Author Archives: kathyd65

A Fresh Start: Coming Back From Grief

19 Wednesday Mar 2025

Posted by in Living Life on Life's Terms, Personal Development

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Photo by Frank Cone

February 26, 2025: Grief is a solitary road, even among family members who lost the same person. Back In December I shared about Depression, Grief and Holidays. Today I’ll share a bit about the process of my grief and the progress I’m making.

In September 2023 I had a morning routine. This routine, supporting my recovery program from alcoholism and addiction, usually started at 6:00 am more or less and included yoga, walking, caring for the cat in my life, connecting with my Higher Power through prayer and meditation, and writing in a journal. Almost every morning for a few years, that’s how I’d start my day. Up before the sun without an alarm, starting my day checking in with myself and my higher power before the rest of the world got moving.

In October 2023 – Wednesday, October 4, to be exact – I woke with that same intention, getting my Self in the right head space. I opened my iPad and what I saw on the screen changed my life and the lives of all my family members forever.

Long story short: my sister had taken her life the night before.

What followed was a jumble of numbness and emotions so confusing and intense that I retreated to a place inside that I didn’t know was still even an option. I found a compartment to place all the conflicting thoughts and feelings until I could sit alone and begin to look at them. Forty-eight hours later I was finally able to peek in the box.

I also no longer had a morning routine, nor did I care that I had no mooring.

What’s it like to experience this type of grief? It’s lonely. It’s maddening. And it takes as long as it takes to work through it to become the person I want to be today. That’s about as precise as I can be for the thousands of people who experience this type of grief every year. (more than 49,300 suicide deaths occured in the United States alone in 2023, according to provisional data from the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention)

When my sister Faith took her life, she also took a part of mine. I experienced depression, rage and even had suicidal thoughts of my own. I wanted to escape the emotional pain of the loss. The pain was deep and it affected every aspect of my life for months. I stopped showering regularly, instead living in the same tshirts and sweatpants for days, which resulted in two UTIs. I had no appetite for days in a row, then I ate everything comforting I could get my hands on for a day. That cycle repeated.

I still attended my weekly recovery meetings and I shared in a general way how I was feeling and what I was going through. I also sought out others I might be able to speak with about our shared grief, others who had lost loved ones, particularly siblings, to suicide. I felt more alone, not being able to find a sibling group during that first year. I tried some message board pages where you type out your feelings, but that felt flat, like I wasn’t being heard. I wrote a poem to her, about her. I did my best to be available to my father and to her daughters, my nieces, but it was hard going.

As the months passed, I became concerned for my spiritual well being. I didn’t feel like I was angry at my Creator but I also wasn’t that interested in reaching out in prayer or meditation. I no longer journaled regularly. I didn’t practice yoga or walk anymore.

I felt lost in a way that only a person who’s lost another person close to them would understand.

I found a book titled It’s Okay That You’re Not Okay by Megan Devine and it took me months to get through that book, but it helped. I read it when I could, when I was ready.

My father, who was also deeply affected by my sister’s passing, shared a series of pamphlets – almost like books – shortly after she passed, sending a new one at three months, and again at six months (maybe nine months?). Like the book I’d bought, I read the pamphlets when I was ready – which is to say, when I was able to force myself to read them in order to regain some peace I had lost.

See, before my sister ended her life, it only happened in other people’s families, not mine. Yes, our family has it’s fair share of mental illness history – trauma, violence, alcoholism, verbal and physical abuse – but each of us found a way to heal from it, or so I thought. But when she died, it became very real and very possible for anyone in my family to do this. There was a hyper-vigilence in those first few months of watching every member of the family very closely, making sure everyone else was getting the help they needed so this wouldn’t happen again.

March 18, 2025: It’s been almost eighteen months since my sister died. Most days I feel much like my old self. I started praying and meditating more regularly about a month ago. I’ve tried yoga a handful of times in the past couple of weeks. I’m journaling more, not every day, but more than once a month. I started a daily walk three days ago.

Small steps. A little at a time. Because even though on most days I feel better, I don’t always feel better. Today, for example, I felt derailed. Not necessarily grief driven, just saying that without the grief some days have always been hard.

