Defining Moments

 

Everyone has THAT moment that defines their life. Some people have multiple moments. Sometimes these moments are not welcome, not what we want. But they happen anyways.

 

So let me start with the most traumatic, life-defining, devastating event of my life.

 

On January 2, 2018 at 5:42 pm, I received a call from my husband. I was at the barn with our youngest daughter (who was 10 at the time). Our other daughter, 13, was at home.

 

My husband called and told me my friend was on her way to pick me up. I was confused…I had my car, why did she need to pick me up?

 

After several minutes of him desperately begging me to just trust him and come home with her, he finally blurted out the truth “Logan blew his brains out”. And that is how I learned that my son was dead.

 

I will spare you the minute-by-minute details of that night, although they are eternally ingrained in my memory. Like a movie in HD that I can call up at any time…even if I don’t really want to.

 

There were police, EMTs, neighbors, and chaos. My husband was literally wailing in the street. My wonderful neighbors had taken in our dog and oldest daughter. My youngest daughter stayed at the barn under the care of the barn manager until we could have a friend come pick her up.

 

There were police interviews, GSR tests, a hotel room provided by my husband’s employer. There was chaos, tears, very little sleep. One of the things that always sticks in my brain is having to tell my 10 year old daughter that her big brother, her hero, her protector-was never coming back.

 

My life will forever be divided into the “before” and “after”. Always.

Our son’s death came after several years of financial struggle, mental health issues (for him and us), and serious health issues. The road had been hard for so long, but I never expected that this was something that could happen to me, to us.

 

But, it did. And now I know there is no limit to the horror life can provide. There is no “enough”. Just when I thought it could not get worse, the bottom had fallen out completely.

Our Crazy Equestrian Life

 As we are rapidly approaching my daughter’s 4^th show season (she shows Saddlebred horses), I can’t help but think of all that her big brother has missed.

 

See, grieving a child is not about the memories. It is about all of the memories you will never share. All of the events that you will miss out on. All of the life that was left unlived.

 

My daughter competed in her first show on the day before we held Logan’s memorial service. She did extremely well taking 2^nd and 4^th places in her classes. She was not quite 10 years old and was competing in 9-10  WT (9-10 year olds competing in walk and trot).

 

This year we will be starting her 4^th show season. She will be competing in 11-13 WTC (11-13 year olds competing in walk, trot and canter). It will be her 2^nd year in this division and she has looked amazing in lessons.

 

It is so hard to believe that Logan has never been a part of this horse-show world that we are so deeply involved in now. I can imagine he would have been her biggest fan (and probably would have had some choice words when he felt she was judged unfairly).

 

Our barn family is comprised of the people that are our closest circle. We love them fiercely and love us in return. Logan would have been a welcome addition to our “Island of Misfit Toys”.

 

In so many ways, I feel stuck in my life. But, on the other hand, I often feel guilty that we have this whole part of life that Logan was never a part of.

 

We are back from our first “big” show of the season. Our daughter had 3 great rides. She placed in all of her classes and was showing in the 11-17 WTC division. She is only 13 and this is only her second year in WTC and she held her own against some stiff competition. She even placed 4^th in the championship class!

 

We are planning to try a new horse for the next show (which is in 3 short weeks!) so she has a lot of training to do between now and then, but I know she will do amazing!

 

I know big brother is watching over from her and cheering her on…

I Lie

 

I lie.

 

Every single day. I lie.

 

I wake up in the morning and I put on a mask of make-up. I dress in my armor of my professional wardrobe. I fix my helmet of hair. Then I put on my brave, happy, professional face and walk out the door.

 

All day, I lie. To coworkers, employees, supervisors, friends, family. I tell them I am fine. I tell them I am having a great day. I tell them I am happy.

 

I say things like “I’m great, how are you?” and “I’m having a good day” or “I’m doing well”.

 

Because I am afraid of the truth.

 

The truth that it takes almost every ounce of my energy every.single.day. to put on this show.

 

The truth that I am crumbling on the inside.

 

The truth that I am barely surviving, much less thriving.

 

The truth that my family is broken and still raw from the pain of our son’s death, even after 3 years.

 

The truth that every month is a balancing act of paying bills and hoping we have enough to make it through.

 

The truth is that my life was forever changed on January 2, 2018 and I don’t know how to live the one I have now.

 

So I lie.

 

Because people are uncomfortable with grief and struggle and mental health.

 

Because I don’t want to always feel like I am the wet blanket.

Because talking about it makes it real and I am not ready for that.

Mental Illness IS Illness

I called out sick from work with a migraine.

 

I do not have a migraine.

 

What I did have was a terrible panic attack that started at about 6 am and lasted for over 4 hours.

 

But I can’t tell my boss that. I can’t reveal a mental illness and expect that to be a valid excuse for using my PTO.

 

Read that again.

 

I CAN’T USE MY MENTAL ILLNESS TO TAKE A SICK DAY.

