Anniversary of Loss

A year; it's been an entire year since Jerrod left this earth. Some days it feels like a lot longer and other moments it feels like just yesterday. It's been a shit year and a beautiful one. It's still really hard to sit with the reality of his absence and losing him in such a tragic, traumatic way. There's still plenty to process through and to let God heal. I don't have a ton of thoughts to share publicly and mostly created this post to share the above liturgy that was shared with me. Also, including a few quotes from one of the most accurate grief books I've read.

"You are alone in your grief. You alone carry the knowledge of how your grief lives in you. You alone know all the details, the subtlety and nuance of what's happened and what's been lost. You alone know how deeply your life has been changed. You alone have to face this, inside your own heart. No one can do this with you." (We are alone and we are not alone, such a weird experience.)

"Finding your middle way inside grief is about finding friendship with your own heart, making a home inside your own heart. It's in learning to bear witness to your own pain, in treating yourself like someone you love. It's about claiming your right to be in pain, without cleaning it up or making it pretty for someone else's comfort. It's about finding those who can share this path with you, who are not afraid to see your heart in all its pain and all its grace...The middle ground is always a work in progress. It's one that neither asks you to deny your pain, nor be forever engulfed by it. It's one that simply lets you find a home inside the reality of love, with all its beautiful and horrible parts."- It's Ok That You're Not Ok

"It's your life. The one you must make in the obliterated place that's now your world, where everything you used to be is simultaneously erased and omnipresent... The obliterated place is equal parts destruction and creation. The obliterated place is pitch black and bright light. It is water and parched earth. It is mud and it is manna. The real work of grief is making a home there." - Tiny Beautiful Things

Lauren Daigle reminds me so much of those early days of grief. I've connected a lot with her music today.

Thank you to anyone who has followed along this past year. The journey isn't over, but I'm not sure how much more I'll continue to share via this blog. Thank you for kind words, thoughts and prayers for me and my family. It is all truly appreciated. <3

Grief and Covid

https://brenebrown.com/podcast/david-kessler-and-brene-on-grief-and-finding-meaning/

https://www.psychotherapynetworker.org/magazine/article/2438/love-grief

Grief Share

My mom shared this resource with me, which is "A Season of Grief" daily e-mails and I just wanted to make note of it and pass it along to anyone who might find this helpful currently or in the future.

I'm on day 4, which discusses how grief lasts longer than expected. So much of the grief materials I have consumed the past 7 months have acknowledged how grief is not something that we get over, but also how this is an expectation from those around us; primarily those who have never experienced a deep loss. 

Today's e-mail even addresses how people within the church can act as if you lack faith if you're still grieving after some arbitrary amount of time. I get it. I wrestle with the question of do I truly believe the good news and in the reality of Heaven if my heart is still so broken over the earthly tragedy of Jerrod's death. I love the response:

"Knowing the Lord and His comfort does not take away the ache; instead, it supports you in the middle of the ache. Until I get home to heaven, there’s going to be an ache that won’t quit. The grieving process for me is not so much a matter of getting rid of the pain, but not being controlled by the pain.”

We read in the Psalms that David grew weary with the process of grief and cried out to the Lord. Then he left the timing in God’s hands.

“Be merciful to me, LORD, for I am faint; O LORD, heal me, for my bones are in agony. My soul is in anguish. How long, O LORD, how long? Turn, O LORD, and deliver me; save me because of your unfailing love” (Psalm 6:2-4).

“I am weary with my sighing; Every night I make my bed swim, I dissolve my couch with my tears. My eye has wasted away with grief” (Psalm 6:6-7 NASB)."

God is close to the brokenhearted. It is an honest experience to both grieve and feel this pain and trust in the Lord for my healing and the hope of my future.

7 Months

I have continued to take a partial-hiatus from social media. The times I catch myself scrolling through my Instagram or Facebook feed on Safari, I'm aware of how empty and meaningless it feels and I close the window. In the initial wake of losing Jerrod, posting or blogging about some of what I was experiencing and receiving some acknowledgment, encouragement or word of comfort in return felt helpful. And then it didn't. I suddenly felt the need to more privately sit with my grief and tend to my heart alone with the Lord. It's a journey that I will continue to walk, mostly alone, because it's mine alone to carry.

We have lived so much life in the past 7 months, more than I would have thought possible with how much we have simultaneously been mourning. There are moments when I have been so consumed with joy, singing and dancing with my children, it feels like my heart could burst.  And just as quickly there are tears streaming down my face. It is an exhausting yin and yang. My heart aches that there was a last moment of Jerrod delighting in Jackson and that there never was nor ever will a be first moment of delighting in Avery.  My heart breaks for the future he will not have and the future we have without him. I said to Bret at Christmas, “we made it through the first one without Jerrod, but it’s just that: the first; the first of the rest of every Christmas without him.” We haven’t made it through and now we’re done; we’re only just beginning.

