Ephiphany

 

I had an epiphany last night.

 

When Logan died, I was working remotely as an independent contractor for a revenue cycle management company.

 

Just over a year ago, right before the pandemic hit, I started a new job that required some travel.

 

At first, I loved the travel. I loved being out of the house, wearing something other than “yoga” pants (which, by the way, have NEVER been used for yoga…), meeting and interacting with new people. This is somewhat surprising as I am a complete introvert.

 

Enter COVID-19.

 

Because I work in healthcare and have multiple chronic illnesses that cause me to be immunocompromised, my doctor wrote me out of traveling while my state was under a mandatory “stay-at-home” order. This lasted from mid-March 2020 to the end of May 2020.

 

During this time, I fell back into my WAHM habits and busted out the yoga pants and day pajamas again.

 

When the “stay-at-home” order was lifted, I was able to travel again. But this time it was different.

 

I have struggled for the past 7 months to maintain the amount of travel required for my job. I would much rather be at home. I get physically and mentally ill at the thought of leaving, especially if I need to stay overnight.

 

I couldn’t figure it out…why? I had no problem before the pandemic. Why was it so hard now? I am 42 years old, why can’t I just get in my car and go?

 

Last night, it hit me.

 

If I leave my house, someone in my family may be dead when I get back.

 

Wait, what?!

 

On 1/2/18, I left my house. I left 2 of my children (ages 13 and 15) home alone while I took my youngest to a riding lesson. My husband was already on his way home so there would only be about 20-30 minutes when the kids were REALLY alone.

 

During that 20-30 minutes, my 15 year old son shot himself in the head in our bathroom.

 

Somewhere in my brain, there is a voice that tells me that if I leave my house, someone could die.

 

Shit.

 

How do I deal with this?

The Rock

 

You know how most relationships have that one person that is the rock. They handle shit. They figure it out. They make it happen. No matter what.

I was married to that person. My husband was my hero. He was the foundation of our family. And he still is, but it is different now (reference the “before” and “after”).

 

When our son died, I saw a side of my husband I did not even know existed (and we had been married for 17 years at the time). I saw him broken. I saw him crippled by grief. My rock had crumbled.

 

I have to stop here and say, there is nothing wrong with how my husband handled our son’s death. He is the one that found him, with a hole in his head, in our bathroom. His reaction was natural and entirely acceptable.

 

However, we had 2 other children. There were police to talk to. I had to inform friends and family. There was a memorial to plan. I had to decide what to do with my son’s body. Read that again. I hope you never have to do these things.

 

In that moment, the roles flipped. I became the rock. I pushed my feelings aside and answered the questions, made the calls, made the horrific decisions a parent should never have to make. My way of grieving was to go into action and take care of shit. It was my time to step up and handle it.

 

I tell you this, not because I want any praise. In fact, I HATE being called brave. Bravery is doing something despite your absolute fear of it. What I did was necessary, not brave. I am not brave, and he is not weak. We are a team. And when a teammate is down, you pick them up and do what is necessary to keep going. That is all I did, what was necessary to keep going.

 

Since our son’s death, my husband has continued to be my hero. He has fought hard and long to come back to his family. Every single day he fights to be with us, physically and mentally. He is a warrior and I am his shieldmaiden-protecting him as best I can while he fights his battles. It is evidence of his absolute love and dedication to his family, because giving up would be so.much.easier.

Self-Actualization

So, something you should know about me from the start...I am yet to figure out where I fit in this world. I have spent my entire life searching for my space, my place in this world. But I think the trick (at least for me) is that I don’t fit. I don’t fit in a box. I am not a “type”. I don’t have a lane…except for the one I created for myself.

 

Please don’t mistake this understanding as any level of wisdom or enlightenment. I still long to be a part of some group. I still want to “fit in”. And I believe there will always be a part of me (that 8^th grade girl that didn’t have a clique, maybe?) that wants to be part of the “in” crowd (did I just date myself?).

 

However, I have come to the realization that many of the dreams and hopes I was raised on are not necessarily meant for me and that is not necessarily a bad thing.

 

I believed that by now…42 years old, I would be married (check), have my family (check), be living in my “forever home” (not check), have a successful career (semi-check), and be financially stable-or at least not be panicking about the bank account on a weekly basis (also, not check).

 

Instead, I am a grieving mother, the wife of a man (whom I love deeply) who deals with multiple mental health issues, mother to 2 beautiful and broken teen-aged girls, a suicide survivor (in the sense that I have survived the suicide of my son), a baby-loss mama, I don’t own a home-I don’t even really like the home we live in. I pay several bills late-every.single.month. I spend more money on things that most people would not understand (mostly horses, but that is another chapter).

 

And that’s okay. At least that’s what I tell myself on the good days.

 

I was raised to believe that there is a formula and straight-line definition for success in life. Do well in school. Get a higher-education degree. Get a good job. Get married. Have children. Invest. Retire.

 

Well…that is clearly not the path my life has taken. And I am learning to be okay with that.

 

First and foremost-let’s address the elephant in the room. My 15 year old son committed suicide by shooting himself in the head in my bathroom.

 

Let me explain something about trauma. Once the absofuckinglutely unthinkable, impossible, unrealistic, shit-that-happens-to-other-people happens to you ALL BETS ARE OFF. Along with grief, you live in a state of constant hyper-vigilance because you know…I mean YOU KNOW, literally anything can happen. The absolute WORST CASE SCENARIO has become a reality and now you (and your loved ones) are safe from absolutely nothing.

 

It is exhausting. 

 

Okay, some other things you should know about me….

 

·         I was raised Southern Baptist.

·         My husband has a bachelor’s degree from a Christian university.

·         I swear like a sailor…except in front of my parents.