 

There is something so wrong about that statement.

 

Things my high-functioning anxiety causes: 

·         When someone doesn’t reply right away, I think I have done something wrong

·         When someone shows concern about me, I become more worried about the same thing

·         I go to bed late and wake up early

·         I obsess over things other people probably don’t even notice

·         I replay conversations in my head…over and over and over

·         I am consumed by every mistake I make and continually beat myself up over it

·         I know I am capable, but I don’t really believe in myself

·         In every situation, the worst case scenario is my primary thought

·         Sometimes I am too mentally and physically exhausted to get out of bed

·         I am good under pressure and work hard, but I still procrastinate

·         Periods of procrastination are followed by long periods of hard work to the point of burn out

·         I want to be social, but when the time comes I feel dread and want to cancel

·         I overthink and overwork due to the fear of failure

·         I always…always feel like I am disappointing someone

·         I struggle to believe people genuinely like me

 

I think the worst part is the guilt. When I can’t make myself get in the car and go to work at one of my facilities, I feel guilty-like I am letting everyone down. I question my value, as a person, wife, mother, employee. I am starting to understand some of the psychological reasons that make it difficult to be on the road, but I am nowhere near knowing how to solve them.

 

Some people would argue that I should just push through. What they do not understand is that is not always possible. Anxiety manifests physically in me. I shake, my heart races, my muscles tense, my chest hurts. I physically cannot safely operate a motor vehicle.

 

We have to do better. We have to normalize mental illness. We have to offer valid and effective treatment options. We have to help patients get the help they need. We have to stop dismissing it. We have to stop equating mental illness with weakness. We have to stop glorifying “pushing through”.

 

The strange thing is that, as someone who suffers with anxiety, you would think I would know how to recognize and deal with it in others, especially my own family. But I am not always very good at that.

 

The worst thing someone having an anxiety attack or even just heightened anxiety can experience (besides the anxiety itself) is lack of understanding from their loved ones.

 

Some things that help me during an anxiety attack:

·         Patience…please be patient with me and please don’t pepper me with questions

·         Understanding…please know that I do not know what (for the most part) is causing my anxiety. Yes, there are triggers, but sometimes anxiety happens for absolutely no logical reason.

·         Quiet…When I am anxious, I become hyper-sensitive to my environment, especially noise (which can be a real challenge with 2 teenagers and 3 dogs).

·         Breathing…Sometimes I just have to remind myself to breath in and breath out. Slowly and repetitively.

·         Comfort items…watching a favorite TV show or movie, reading a favorite book, even changing into more comfortable clothing. (fun fact-people with anxiety tend to watch the same TV shows and movies and read the same books over an over because they already know the ending).

Medication…I am sure this will cause some controversy, but when my anxiety is at it’s worst, my prescription anti-anxiety medication is the only thing that will break the cycle

Thank You

 

I have heard it said that sometimes people come into our lives and stay, and some are there for only a season and then leave.

 

I believe there is value in both.

I have learned that terminating toxic relationships is your right, actually-it’s your responsibility. Sometimes those relationships are people you thought would be there for life and were instead, only there for a season. Here’s the big thing though, sometimes those toxic relationships are family.

 

I will say it again for those in the back-SOMETIMES FAMILY IS TOXIC AND YOU HAVE EVERY RIGHT AND THE RESPONSIBILITY TO TERMINATE THOSE CONNECTIONS.

 

So I have a few people to thank for where I am today:

 

To my parents: thank you for always encouraging me, believing in me and raising me to be a good human (even though I still fall short). Thank you for always loving me, no matter what.

 

To the toxic bitch that I thought was my friend: thank you for teaching me that people can say pretty things to your face and spread hate behind your back. You haven’t made me paranoid, but you did teach me to be very careful as to who I let into my circle. Also-20+ years after you wished my husband a speedy divorce on our wedding day-we are still happily married and have lived through shit you can’t even imagine.

 

To the employer that took a chance on me: thank you for jump-starting a career that has led me to a great job that provides well for my family.

 

To the teachers that believed in me: thank you for taking the time to see past the façade and recognize the insecure, self-conscious girl I really was and for working with her in that space.

 

To the malignant narcissist that almost ruined my family: thank you for masquerading as a godly man and friend. You showed your true colors when the chips were down and now I know the red flags that indicate I may be dealing with someone like you.

 

To all of my bosses over the years: many of you taught me valuable things that have help propel my career forward. Some of you taught me what not to do. Some of you taught me how to treat people well and make them want to work hard for you. Some of you taught me when to recognize that it is time to get out.

 

To the crazy woman that fucked with my girls: we are settled up, but just know-you taught me where to draw the line.

 

To the friends and family that disappeared after Logan died: thank you for teaching me that tragedies reveal who is really with you and who is not.

 

To the friends that lasted: thank you for always sticking by me.

 

To the friends that have embraced us since Logan died: thank you for being part of our small, but very close circle.

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.