From Riches to Rags, and the Glory I Found There

  You know, despite my tattoos...and piercings...and partially shaved head...I never considered that my look was very "alternative". At least not until someone said it was. I just thought that I was expressing myself in ways I might not have before. *I* like how I look...and I guess, if I'm being honest, what other people might think just doesn’t really factor into anything I do. But certainly not in the sense that I expect everyone to love everything about it all. My poor mom dislikes tattoos, my brother makes fun of my hair, and lots of people have said "oh...it's not quite my thing".  I never expected people to like these things about me the way I like them about me. I am not particularly bothered if it’s not your thing. It doesn't offend me. I'm not asking you to get a tattoo...or a piercing...or to shave your head. *I* did it because *I* wanted to...you just didn't factor into it. That being said...I've never been judged so...interesting...

I wasn't prepared for the death of my son...but I was far less prepared for the death of my husband. And, to be honest, I fell apart.  I was lost and lonely and so very broken. I couldn't hold myself  together and I allowed every broken part of myself to fall away. I gave myself permission to be broken, to be lost, to sit in the ashes, and to just grieve the greatest loss of my life.  But I only allowed myself a certain amount of time. I didn't want to wallow. I didn't want drown in my grief. I didn't want to be that broken for longer than absolutely necessary.  I fell apart...and then I told myself that I couldn't be apart any longer.  So I made very intentional efforts to heal and to process and to grieve productively. Is that even a real thing? I don't know, but convinced myself that it was, and I proceeded as such.  I'm not gonna say that those things didn't help. Because they did...so very much. I'm a firm believer that we develop the cultur...

  I remember waking up in the middle of the night and noticing that John wasn’t in bed with me. I went looking for him and found him in the kitchen. I went to hug him but he brushed me off and stepped away. I asked him to come to bed with me but he shook his head and said he didn’t want to be with me anymore. When I asked why, he spent several minutes explaining all the ways that I had failed at showing him love. I was selfish, and self-centered. I was dramatic and overbearing. I didn’t give space for him to be who he wanted. He did not love me anymore because I did not love him enough.  I stared at him and begged him to give me another chance, just one more chance. I had never realized how horrible of a wife I’d been, but I could change. But he refused to give me another chance. He said he’d found someone else, someone who loved him well, and he had decided to love her instead.  And then I woke up.  Nightmares have been plaguing me lately. At first they were somewha...

  Today I stood alone in my empty home and I allowed the silence to surround me. I stood in the empty halls of the house that I forced to become a home after my home died and I let the silence speak to me. All the while begging it to be gentle... Please don't ask more of me than I can give. Please do not remind me to be strong.  Please do not force me to be brave. Sometimes I feel like I am one breath away from giving up. One breath away from being asked to take on too much. One breath away from failing at everything that this life has demanded of me. I was never afraid of being alone before John died. I knew that, no matter what happened in our world, we would always have each other. Unfortunately, that sacred unity was destroyed on a small, two lane back road in Virginia...and the security I believed I had in life was destroyed along with it.  Guys, I'm not really all that brave. I'm terrified. I'm terrified so much the time.  I'm scared that I'm just going to...