My blogging has also decreased because the reality is that it feels impossible to regularly and accurately convey what the process of living with grief feels like; words fall short. I start to type or post something and then I stop.  Mostly I just read other people's stories and experiences of grief and loss. They are tragic and beautiful: the love that we carry and the depths of grief and pain we can survive.  While they don't fully reflect my experience, I feel connected to a community of mourners finding their way through the impossible.  And because I have also used this blog to share resources, one community I'm in the process of getting connected to is called The Dinner Party.  I'll get the opportunity to meet with other 20-30-somethings who have also experienced a significant loss.  I'm hopeful of raw and authentic conversations with other individuals who have an understanding of the weight I carry. Books are great, but people are better. I'll try to update how it goes.

Last Day

Currently listening:


I have found myself emotionally consumed by this memoir. I didn't know Harris Wittels, though I unknowingly loved his work as a fan of Parks & Recreation. So his death was not something I became aware of until the death of my brother. I first heard his sister and mom sharing their story on Nora McInerny's podcast: Terrible, Thanks for Asking.  I remember sharing that podcast episode with my mom because I connected so much to their experience of finding out about Harris's death.  While my brother technically took his own life, he and Harris battled the same demon: heroin.  Since the tragic death of her brother, Stephanie Wittels Wachs has started a podcast that I'm just discovering and diving into after internet stalking her upon listening to half of her book on audio.  The way our brother's died and the circumstances following their death are very different, especially given the fact that my brother was not famous, but I connect so much to her emotional experience. And I LOVE the raw, real way she writes.

Grief & Christmas

A simplified list of things a grieving person would like people to be aware of at Christmas (though I would add any holiday or significant moment). Link at the bottom. 

1. Even the best times are punctuated with an awareness that someone is missing.
2. Social situations are hard.
3. Extended family can be awkward and uneasy.
4. Tears are not a problem.
5. It can be hard to remember why Christmas should be so merry.

https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/what-grieving-people-wish-you-knew-at-christmas

grief and the internet

Taken from https://www.thatericalper.com/2015/08/16/person-is-asking-for-advice-hn-how-to-deal-with-grief-this-reply-is-incredible/

6 Months with Sis & the Advent of Joy

I recently took, what felt like, another blow to add to the shit storm of grief and immediately deleted my Instagram and Facebook apps. For whatever reason I knew I needed to be fully present with this new onset of emotions and that these two things would shortchange that; turning to the numbing and distraction of scrolling through posts mindlessly.  In all honesty, I still try to resort to those places but the inconvenience of going through Safari limits the frequency.

It’s also strange and a little embarrassing that there was some fear of being forgotten or even people not recognizing my absence. My motivation in sharing online is often about not wanting to feel alone and also hoping to feel more normal in my struggle through validation from others. It’s ridiculous, and again a little embarrassing, that a ️ or  can play even the smallest part on my feelings of self-worth or that I need any kind of validation from those places. I mean here I am even using another social media avenue for the illusion of connection. But this one’s audience is small; maybe even nonexistent (unless shared to FB), so I justify...

And for what? To share my daughter’s six month picture...because I guess otherwise the past six months of her life didn’t happen? (I know it also functions as a digital "baby book" of sorts and is nice to be able to click on her #ouraveryfaith hashtag and instantly have access to our memories.)  I know it is a public celebration of sorts and way of documenting gratitude for these milestones. And, again, also to not feel alone in the struggle that the past 6 months has been. I could just post my pretty picture of a smiling Avery and lead you to believe that this represents life for us.  It does represent some of our life to be sure, and it is not the whole picture.  I know that's the reality of any person's Instagram or Facebook presence.  Even when I post the hard stuff you're not REALLY seeing the whole picture. You're getting a glimpse into the hard, but not what it's like on a day-to-day, moment-to-moment, up and down, all over the place roller-coaster that we are living. 

The past six months have been full of joy and immense heartache. I am so grateful for my children and they also make it hard to grieve on a regular basis.  They need me to show up and I need them to remind me that life is still beautiful in the midst of the brokenness and pain.  I don't know what state I would be in without them.  Avery could not have come into our lives at a more complicated and perfect time. The warmth of her smile, which radiates constantly, is a daily reminder that light shines brightest in the dark. 