Every day I have an opportunity to make a fresh start. I can DO or NOT DO. I get to decide what a fresh start looks like for me and set an intention to do that. I didn’t want to walk today – I recognized all the excuses I use to avoid a walk: It’s too cold, it’s too windy, it’s too late in the day, I don’t want to. I reminded myself why I walk – first, I like walking. I also want to use my muscles and joints so they don’t rebel on me later in life. I get to hear the birds chirping and the wind rustling through the trees. I get to wave at the neighbors and their pets while they are out walking. And I feel really good, physically and emotionally, when I finish my walk. Same with my meditation, and my morning tea.

I wrote this piece a few weeks ago. It sat for a while because it needed to, I needed to. I wasn’t sure what I was trying to share. Having re-read it, and adding today’s few paragraphs, I am reassuring myself that I am right where I need to be in the process of grieving and growing. It’s only been 18 months. When I believe that the feelings around her death are behind me, I might be unpleasently surprised when I am hit with the wave of grief again.

On the other hand, unexpected reminders of my sister Faith also bring me joy. Sunday, it was the hummingbird that visited me on the patio. Yesterday it was a Dave Matthews song she loved that brought a smile to my heart.

Healing is happening on it’s very own timetable. My fresh start is in progress right now.

Being Yourself Encouraged (but not really).

19 Wednesday Feb 2025

Posted by in Best Life, Disney, Disney Experiences, Living Life on Life's Terms

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Disneyland and California Adventure are my happy places!

I am often asked what it is that I love about Disneyland. Why I can be found there three or four times a month? What can I possibly still get out of a trip to the original Magic Kingdom after twelve consecutive years?

My typical answer was always “to recapture those magical feelings I experienced in my childhood. To leave the real world behind and bask in the innocence of childlike wonder the Park offers.”

Until today. Today I discovered an expansion of that answer. Let’s back up a little bit.

I’ve been doing a book study with my friends. The book we are reading and sharing our experience about is called The Gifts of Imperfection. Written by Brene Brown, originally published in 2010, its delves into the shame research she’s been doing for over twenty years, sharing her insights and helping people from all walks of life embrace who they are, rather than trying to be someone they thought they were suppose to be to fit in and be accepted by their family, friends and co-workers. It’s a fascinating book I recommend highly if your interested in a continuing education of the personal growth kind.

I just finished the book this morning, and one of the main themes is the difference between the feeling of belonging and the act of fitting in.

As a parent, I am guilty of telling my children to do what they love and be who they want to be while secretly hoping and wishing they’d live their lives the way I think would benefit them best. I was raised with similar parenting – be who you are as long as it fits in with our ideals. I was often told I was too loud, or to calm down, or to partake in activities that I was not interested (never enjoyed playing basketball with my mom because it wasn’t fun, it was REAL sports). I passed that along to my children. I wanted them to fit in, to get along, to make me look good. Because I didn’t feel like belonging, being who they were, was okay. Because it wasn’t modeled to me.

As an adult whose done a ton of personal development work (inner child, re-parenting, digging deep, uncovering stuff, examining, discarding old ideas and behaviors that don’t work for me anymore) I’ve discovered that when I’m at Disneyland, I belong. I feel safe there, to be myself. I can dress how I want and eat what I want and do everything, or do nothing. Where else can you sing-along to the piped Disney music or dance like nobody’s watching in a crowd of people who are also singing along and/or dancing, or interact with one of your Disney icons as if they were real? Not many places.

When I was a kid, I watched a lot of musicals. Some of my favorites included Easter Parade, Singin’ in the Rain, Anchors Aweigh and West Side Story. I was fascinated that all the people in the movie knew the dance moves and all the words when the lead characters broke into song and dance. I didn’t know where the music came from, but I wanted to live in those towns. (I was 7 or 8 years old).

Try that sometime. Walking in the mall, a song you know starts playing, and you start belting out the words, dancing your heart out. Security may have a thing or two to say. Maybe not. Maybe you end up on a viral video. It could happen I suppose. At Disneyland, it happens on a regular basis, in small groups, and especially during the parades. I can relax and let my ME flag fly. And each time I leave the Park at the end of a day, feeling a little less stressed and filled with quiet joy, I am confident that I can carry some of those self-acceptance feelings back out into the real world, being my Self just a little bit more.

