Rabbit Hole

 I went down a rabbit hole while googling "happiness" on the internet. 

What I finally realized is that I had this thing called "happiness" all along.

Portugal...A tribute to my son, moving a few steps forward

It has been almost 6 months since I lost my son, Quentin, "Q". After completing college, it was his decision to join Army Infantry. It wasn't my choice for him, but I knew my role as his mother was to support him. We had traveled extensively throughout his short life and fell in love with Portugal. I have decided to return there for two months in the fall...partly to pay homage to my boy and partly to try to move a few steps forward. A mother's love never ends.

 

I Haven't Been Everywhere..

Sea or Woods

 

We may meet by the sea or in the deep woods made up of twigs and long shadows.

We may talk about everything. We may talk about nothing. 

We may meet by the sea or in the deep woods.

 

Seasons

Sometimes life provides us with seasons of darkness, loss and sadness. But if you are patient, the circle turns, and then there is happiness. Sometimes people just forget that happiness is part of living too.

Perfect Imperfections

 

.

Q had a special spirit. Not perfect (none of us are) but his perfect imperfections made him (to me) perfect.

An Hour or a Few Minutes

It may seem strange, but what may happen in an hour 

or even a few minutes can change one’s life forever.

Reposting of "That's the Deal"

  I sometimes think that I should write and describe my experience after my breakdown in the third person. It seems easier, somehow, to see myself at a distance; to act as an observer outside of myself. I think it makes it safer for others to see what may be a deeply buried part of themselves. This is how I/she experiences her life now, as if on a tightrope, even though it's been 10 years since her breakdown.  Since she came undone. So, this is how it would go... 

"She continues to feel fragile, though. She continues to guard a sensitive, fluid center. Sometimes, loud noises make her heart race--someone speaking her name without warning, or the telephone ringing late at night. Then she will take herself in hand. She will remind herself to draw back, to loosen hold. She has learned how to make it through life on a slant. "You've changed," her friend has said (all intensity himself).

I think that's the thing about what we call a breakdown. You are always acutely aware and remember this crack, this fissure that has occurred. It's like that hole in your gum after you lose a tooth.  You know you shouldn't keep touching it, but somehow you must, just to remind yourself it was once there. You are aware that the propensity for this fissure to widen is still there. At times, you feel that fissure stretching out and there's that need to hold on tight. You feel you must fight and be strong enough to keep that fissure from expanding to the point where it may break. 

There is a nascent fear that is under that façade of normalcy. The psychiatrist refers to you as his "success story." He even questions whether your diagnosis is correct. He says that maybe you don't have a mental illness; that the diagnosis of bipolar disorder was somehow a mistake. Yet you know the truth.  You remember that time when your mind was not your own. Because of this experience, this time of unraveling, you take your medication daily even though it sometimes blurs life's edges. It's the price you pay for never returning to this dark place. It's just the price you must pay. You felt the pain then so you can feel the happiness now. That's the deal. 

Masterpieces

 

We are all masterpieces in various forms of restoration.

Love

" Love is a compilation of events: the past and present welding together."

That Reprieve

Here is the thing about grief: You are going through your day, working, taking the dog for a walk, deciding on whether to eat salad or a burger for lunch.  Then a song, a memory or a smell hits you. It is not a cataclysmic thing whereby you fall to your knees in pain. It is rather this thing inside that you know might consume you should you let it. So, there are sporadic tears, very silently and quietly present as you go about your day. You feel you must hide these tears, that enough time has passed for the perfunctory time of grief. You ride out the wave and wake for the reprieve. It will come in it’s own time, that reprieve.

Folly Beach

 

The sunrise appeared instantly. Akin to when you are in that twilight sleep then suddenly, for whatever reason, arise, abruptly and fully awake. The horizon over the ocean was the darkest of night, it seemed, enhanced only by the crescent moon shining just over the horizon.  Suddenly, magically, the sky  lightens up, orange, fuchsia, yellow all at once. That sunshine rose, heralding the new day. A sense of hope, I suppose, that all things will be good. After all, orange, fuchsia and yellow could not foretell anything else.

.
So, the day arrives and continues to pass either slowly or quickly depending on the tone of the day ahead.

Sunset is like sleep. It happens slowly, then all at once. Like sleep, you wait for the silence, the calmness to come. Deep purple, sky yellow and fuchsia expand over the horizon, deepening with each passing minute. The sunset pulls you in, ushering the end of the day.  Another day closes, beautifully, so beautifully.

 One Bad Day

We all have had those days where we are weary. That day when things have gone wrong and seemingly will not get better. That one bad day.  The thing is, things will get better. It is imperative that one pushes  through to get to the other side. After all, it is just one bad day out of 364 more good days.  It is just one bad day…

Write drunk/edit sober...

 

Ernest Hemingway is quoted as saying, ““Write drunk; edit sober”. I must say that I am aligned to this school of thought. Having one, two, three drinks enables one to be more of oneself. Happiness, sadness, thoughts to forget and thoughts to remember. We ultimately write about what we know and what we have experienced. Is it to purge oneself of these things which have grown inside of us or to prepare oneself of what might become.

