grief ridden to try to blame the owner of the gun or seek a lawyer.

I leave outside and am transported back to the scene of my fathers murder; it’s night time again. I look for dads car to take me home. I get inside and find the keys. Out of nowhere, dad shows up in the front passenger seat from beyond the grave. He tells me he forgives me and that Nana and pop are gonna take it really hard, and there’s a will with money I need to look for for Jamie and myself. I drive back to his apartment in Sarasota and walk inside to look for Jamie first and see if he knew what had happened. As I step into his room his head hangs low and he refuses to look at me. The blinds are shut behind him, but the light from the morning sun invades the darkness, creating a blanket of shadow that envelops my brother. I try to tell him it was an accident and that I’m eternally sorry for what has happened, but he looked so lost. I weep as hard as I can on the floor again. Dad steps in and tries to say something, but only I can hear him. I translate what he said back to jamie, but he’s still too angry and upset to listen.

I wake up with tears in my eyes and a runny nose.

Prayers for the Lost: Connecticut Shooting

I have been closely following the tragedy unfolding in Connecticut. Today. I must have cried at least 3 times putting myself in their shoes – especially as a parent.

Words cannot express the level of grief I feel for these children, and the loved ones who wont see their kids ever again. Gone are the opportunities to watch as their kids learn to drive, fall in love, head on to college, or create a family of their own. Friends of the children who were murdered now face the coldest and harshest wake-up call into the real world, breaking the innocence of their youth.

What I wouldn’t give to be down their with everyone else to help them in their suffering – but there is a way to help.

I know at least 1 SDA church who will be holding a prayer service at 6pm this evening in honor of those who’s lives were cut short. While I may not be able to join them physically – I can at least meet them in spirit as I pray for those who have fallen as well. My hope is that you will do the same.

Support for these families is critical at this time, and many will move on:

http://www.cnn.com/2012/12/14/health/school-shooting-trauma/index.html?hpt=hp_t1

For the parents however – if I were in them, I wouldn’t want to smile anymore. Its a brief moment of joy spent without the one I love. I hope they don’t feel the same way.

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Pissed? Leaky Faucet? Yuck!

I had a dream that my son “pottied” a little bit on the floor. I grabbed the dry diaper he’d just taken off to put it back on… but then he started peeing again before the diaper was on, so all I could do is cover his front with the diaper.  He just kept peeing and it got everywhere because the diaper wasn’t doing it’s job… it was gross and freaking me out. I didn’t want it all over my hand (or the carpet) so I scream out “JAMIE” looking for my brother to help. That’s when I wake up, having to remind myself he’s moved out and can’t help me anymore. 😦

I don’ think the significance in the dream was that my son spilled his bladder everywhere (yuck), but rather a reminder of whom I’ve lost and the part he played my our world.

I miss him.