We've been going through Advent at church this year, which is something entirely new to Crossroads. It could not have come at a more perfect holiday season for me. The past week was on the Advent of Joy and talking a lot about how the Christmas story takes place at night; Night representing spiritual/emotional darkness. We are living in a season of Night and the only thing that I really connect with this Christmas is the desperate need for the return of our Savior. Chuck also talks about having joy that defies the night, our past and our present pain. While I have joy with my children, I have yet to fully access the joy and hope as it pertains to Jerrod's death and the grace and freedom he (and we) receive through Jesus' birth, death and resurrection.  So we mourn and we wait. And we cling to the little bits of light breaking through our night.

A sad and grateful heart

In the interest of sharing the good along with the bad, I bring you this post:

My spiritual mentor/“mama” (if you don’t have one of those, get one. And fast!) has long preached and modeled the practice and gift of gratitude. Admittedly this is one of those things I just did without question or much discussion because when Mama M tells you to do something, you do it; she’s wise and I never have to question where her heart is. So I’ve been at this practice of gratitude on a daily-to-sometimes-nonexistent basis for the past, approximately, five years. I don’t know that it has always, if ever, felt earth shattering. I am also notoriously bad at being in tune with myself on a regular basis. Unless the emotion is strong, I don’t give it much attention, so it’s likely that I don’t notice the little shifts. I think that’s definitely been the case with the impact of gratitude in my life. It’s like a muscle I’ve slowly been trying to build over the years and until I actually go to do some abnormal, test-my-limits lifting, I don’t really see the growth or impact. I think in some ways that’s what has come to light in the midst of this loss.  I didn't see or fully experience the transformation gratefulness has to offer, but I'm beginning to recognize it now. I believe it’s the reason I’m not scared to feel all the big, painful feelings and have any amount of strength to do so. I've been keenly aware of the ways I have been loved through the hardest experience of my life and have been sustained by. Granted, some days it’s still hard to identify anything I’m grateful for, but when the dust settles on an emotionally hard day, the gifts start shining through.

I think I previously expected that the practice of gratitude would make the painful/hard things not hard and painful; probably part of the reason for my inconsistency. I’m experiencing more the reality of gratitude as something to carry me through the pain. If I was unable to see any good, any hope, any joy, then the sadness would overtake me; it would simply be too much to face. However, God reminds me everyday, when I choose to see it, that He’s always at work doing something; bringing new life and hope. There is beauty to come from the loss of my brother, not because what happened was good or ordained by God, but because God is good and He doesn’t waste anything. He will bring forth some sort of redemption and I want the eyes to see it.

Something else to ponder...

Be Kind. Always.

The other week I cried while getting a massage. To be fair, it was a few tears and my masseuse didn't have a clue. She assumed I asked for a tissue because lying on my stomach had stuffed up my nose, but it did not.  As soon she has began to massage my shoulders it was like the weight of the grief I have been carrying for the past 4 months began to loosen and the tears just started coming.  I had no idea how much I needed all of the emotion to physically be worked out of my body, nor entirely aware of the physical stress it was taking on my body. When the massage was over, I had gotten dress and began walking down the hall to the lobby, I literally felt like I was floating. No joke, my masseuse made that exact comment, as I almost stumbled my way out the door.

During the massage, we made small talk at different points talking about my kids and her grand-kids. I think she must've mentioned having twin-somethings because I shared that I "had" a twin, but she did not pick up on the past-tense. I'm not entirely sure if I wanted her to. It's a strange thing though, walking into any interaction with a complete stranger and feeling like I'm wearing this invisible wound.  It reminded me of the quote above and the fragility of this world.  I suppose that's why loss tends to make us more empathetic, because our hearts are softened to the pain of others and our eyes are more keenly aware of the brokenness around us. This doesn't mean we always get it right or say the right thing. I think we are all capable of forking* it up when unexpectedly faced with someone else's pain.  It just always feels like a loaded question when someone who doesn't know about my loss asks "how are you?" It's rarely an appropriate situation to share the truth, which just leaves me feeling alone and disconnected in these seemingly normal interactions.  At the same time, it also leaves me wondering how many times I have encountered someone unknowingly suffering; probably far too many.

I hope that as I move beyond the deep, deep sorrow to a place where my heart isn't perpetually aching, that my heart can continue to remain soft to the pain of others and the reality that we are all carrying some form of pain however big or small.  I hope that I will continue to learn to stop and engage wholeheartedly in a way that communicates that whatever they're going through, they matter and they're not alone. 

*The Good Place, anyone?