That’s all I’ve got for now. Maybe I’ll see you at the Park and we can sing a duet or help Dr. Strange defeat a mystical creature.

Whoop De Doos in the California Desert

12 Wednesday Feb 2025

Posted by in Living Life on Life's Terms

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photo credit: Colon Freld (Pexels.com)

Have you ever driven the two lane highways in the Southern California desert? Particularly, the 177 and the 95? If so, you’ve experienced the long, zig-zagging, roller coaster-like climbs and drops that follow the rise and fall of the desert itself.

I’ve driven these roads pretty frequently since my youngest moved to Bullhead City a few years ago. I’ve driven alone and I’ve been the passenger. I prefer the solo drive, the quiet drive. Three hours of processing thoughts, admiring the scenary. The wide span of sky, filled with whispy clouds on one trip and big, puffy rain clouds on the next. I usually start the drive in either direction around six o’clock in the morning, to avoid as much traffic as I can. Sunday mornings are the best. Driving with the rising sun offers colors I don’t see when I drive in the later part of the day. The reds and golds pop early in the morning, the view clearer, the drive spectacular.

I call those roads the Whoop De Doos due to the nature of the climbs, drops and swerves that are previlent for most of that stretch. Much of the time, I cannot see what’s coming from the other direction as I climb a hill, and I enjoy racing down the other side toward the next rise.

On the last couple of trips, I noticed an odd sensation as I began the approach to a rise. I felt anxiety, fear. Because I could not see what was coming. Hesitation crept in as I approached the top of the hill. What if… someone reckless was changing lanes on the other side of that hill? I began to tense up as I reached the top of each next hill.

I have never had the experience of encountering a vehicle coming at me in my lane on these highways. I couldn’t tell you why my mind decided to write that particular scenario. It happened all on its own.

I could have easily been freaked out enough to pull over and let fear win. Instead I reminded myself of a few things.

First, it was an unfounded fear. It had not happened to me and I hadn’t read about it happening to anyone else. Doesn’t mean it hadn’t in the past somewhere on this very road. I just had no experience with it.

Second, if it did happen, well – I could swerve into the desert if I reacted quickly enough, or I could get hit head-on. And even those choices had a few different outcomes.

Last, since I believe in a Universal Spirit I also prayed. I asked for the best possible outcome on my drive home. And I relaxed, continuing on my drive, making it home safely. As I always do.

Later on, while thinking about this drive, and the roller coaster-like climbs and drops, I realized that life offers many opportunities to experience the same anxiety producing experience. Starting or ending a job, or school, or a relationship offers those same ups and downs, the fear of the unknown outcome. Being where my feet are, fully present in this moment rather than “future-tripping” (is that still a phrase?), is a difficult task. However, I practice being present through meditation, prayer and yoga daily, so that when life throws me a curve-ball I’m less likely to succumb to any fear that might accompany that moment. I can review those same questions I mention above:

First, Is it real? Is it true? Am I drawing from a past personal experience or making stuff up? Second, do I have a plan to pivot if what I’m imagining actually happens? Finally, do I have a faith I can lean on when I feel afraid?

Life is full of whoop de doos. Plan for the worst, hope for the best, and enjoy the ride as best as you can.

Thanks for reading!

Every New Moment, First Time Ever

05 Wednesday Feb 2025

Posted by in Better Version of Me, Living Life on Life's Terms

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Voicemail to myself on December 15, 2024:

I’m listening to an audiobook by Rob Bell titled How To Be Here and what came to me was this: This moment that I’m in right now is the only time I’ve been in THIS moment, ever.

I’m driving on the 10 in Southern California, probably heading West. I do this often, driving from my desert home to my former stomping grounds. I just did this two hours ago, drove this stretch of highway, and I’m frustrated. It’s unfounded frustration, because there’s nothing I can do about it. I need to get to Orange County and this is the way. I can to accept that I am where I am, and just surrender to the fact that this is where I am right now. (Or I could stay home, pout, and throw a tantrum or stew silently.)