·         We do not attend church; we no longer have a church home.

·         I am still searching for what role God plays in my life right now…I am not even sure what that means.

·         My parenting style could best be described as “but did you die?”

·         I am doing my best, along with my husband, to parent 2 teen-aged girls who have experienced more loss and trauma than most people experience in a lifetime.

·         I give them grace…a lot of it. Maybe more than I should.

·         I have several chronic illnesses that sometimes make it hard for me to do the things I want to do.

·         On top of that, I suffer from anxiety and depression.

·         I am fiercely protective of my family. When you have experienced the type of loss I have, you will do whatever is necessary to protect what you still have. Translation: don’t fuck with my kids or my husband. I will cut you.

·         I have multiple tattoos and intend to get more…a lot more.

·         I spend a lot of time at the barn…A LOT OF TIME. But I do it because I want to give my girls every opportunity to pursue and achieve their dreams.

·         Our method of homeschooling is more unschooling right now…and I am okay with that.

 

So now you know me…or at least some basic foundational facts about me. One last thing…I have no filter. None. At all. So if you are going to keep reading, buckle up, bitches!

Deep Dive Background

I actually had a life before I was married with children…I know-stunning.

My childhood was both VERY traditional and rather non-traditional.

 

When I was 18 months old, I was adopted by my biological mother’s sister. Let me pause right here to say that my “adoptive” mom is my real mom. She raised me, she loved me, she set a wonderful example of what a wife and mother should be. There is no question of who my real mom is…not ever.

 

Don’t get me wrong, I will forever be thankful for the choice that my biological mother made to give me up for adoption. I didn’t truly understand that sacrifice until I had children of my own.

My adoption was rather non-traditional. I knew my biological mother and also eventually my biological father and his parents. My relationship with them was…complicated.

 

I grew up in a safe, happy and stable home. My parents provided well for me-and not just financially. They set a wonderful example of what a good marriage looked like. They taught me so many life skills (some of them I even actually use in my life now). But, mostly, they made sure I knew I was deeply loved and wanted.

I could talk about wonderful memories of trips to Disney World, ski trips, vacations in the Caribbean, sailing trips and amazing holiday parties every year. And those are truly special memories. But what I have carried into my adult life is the example that they have set for me and the fact that they put so much effort into making sure I knew I was chosen by them to be part of their family.

Being an only child had it’s benefits…and it’s downfalls. I was raised mostly around other adults and, therefore, tended to connect better with older kids-most of my friends were 2-5 years older than me.

 

I also developed a refined palate at a young age. My mom did not cook a separate meal for me, I ate what the adults ate. There was no ordering from the kid’s menu at restaurants and I was not allowed to refuse to try a food I had never eaten, I had to try it-at least once. But now, I love all kinds of food and look forward to trying new things. I am willing to take chances, not just culinary chances, but chances in life.

Things I learned from my parents:

·         Life is tough, but I am tougher

·         In marriage, your spouse ALWAYS comes first. Even before your children. Fight me.

·         Anything worth having is worth working for

·         It’s important to plan ahead. But don’t consider your plans written in stone, you have to be flexible because you never know what life will throw at you

·         Integrity is everything. You are nothing without it.

·         Always honor your word.

·         Think before you speak. You can’t un-ring the bell and you can’t un-say the words.

·         Sticks and stones may break my bones…but words can also cause pain.

·         Words can be healing or dangerous…make sure you use them for the former.

·         Love is expressed in many different ways, life is not a Hallmark movie.

·         In the end, love is everything.  

Finally....aren't my parents pretty amazing??

 

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A Little About Me

It's been a while since I have posted on here, so in case you don't know my story...here are some of the basics.

I grew up in the same house in Virginia for 20 years. I met my husband in high school. We married when I was 22. We had our first child when I was 24. I wanted 3 children before I turned 30. We had our youngest child 6 months before my 30^th birthday.

We owned a home in Virginia. I had a good job. My husband owned successful business. We had 3 vehicles that we had detailed weekly. We had a housekeeper come every week. We remodeled our home. We hosted parties. We went to church.

 

And in 2009, we picked up and moved 300 miles away to North Carolina for my job.

We sold our house in Virginia and rented one in NC. My husband sold his business. We had no family near us and virtually no friends. We struggled and sacrificed those first few years in NC.

 

But if we had stayed in Virginia. Living our perfect life. The life everyone said we were supposed to live. We would be divorced by now.

 

In 2012, we built our dream home in a small, rural area of North Carolina. It was going to be our forever home. We both had good jobs again. Our children were in private school. We had the “American dream”.

 

In 2014 my husband lost his job. Later that year, I quit my toxic (despite the excellent pay) job with no back up plan. We started homeschooling. We lost our home. We moved 3 times in 2 years.

 

I found work as an independent contractor in 2015. My husband found another good job. We found a new home in 2017. We found a new circle of friends. Things were moving in the right direction again…right?

 

Nope. I was sick, very sick. Money was always tight, regardless of how hard we tried to budget and save. Our son was sick. Sicker than we ever understood. Less than 1 year after moving into our new home, he was gone. A bomb had gone off in our lives and nothing would ever be the same.

That was 3 years ago. 1/2/18.

 

But I have learned, slowly, to stop chasing that dream. That’s what I was really doing, trying to keep chasing the dream. The house, the family, the dogs (oh yeah, did I mention there are dogs...we are up to 3 now, but that’s another story….), the illusion of financial stability, the important career path, even our circle of friends.

 

My goal now is not to chase…money, people, jobs, approval, any of it. My goal is to slow down. Let life happen and play the had I have been dealt to the best of my ability. This is not a permanent place for me, but it what I need to do right now. I need the dust to settle so I can plan my next move hopefully applying some things I have learned from this roller-coaster life.