Halloween

I'm so angry that this is the only photo I have with you in it from last Halloween and that there are so many other memories I don't have physical evidence of you being with us. I hate that I have to scour through hundreds of photos for the tiniest glimpse of you or sound of your voice in the background of a live photo. I hate that I have such little proof that you were once alive and a part of our lives. I know all the pictures in the world wouldn't make it any easier to have lost you, but at least I would be less likely to forget all the moments you were a part of.  I don't really even care that much about Halloween, but you were a part of our first Halloween in our new house and I know you would've been with us again this year. I'm so angry that you won't be.

“Happy” Birthday

The past 48 hours have been the most difficult since the 48 hours directly following the news of Jerrod's death.  Since August I have been trying to prepare for our birthday, knowing that the first one without him was going to be especially hard.  I asked Bret to take off work to be home with me since it was on a weekday and he readily agreed. I had been contacted randomly on Instagram by a woman who lost her twin brother to suicide last August and had asked her how she handled their birthday. She mainly suggested acknowledging the loss, not expecting it to be a normal celebration and stated that she made a point of talking out loud to her brother that day. Sounds simple enough.

I had gone into our birthday with the intention of visiting the grave alone to have that conversation. I don't think this is the only place this could have happened, but it felt like the most practical given that doing this at home would be challenging with two children and also wanting to be in a place that felt safe and fitting for whatever amount of tears may come. The days leading up to our birthday I didn't feel much as far as additional sadness; it sort of felt like the calm before the storm.  I went to bed Wednesday night somewhat in denial that the next day was our birthday.  I had created a birthday post on Instagram a week or so in advance and posted it during my early morning pumping session and this got the ball rolling on the inevitable heartbreak I was to feel that day.  As texts, Facebook and Instagram messages rolled in, it felt like those first few days after Jerrod had died with everyone checking in and reaching out.  This is both good and really hard, as it brought back the intensity of that early grief, which was also riddled with both tremendous joy (birth of my daughter) and pain (loss of my brother).  As much as I wanted to just ignore my birthday this year and not engage with both emotional extremes, I was encouraged to try to celebrate or at least allow myself to be celebrated.

And so I planned activities for both. I sat and watched the memorial video from the funeral and sobbed.  I smiled and enjoyed hugs, birthday singing from my son and my traditional pumpkin pie with coffee.  I exchanged "I'm so sorry's" and "I love you's" with my mom over the phone before she came down to spend the afternoon with us. I received my favorite flowers from my dear "sisters" along with delicious coffee cake and chocolates.  I did what felt like the impossible: trying to celebrate life and love with a tremendously broken heart.  I allowed myself the freedom to change my mind and plans at any point throughout the day; so instead of visiting the grave by myself, I went with Bret and my dad. Instead of asking all the "why" questions I have for my brother, I just told him I loved him and hoped he was at peace and not feeling the pain of leaving us in pain. When we pulled up to Jerrod's grave site, I spotted purple flowers. I instantly felt like they were for me, as they are my favorite color. It felt like God or someone, likely both, knew I'd need a sign of love and hope being there that day.  I skipped my grief group that I had intended on going to that evening in order to just  be home and loved on by my family. We watched the premiere of the final season of one of our current favorite shows and we enjoyed some more treats.

I ended the day feeling exhausted in every way. I anticipated a day to come with just Avery and hopefully lots of rest and quiet time for reflection. And then Jackson woke up at 1 a.m. burning up, sounding hoarse and asking for water. I rushed back into mommy mode, filling his humidifier, administering Tylenol, rocking and comforting him until he went back to "sleep."  I laid awake as he continued to cough, talk and cry out at multiple other times during the night. My mind raced with worry, which it has done more often since losing Jerrod. I guess that's the thing about an unexpected, terrible loss; you feel exposed and vulnerable to it happening again at any time. This has manifested in occasional thoughts or daydreams of something happening, primarily to Jackson.  I don't know if it's because my dearest memories of Jerrod involve Jackson or simply because he is such a source of joy in our life.

I think we managed another hour of sleep before he woke sobbing around 5 a.m. He was making a horrific noise as he gasped for air in between sobs. We almost rushed to the ER, but his breathing became less labored as he calmed down. Bret took another morning off work to help me monitor Jackson while we waited to get into urgent care or our pediatrician.  He was ultimately diagnosed with croup, given a steroid and instructions for Motrin around the clock and to take him to the ER if his breathing labored while at rest.  It's the most sick I've seen him, as he normally maintains activity and feeding/drinking as usual. We spent the day trying to force the smallest sips of water, milk, juice, etc.  Needless to say, it became anything but the rest I was needing and the fact that this unexpected stressor was so challenging to manage for both of us illuminated the deficiency at which we've been operating. Friends have lovingly stepped in to care for Avery and bring food, but the well is so dry it feels like the tiniest sprinkle. Or as I said to Bret, it feels like we're putting a BandAid on a gushing wound.