So, I’m driving on this freeway for the second time today in the same direction and I realize that even though I just did this two hours ago, I’m doing it NOW for the first time ever. The sun is in a different location in the sky. Now I’m the driver instead of the passenger, heading to the same destination, but it’s not the same.

Everything in my life that I do, even if it FEELS like something I’ve done before, I am doing right now for the first time. Laundry, phone calls to friends, gardening, walking in my neighborhood.

I was reflecting on Rob’s words, about taking risks and learning from the failures and taking different risks, seeking to find my place. I’ve been struggling with that concept: my place in the world.

I still don’t know, at fifty-nine years old, what I’m “supposed” to be doing. I’m not even clear on what I WANT to be doing, but I know that even if it’s something I’ve done before, this will be the first time I’m doing it as who I am right now. This is the first time that I do the thing I’ve done in the past, in this moment.

Everything that I do, even when it seems like I’ve already done it, I haven’t. Because this moment is a new moment. For example, right now I’m driving past the Cabazon Outlets, which I’ve driven past countless times over the past seven years, and this is the first time I’ve passed the shopping center in this moment. Holiday shoppers are clogging the streets on the frontage road, trying to find a place to park, and while I’ve witnessed this over several seasons, these are different shoppers, or the same shoppers parking in new spots.

So I’m also in the same spot, contemplating what I want to do next with my life, my time. I want the excitement, the butterflies that come from the feeling of fear of uncertainty and also the thrill of territory uncharted. I ruminate over the things I may need to do in order to find the first sentence of my next chapter in life. I realize that right now, in this moment, I am doing the thing, writing that first sentence, taking the next step, in the forward momentum of this vehicle.

I’m doing the next thing I need to do. Into uncertainty.

Zero to “F#!k You” in 5 Seconds

30 Thursday Jan 2025

Posted by in Life Lessons, Living Life on Life's Terms, Personal Development

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It’s a long story and I’ll do my best to make it shorter – but if you know me, or have read my stuff, you know you’re in for a tale.

We (I) wanted a new dining room table. It would be my first. Not a hand-me-down. Not one owned by him before we got married (which wouldn’t happen anyway; he only had a coffee table). We were hosting Thanksgiving at my home for sixteen family members. SIXTEEN!

I asked husband what he wanted in a dining room table – his DREAM table. He replied that he’d like a rectangle shape, nor rounded corners. Pedestal legs, not corner legs. And an extension leaf in the middle, so we could make it longer or shorter. Oh, and he wanted a minimum of 7 feet in length. I wanted cushioned chairs. We searched the internet and actually found one that we liked. We went to the furniture store to purchase said table. We wanted to see the showroom model, but they didn’t have the space to show every piece in their catalog. Okay, we said.

We pay. We set a delivery date. We wait. I didn’t read the fine print.

The table arrives on October 30. The delivery team is polite, friendly, and seem to do a fine job in setting up the table. They ask, would we like them to install the extension leaf or leave it out. At the time, we thought nothing of the question, as it was our first NEW dining room table delivery. We looked it over when they were done. It looked lovely, sitting there in the space we’d made. I imagined our family around the table in a few weeks, enjoying a meal together. All my children would be under the same roof for the first time in seventeen years!

Having given the delivery team the okay to leave, and a generous tip, they departed. I dusted off the table and sat in one of those cushy chairs to admire it. That’s when I saw it. There was a HUGE dent the extension leaf. WTF!

We immediately contacted the furniture store, who redirected us to claims, and a replacement table was scheduled for a week before Thankgiving.

Here’s where the real fun began, and how I lost my shit on a customer service rep.

The second table delivered came with a warped extension leaf and one of the table-top surfaces was not finished. The delivery team said they’d enter a claim immediately, and left. I contacted the store again, to make my complaint known. An assessment technician appointment was scheduled so another person from the store could confirm our new claim. After that tech came to visit, confirmed our claim, took photos and spoke to his supervisor, he assured us that the claim was valid and that we’d receive a new table.

Following that meeting, we received some very frustrating communications from the call center, first to send another technician out to confirm what the first technician confirmed, then to schedule a delivery instead.

