You have got to keep swimming, despite the fear

 

Fear is something we all experience. Fear of failure, fear of not being enough, fear of just being.  For me, the past few years have been an exercise of this. Fear of not having the ability to go on without my son, fear of moving cross country.  Most recently for me has been the fear of not walking and not having the ability to do the things I love (traveling, walking on the shore of the ocean, even driving). I decided that, despite my fears, I would keep pushing forward. So, I go on without my son (I know he would want me to do so), I moved cross country to be near the ocean (I believe it has been one of the best decisions I have made). 

Most recently, after a severe fracture in my right foot, I spoke with my orthopedist. I told him I wanted to walk again (without a wheelchair, without a cane). Just walk. I took it slowly, first walking with a cane in my house then walking without a cane. But I am doing this now, despite my fear of falling or further injuring my foot.

 So, what is my life lesson? I have found that even if I have these fears, if I can push on for another day, there will always be something and/or someone that is worth tamping down that fear.  I tell myself, you have got to keep swimming, despite the fear.

 

not perfect, not imperfect, but somewhere in-between: My pain, my loss...

not perfect, not imperfect, but somewhere in-between: My pain, my loss...:   Since the death of my son, I’ve felt detached with the exception of a few moments. It is my way of dealing with my grief. It is deeply tro...

My pain, my loss...

 

Since the death of my son, I’ve felt detached with the exception of a few moments. It is my way of dealing with my grief. It is deeply troubling. Almost always unbearably painful. Oftentimes people say, “Well, it’s a nice day. Let’s get on with it.” Is this the way to behave or to let myself drown in the pain, embarrassed that I have let myself go too far?

My son’s death has somehow separated me from the outside world. I’ve become more introverted. I did not, I do not, know how I can describe this loss in words. So often I don’t. I made a promise to myself that I would never forget him. I just made a promise.  I largely live my life secretly, for both of us.

 

                                   

                                         My love for you

I remember, Q. The day I had you. You were such a gift. The one that I cherished, the one I adored.

Many times it was just us. We sometimes fought, we frequently Laughed. I miss that.

Losing you has brought me to my knees. People say that as time goes on the grief will be less.

I am not sure this is true. My heart literally hurts. I don’t tell people this because they often don’t know what to say. Some say nothing.

So here I am alone. I had so many plans for us. Grandchildren. A happy life. I have some anger and some sadness that surrounds So I’m living as a ghost. Sometimes I’m not sure if I’m really here. I want you to know my love for you will never end.

Thoughtfulness and Other Things

I went to UPS today to return some Amazon things. I had an armful as I approached the door. I young girl in front of me just went in without holding the door.  This reminded me of Q. He was taught to hold the door for anyone. He also opened the car door for me and his grandmother. He always said please and thank you. Q placed his napkin on his lap before eating.  When we finished a meal he would get up and help loading the dishwasher. Q always said, “I love you” once a day. People ask me how I am now that I don’t have Q. These are the small things, sweetness and thoughtfulness that I miss most. You raise a child to a young man and suddenly he is gone in the blink of an eye. Despite this you will always have the memories that are imprinted on your mind.

Thankfulness

 I've cried tonight. Not because of sadness but of gratitude of my friends and family who have reached out to me. Of course it's my 60th birthday but is underlayed with the loss of Q (anything always will). I am thankful though, to family and friends reach out to me sometimes despite not knowing what to say. Anyone who has ever experienced this loss never will (and I pray that they never will). Knowing that people you love will reach out in someway to just say they are there for you means the world to me.

 3 weeks until the first leg of my trip (this will be to the UK)! Q used to joke with me when I became almost giddy planning a trip then getting on a plane. I used to tell him that there was nothing equal to that luggage wheeling along then those airplanes taking off. He used to just laugh and shake his head. The thing is, I wanted to expose him to different cultures, different ideas and different people.

This is the first time I will be traveling without Q. I am a little bit shaky and a little bit afraid to do this without him. I know though that he is still laughing and shaking his head.

I worked on organizing the garage today. I came across a black and yellow bin. I use these to signify Q's stuff. Like a typical mother I have loads of these bins. Admittedly I have many bins of Q's time in the military. Dress uniform, fatigues for time in the US and time overseas, boots. I also found these. I was surprised and felt a love for him that was overwhelming. I do believe I am healing though. Instead of a wave of losing him I started to feel gratitude for the 27 years I had him in my life. 
 

 

Am beginning the new year with a gratitude journal. Not a resolution because that is, for me, difficult to adhere to. I am grateful for so many things...my health (mentally, spiritually, physically), my good friends and family who continue to support me and lift me up and life's trajectory of new experiences. Most of all I am so grateful that I was allowed to have Q in my life. I keep this picture for a couple of reasons: it shows the bond we had together as mother and son; it was taken 3 days before his passing. He had grown from a child to a young adult to a fine man.

Heaven and hell are the reality. It is our path to coexist. 

Unexpected tears

Q would have been 29 on January 7^th. I
 
have his ashes and say hello to him every
 
morning. Some may think this is morbid,
 
but it makes me feel connected. Most days
 
are good and are better than the day before.
 
The intense loss is still there and I’m sure it
 
will always be so. I had a contractor today
 
to install plantation shutters in my place. He
 
said he noticed he triangular flag which is
 
given to family after a family member
 
passes. He asked about Q. I didn’t allow
 
myself to cry but when I told him why I had
 
the flag my throat closed to only share the
 
minimal details. I cannot share to much or
 
open this door. If I do I may not be able to
 
stop. Last night I must have cried as when I
 
woke up this morning my pillow was wet. I
 
think I cried as I sometimes do. In the
 
daytime I try to keep busy but when I am
 
alone, I sometimes find myself crying. The
 
pain is intense. It is indescribable. Tears are
 
hard to understand. They roll down my
 
cheeks even when I don’t expect them to. I
 
miss my son more than I can say. A friend
 
said Q was my work of art. I feel he was.
 
The best thing I will ever do.

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.