This season of life is overwhelming simply to do the daily tasks of living amidst grieving. I desperately want to fast forward. As I contemplate things that would bring reprieve, I'm fighting accusation of what it says about me as a person and a mother. Shouldn't counseling and the daily help of my mother in caring for my children be enough? How can I pay someone to do my "job" when I'm not even working? I feel like I'm failing at so many things. I couldn't maintain breastfeeding and I'm barely holding on to pumping. I haven't managed to get my daughter on a sleep schedule and the progress we had seemed to make with the tongue and lip tie release feels like it's reversing.  This also feels like my failure because I haven't been as diligent with all the stretches and exercises we were to be doing 3 times a day for 6 weeks. I haven't done my own physical therapy for my postpartum body that certainly doesn't heal in the 6-12 weeks our Western culture seems to expect. Everything feels unnecessarily hard and the lie I'm often believing is that it's my fault; that I'm not enough - not doing enough. The evil comparison leaks in and reinforces my feeling of inadequacy.  It all becomes an awful, vicious cycle. And my cycle often becomes: strive, strive, survive... fall apart... contemplate doing something different... maybe start doing something different... return to strive, strive, survive and repeat.  It has "worked," but it's not working.

I share all of this I guess primarily not to feel alone and somewhat for accountability purposes.  I felt alone in motherhood since Bret first returned to work after Jackson was born, and I have felt alone in grief after those first few weeks following Jerrod's death. Those aren't blanket, daily statements, but an overall feeling.  When I dissect either of those statements, I also know they are not true.  But when I'm alone in my house with my children, often struggling to just get by, it's easy to feel forgotten and to feel like I'm the only one who is struggling.  It's part of the reason I blog or I post about Jerrod. In those moments that I'm hurting, I don't want to feel alone and sometimes it's easier and simply more convenient to do that virtually, until I can find the strength to actually say the words out loud.  Bottom line, I need to out the lies that I'm not enough and act in agreement with what I say I believe about asking for help. I need to document the good days as much, if not more than the hard ones.

birthday twins

I think this is the last photo of just the two of us from our birthday, I think, 3 years ago.  That fact makes me really sad. And makes me want to be better about photographing my loved ones. But dang are you hard to get on camera. I think you always reluctantly took a picture with me and that's usually where the silly grin came from; giving you a hard time about shutting up and pretending to like me!

*click the photo for a link to my Instagram birthday post.

it's ok that you're not ok

I recently started reading It's Ok You're Not Ok and have been bookmarking various parts. This morning I've really been contemplating something she says about grief not being a tool to help you become a better person resulting in knowing what's "truly important in life," as if grief is the only way towards interpersonal growth.  She makes the argument that:

"if intense loss is the only way to make a person more compassionate, only self-absorbed, disconnected, shallow people would experience grief... You didn't need this experience in order to grow. You didn't need the lessons that supposedly only grief can teach. Learning happens in a million different ways. Grief and loss are one path to depth and connection, but they are not the only path... On the contrary: life is call-and-response. Things happen, and we absorb and adapt... You didn't need this... Life-changing events do not just slip quietly away, nor are they atonements for past wrongs. they change us. They are a part of our foundation as we live forward. What you built atop this loss might be growth. It might be a gesture towards beauty, more love, more wholeness. But that is due to your choices, your own alignment with who you are and who you want to be."

Her ultimate point is that grief is not a problem to be solved. "Some things cannot be fixed. They can only be carried."

"This is really as bad as you think. This sucks and you don't need solutions. There is nothing wrong with grief. It's a natural extension of love. It's a healthy and sane response to loss. That grief feels bad doesn't make it bad; that you feel crazy doesn't mean you are crazy.  Grief is part of love. Love for life, love for self, love for others. What you are living, painful as it is, is love. And love is really hard. Excruciating at times... Because the truth is, in one way or another, loving each other means losing each other. Being alive in such a fleeting, tenuous world is hard. Our hearts get broken in ways that can't be fixed. There is pain that becomes an immovable part of our lives. We need to know how to endure that, how to care for ourselves inside that, how to care for one another. We need to know how to live here, where life as we know it can change, forever, at any time."