I write in the wee hours of “I am sorry,” or “Are you sorry?” time of night. It is when I lie there, unable to sleep despite the third glass of wine. I realize that the only thing which may enable me to sleep is to write. I write to remember.  I write to forget.

Remains

 

My realtor told me that I shouldn’t have any personal belongings visible while showing the house. She said it was too personal and that it didn’t reflect well with buyers who needed, to envision themselves here. I hesitated when packing my personal belongings up.  In particular were the ashes of my son, Quentin, “Q” which were sitting in a coffin like box on my teal credenza in my living room. There was an American flag beside him which was offered to me during his military ceremony.

I didn’t intend to place my son’s remains there on this teal credenza in a shrine-like manner (I told myself it was not healthy to build a shrine to my fallen son). Conflicted, I wrapped his ashes in a soft blanket, gently placing them in a box, clean and not closed in the back of my closet. I knew that I would never forget they were there.  

Admittedly, it seemed banal on some level, as if I were somehow disrespecting my son and my memories of him.  Every night I would remove them. The next day I would gently touch this box where his physical body lay in state. I touched this box once in the morning when I arose and once in the evening before I slept. I touched this box, gently. I touched the box in a tentative manner, willing my son to know how much he is missed; how much he is loved. I do not know how my son would feel about this.  He was practical, pragmatic as am I.

My son has not been buried yet as I have not taken the trip to the Lexington Cemetery in Iowa to do so.  There is some solace and comfort in having him with me in the physical sense. It frightens me to think that he (or his remains) may not be near me when they are buried. How will I be able to touch this box with my son tucked inside if I cannot do so every morning and every night? 

 

Dear Q.

 

                          

Sorry...

People use different euphemisms to address the death of a loved one… “gone, passed on, left, is no longer with us”.

The fact is that my son, Q, 5 weeks before his 28^th birthday, killed himself. True to his nature, he decided to do this at a scenic overlook off of Transmountain overlooking the city. The police referred to it as a “self-inflicted suicide.” He was the second of three soldiers in his unit to do so within a one week period. (more on that later). 

I think the thing is, for me, I am feeling extreme loss but also, frankly, anger. Q said that he and I were always a team.  We were, or I thought we were, in every sense. Through the years, our relationship morphed into me caring for him to we cared for one another as dear friends do.

So, my teammate, Q, decided in the early morning hours of November 17^th to leave our team. No letter explaining why. No hint of depression.  The morning he left the usual way, “Call me if you need me. Love you.” He even asked me to order him pizza and spaghetti carbonara for him to have when he got back in the wee hours from Dona Ana (a camp where Afghan refugees reside and where, for some unknown reason, there are Infantry from Fort Bliss are assigned). Before he left that morning we talk about Thanksgiving and Christmas.

Around 3:45 am, right before he took his life he texted “I love you” to me and his Uncle Jeff. He texted his best friend to tell me he loved me, and he was sorry. I think this is bunk, rubbish. “I am sorry” is what we use when one forgets to take out the trash or forgets to unload the dishwasher.

So, Q. is now gone to wherever one feels the departed go. The stark reality is that Q is sitting on a walnut box on my credenza. Fortunately, my family has asked if he (and I someday) would like to be buried in the Lexington Cemetery in Bedford, Iowa.  This is where generations of the Kernens (my maternal ancestors reside). It is beautiful there. Peaceful, green, Iowa.

I truly believe that suicide is one of the most selfish things one can do.  As a psychologist, I understand that depression can take many forms and that suicide is a manifestation of this. On a personal level, however, this doesn’t ease the pain. Q. left us to work things out after he checked out. We will live our lives but will always feel this loss and grief every day. There will be this empty space there, period. I believe our sadness, however concealed, will be there for a very long time.

 

 

Quiet, emotional

 

"If you are born to fly, I won’t step on your wings". I think about that every night. My loss of my son is, frankly, inconceivable. I am stoic during the day. I am sure people wonder why I am this push through person. The thing is, I am quiet, emotional. At night I let myself grieve. I do not let the fissure go so deep in fear that I may not come back. This is who I am now.  I am quiet, emotional.

After Life

I am watching the second season of a Netflix show, After Life, with Ricky Gervais. It’s a comedy but also has some very poignant moments. This one scene really resonated with me. He was sitting on a bench in the cemetery where his wife is buried. He has befriended an older woman who also visits her dead spouse daily. She says to him, “Live your life as if there is no tomorrow. Then you wake up and do it again. It doesn’t matter what you do as long as you live your life to the fullest and enjoy every second of it. And if you don’t think it is worth a try, why should I? I used to sit on this bench everyday by myself hoping that someone would come along who would understand. And it was you. You were in the same boat as me. You had lost someone. I just want you to find something that makes you want to get up in the morning. I’m still going. I know that I can’t replace Stan, but I’m not going to throw in the towel and the only thing that worries me right now is you not being happy. It’s all about hope. You’re allowed to miss Lisa and grieve and be angry, but I can’t bear the thought of you having no hope. It’s the saddest thing in the world to me, giving in. Please. Tell me you have hope.”