I think there's part of me that believes(d) that God orchestrated this loss as some answer to prayer I've made desiring to be more dependent upon him or as some tool to help me look more like Jesus through suffering.  In that sense this can feel like a punishment and if I really stop to identify the truth I don't actually think this is the way God works.  Yet, when I just coast through my grief and questioning of God without considering his word, I can easily start to believe things that do not align with the bible.  I don't think this is accidental; I think it is the reality of Satan's presence in this world and his desire to create distance and distrust of God. 

I had been reading through the book of Job right after Jerrod died and haven't read any further in the past couple weeks, but I'm reminded of his story this morning.  Job's friends try to suggest that his circumstances are a result of his sin.  However, at the beginning of the book we get a glimpse into a conversation between God and Satan that let's us know that the awful loss and pain Job undergoes is about proving Job is righteous and faithful, not a result of his sin. I have to admit it still really pisses me off that God allowed Satan to torment Job to prove a point; it's a real WTF move. It's one of those things I will never fully understand about the way God works, but just as God is not dismayed by Job's questioning and anger, I know he isn't about mine either. I trust my relationship with God will only grow stronger because of my questioning, because of my honesty. And as best I can, I will trust his wisdom and sovereignty.

Below is a really good summation of the book of Job.

I will rescue you?

You are not hidden

There's never been a moment

You were forgotten

You are not hopeless 

Though you have been broken 

Your innocence stolen 

I hear you whisper underneath your breath

I hear your SOS, your SOS

I will send out an army to find you

In the middle of the darkest night

It's true, I will rescue you

There is no distance

That cannot be covered

Over and over

You're not defenseless 

I'll be your shelter 

I'll be your armor 

I hear you whisper underneath your breath

I hear your SOS, your SOS

I will send out an army to find you

In the middle of the darkest night

It's true, I will rescue you

I will never stop marching to reach you 

In the middle of the hardest fight 

It's true, I will rescue you

I cannot listen to this song without bursting into tears. I have no idea what was going on in Jerrod's mind the night he took his life, but I know it was full of darkness or we wouldn't be grieving his death. My heart breaks and I feel despair for him as I imagine the pain he must've been suffering in those final moments. I wish we could have rescued you, brother. I wish we knew you needed rescuing. It's maybe the hardest part of losing you, knowing you were in so much pain and you were so alone. I know it was your choice. You could have invited us in. You could have let us try to help. Damn your stubborn independence. Even when you were at the height of your drug addiction, you insisted you could fight it on your own... what prideful stupidity. It's so hard to be so angry at you and miss you so much. 

What about you, God... did Jerrod cry out to you? Why couldn't you have rescued him? Was not intervening in his suicide and welcoming him to heaven your rescuing? Why couldn't he have found peace here? There are so many questions, so may cries of my heart with a complete lack of understanding in all of this. It's hard to be so angry with you and so completely dependent upon you. I know you're not afraid of my anger, that you welcome it. And even when I cannot reach out to you, I know you're reaching out to me; that you're still loving me and taking of care of me; that these lyrics are just as much for me.

A letter..

Jerrod,

I was talking with mom this morning just trying to understand what happened, what we missed.  It's hard not to question and wonder if there's anything we could have done to have saved your life.  On the other hand I sat there thinking we knew dad was suicidal because he made multiple attempts and none of us could save him.  So, yes, maybe something we could have said or done could have made some kind of difference, but ultimately none of us could have saved you if you didn't want to save yourself; if you didn't believe it was possible or that you were worth saving.

Brother, I love you and I am so angry with you. We can wrack our brains trying to recall every detail of every conversation looking for the clues that you weren't well... and obviously we missed something. We can sit here and feel guilty and take blame for not knowing you were suicidal; for not asking harder, more direct questions... but you had a responsibility, too - to us. to yourself.  You hid this from us. Or you made cryptic comments that were interpreted one way when you meant another and we didn't clarify. You said you would never kill yourself and we believed you.  We failed each other.

I know there have been many times in my life when I have felt low and I just wanted someone to see me, to call it out for me, to show me that I am worthy and loved; ultimately that's no one's job but my own to discover and believe.  I wish you would have told us, that you could have found the words to let us help you carry your pain. Instead you took your life and gave it to us entirely. It's not fair.  I'm so angry and I'm so sorry.

God, how I wish you would have known and believed that there is no shame in struggling and/or failing.  You fought addiction on your own and we thought you did really well... just imagine how much your life could have changed had you let people fight alongside you instead of holding up this facade that you were strong enough to do it on your own or to deny that you were really struggling at all.  Did you think you'd be a burden? Did you think we'd be disappointed? Did you think you were weak? Did you think you were destined to end up like dad or too afraid to admit that you struggled like dad?  I have so many questions, so many answers I'll never receive.

At the end of the day I worry most that you didn't really think you were worthy or loved just because you were Jerrod.  I worry that you somehow misinterpreted our actions or words in a way that led you to believe that you were not wanted, that you would not be missed.  I know our dad believed some version of this; that he'd be serving us better with his life insurance policy than his actual life. I know you know that wasn't true, so how could you believe it about yourself? Brother, I just don't understand.

I don't know what it means to be in heaven and if you have any understanding of what is happening on earth after you have died. I trust that, like Jesus said to the criminal crucified next to him, that you are with him "in paradise"; that you are not continuing to suffer as a result of the pain of your death. I hope you know you are forgiven and deeply loved. I hope you are with our Father and our dad. I hope you are at peace and full of joy. I hope you know that I love you so much, that I miss you so much and that there will never be a day I don't wish you were here.

Love always,
   your twin sis

Open up and let the light in

We’re breaking all the rules this morning: sleeping in bed with mom and on our stomach. I don’t even care. This isn’t a post about co-sleeping. I know people do it and I don’t actually think it’s wrong. I’m just a rule follower and I never wanted kids in my bed. But we are surviving until we’re thriving (AND WE WILL THRIVE) so the occasional co-sleeping it is.

Staring at this face this morning, I just started weeping because life is beautiful and love brings so much joy even when it’s hard. Right now, in these moments, my heart aches that my brother didn’t feel it or at least not enough of it. He would have made a great father. Maybe he never would have had kids, but now he will never have a moment like this. And even if he never had kids, he will never hold mine again or for the first time. This baby girl won’t know the loving arms of her uncle. It’s a loss she won’t even know she has (besides factually), but I know and I grieve for her, too.

My friend Kristen sent me this post this morning. I don’t know Rachel, but her account is public, so I’m hoping she won’t mind that I’m sharing this here. Her words are beautiful and they speak to my heart. During or after I write each of these posts, I feel the light creeping in and there is peace. My heart is not wrecked all day long, and I know that’s in part due to allowing myself to feel the pain when needed and letting the Lord fill those dark spaces with his light and love.

What has started as a huge gaping hole will shrink as I grieve and heal over time. Sometimes that’s hard to reconcile because it feels like moving on and letting go of my brother, and I desperately don’t want to lose any more of him. So I have to remind myself that it’s not my pain or sorrow that keeps his memory alive, but simply the love that I carry for him in my heart and nothing can take that away.

just the beginning of the wrestling

It took all of an hour to feel utterly overwhelmed this morning and worrying about how we are going to survive once Bret goes back to work. Avery was being fussy and unhappy even being held and Jackson decided to burst into his own waterworks for some reason.  It's exhausting even when I'm not alone and I hit a state of mental panic imagining trying to deal with this on my own.  So Bret grabbed the kids for a double stroller ride to calm everyone down and to give me some peace and quiet.  I reheated my coffee and grabbed the new Truth Unchanging devotional that a friend sent me and started to read.

As with most times of stress these days, one situation turns into anguish over my brother. I'm simply reading the intro about God being with me as I read and desiring to speak to me and immediately my heart cries out why couldn't you have been with my brother?!  Why couldn't you have saved him; spoken truth to him instead of whatever awful lies he believed and agreed with to the point of ending his own life?! My head does not always go to this place.  I can rationalize my way out of being upset with God, but I know for the sake of my healing and for the sake of my relationship with Him, I have to be honest when those ugly thoughts surface. Ultimately I feel let down by God. I know our pain is His pain, but I question how he has let this (suicide) happen to my (immediate) family twice; 3 times including my cousin. I'll never understand his ways and why he prevents some suffering and allows others.

Then my mind launches into an entirely different train of thought... people say to treat mental illness the same as a physical disease.  I generally agree with this statement, as it speaks to the importance of caring for our mental health and combating the stigma around seeking treatment, but a death as a result of mental illness (i.e. suicide) is not the same as someone dying from an illness, such as cancer. In neither circumstance are we hoping for death to be the way someone achieves peace, but I would challenge that it is more devastating - or maybe just devastating in a different way - when someone chooses to end their own life as opposed to having their life ended by an illness.  With a physical illness there feels like so much more that is not within a person's control to bring about health than with someone whose battle is mental. Even as I type this, I'm challenged that maybe that's not really even true.

I've experienced anxiety and depression, but never to the point of feeling suicidal.  There are certainly genetic factors that impact my predisposition to anxiety and depression, but I'm also keenly aware of how my lifestyle and daily choices impact my mood and well being. I also know that it's a lot of work to address those issues and they're not so severe that I struggle to get out of bed in the morning nor have thoughts of wanting to end it all.  It's a battle to try to allow God control and to bring joy into my life when I'm feeling low; how much harder would it be for me to lean into his good news if I were feeling utterly hopeless?  I feel like I'm rambling, but mainly jumped on here to acknowledge that while I ultimately believe God is good and that he can somehow bring redemption, there's still wrestling to be done as I grieve.  I don't think I'll ever have all the answers, but I'm praying that as I wrestle and cry out to God when my head and heart are in chaotic grief, that one day I will predominantly feel peace.

how to help a grieving friend

I think previously I would have said I knew how to support someone in grief.  I went to school for psychology and social work, but there are some skills that only life can teach you, not a text book. I think in order to really sit well in someone else's grief, you need to have experienced your own.  I also previously would have said I've experienced grief. This is predominantly true given that my dad died when I was ten, but since then the bulk of my grief has been related to "heartbreak" resulting from a couple short-lived dating relationships..not really earth shattering.  I've experienced other pain related to family and friendships, but not permanent loss.

Sitting in the grief of losing my brother has felt a world of difference from losing my dad. In some ways, I don't even feel like that loss happened to me or I feel like a completely different person than than to whom that happened. This may simply be due to the fact that it's been over 2 decades and so much of the pain has been redeemed. Losing Jerrod feels completely different. In some ways I feel like I've lost a part of myself. That sounds really cliche, but maybe that's what a close death feels like or it's wrapped up in the fact that we're twins and the person I've walked every day on this earth with is no longer here.  Maybe this grief feels different because I'm an adult and my emotional intelligence is greater than my 10-year-old self who just tried to survive and cling to what I had left.  Perhaps it's also the combination of joy and pain losing Jerrod just four days after the birth of my daughter.  Not to mention all the hormones and ups and downs of caring for a newborn, but this roller coaster feels like a whole new beast to me.  In every moment of joy, it is also tinged with sadness, especially when it's a joyful moment I would have previously experienced or could picture myself experiencing with Jerrod. This most often happens when I watch anyone playing with my son because Jerrod was so playful and attentive with Jackson. One minute I'm smiling or laughing and the next I'm crying. The journey of healing from this pain feels long and daunting, so as best I can I try to cope in the present.

It's been only just over a month, but still so often I cannot fathom that he is gone; this cannot be real and often it doesn't feel real.  I keep waiting for the next time I'm going to see him because we didn't interact or see each other daily and sometimes not even weekly so the absence can feel normal.  Then something happens that I want to share with him or picture him giving Bret shit and I'm reminded that he's gone. For instance, Bret bought a new hammer and measuring tape last week and my initial reaction was to want to take a picture and send to Jerrod saying that he'd be proud of Bret's upgrade.  On so many occasions he has given us a hard time about the quality of our tools, questioning if we're even real adults or something along those lines. He had just done this the Saturday before he died when I had him hang up my "badger crossing" sign in the garage commenting that he wanted a real hammer not a toy hammer. That was quintessential Jerrod though; he'd help you with anything, but he'd have something to harass you about in the process.  My heart breaks that we'll never banter again. I know that while currently painful, these are the memories that will also make me smile and laugh as I remember him in years to come.

I initially just posted the resources below with no context, but decided to circle back to share a bit more of my own grief process and reflection of sitting in someone else's grief. I fully relate to not knowing what to do or say when someone is hurting and can fall prey to the temptation to fix. For me this doesn't stem from a lack of caring or unwillingness to sit in the pain with someone else. I've sat in plenty of pain with people, but I also know many times I have ignorantly or pridefully thought I could make it better with something I could do or say.  What is most illuminating to me as I'm mourning Jerrod is that no one can fix this or make this better for me, as much as I wish they could.  Sure there are probably things people can say that are unhelpful, but I'm not sure I could even pinpoint what those things are right now.  In the instances where that might occur, I can have grace for people not knowing what to say because I often don't know what to say to describe what I'm feeling or know what to ask for when people offer help and support.  However, I feel loved in the asking and it's a gentle reminder that the world hasn't entirely moved on without me. 

Someone shared a website with me that has some resources for those who are grieving and those who are supporting someone in their grief. These are compiled by Megan Devine, author of It's Ok That You're Not Ok. I don't agree with everything she has shared (and am a little turned off by some of the over priced products), but I appreciate some of the suggestions she gives to support a grieving friend.  I've shared the links below.  She also has a blog and a podcast that I have yet to really dive into, but have heard they are helpful.  

Refuge In Grief: How To Help A Grieving Friend

Ask Don't Tell: How To Help Someone In Grief