We scheduled the table delivery for three separate occasions, each canceled because: 1) they didn’t recieve a replacement table in time for delivery (Dec. 23), 2) the table they did receive was damaged and could not be delivered (Dec. 30), and 3) the table they were going to deliver was damaged by the delivery team as they were loading it onto the truck. That was on January 16.

On January 15, I received an email confirming our delivery. On January 16, I received a text message from the delivery team at 7:30 am telling me they were on their way. It was almost too good to be true. I felt a glimmer of hope that this ordeal (which it felt like) was almost over. And then, at 8:30 am, I got a call from another call center person telling me that the table was damaged while being loaded onto the truck. Yeah. I lost it. My composure, my finesse, my kindness. I yelled, I swore, I ranted about all the issues since the first delivery. He offered to reschedule a delivery and I hung up on him. Not my best moment. But wait, it gets worse before it gets better.

Realizing my error, I called the customer care number back, and when another call center person answered, and asked how they could help me, I launched my tirade onto them. I hadn’t cooled down nearly enough to attempt a reasonable conversation with them. And they hung up on me. Ugh.

Third time is a charm, they say. And it was. I did some deep breathing. I reminded myself of the person I wish to be in all situations. Calm, reasonable, not a doormat, and not an asshole. I was calm, I stuck to the facts, and the call center person filed ANOTHER claim and told me that someone would contact me for a rescheduled delivery in a couple of days.

The reschedule request came in the form of an email. I scheduled the delivery electronically. And I let all that shit go. I relayed all that transpired to husband and laughed at myself, at the absurdity of my behavior. It’s a fucking table. Was I frustrated about the number of delays? Yes. The incompetence of the delivery teams? Hell, yes. Was all of that out of my control? Obviously.

Yesterday the newest table was delivered. There is a blemish in the tabletop, a stain, as if a drop of the wood sealer wasn’t wiped clean in time. And the extension leaf is flush with the table (yay) and yet there is a small gap between one corner of the extension leaf and the table. I conceeded to the Universe and I accepted the table as it is. Because it’s just a fucking table. A lesson. An object that reminds me how little control I really have over everything by my response. A reminder that I get to choose who I want to be in this world, that I get to pick my battles. This battle is over.

I will be meeting with the store manager though.

Thanks for reading.

When She Comes A Callin’ – A True Story

15 Wednesday Jan 2025

Posted by in Living Life on Life's Terms

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I’m sitting on the couch, legs crossed, feet tucked under my thighs, the image of Sleeping Beauty’s castle on a fleece throw covering my lap. My chamomile tea sits on the coffee table, steaming in a colorful mug. I’m waiting for it to cool. I open my book to the marked page, ready to dive back into the tale unfolding when she walks in. She stops when she sees me, stares at me with unblinking green eyes. A full stretch, first front legs, then back legs. Feline yoga poses. She proceeds forward and is up on the couch without a sound save the small silver bell around her neck. Sitting on her haunches at my knee, her back to me, she waits patiently for the strokes she is expecting, though her demeanor suggests I’m no concern of hers. I reach out and run my hand through her soft grey fur. I reach up a bit more to give her chin a scratch and she leans into it, maneuvering her head so I have access to her favorite spot just under her left ear. As if I’ve hit a switch she first leans to the left, then falls silently to her side, an indicator that she requires a full rubdown. I comply. She is sweet, accepting. At first. Then she bats a paw at my hand. “No bites,” I tell her. I continue to pet her. She licks my hand, an indicator that an attack is emminent. I pull my hand back, hoping to short circuit her predatory urge. It’s too late. She rolls over to face me, in the pose. I reach toward her scruff, again hoping to deter her, but she lunges, claws protruding, and as she wraps her front legs around my forearm, claws bared, sinking her teeth in deep, I wonder again, “why do I have a cat?”

(no animals were harmed in the writing of this story. based on true events. she still lives here, by the way.)

If You Want To Be A Writer . . .

09 Thursday Jan 2025

Posted by in Living Life on Life's Terms, Writing

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Stephen King’s advice whenever anyone asks him what it takes to be a writer is to JUST WRITE. Write consistently, write all the time. Write. Write. Write. Doesn’t mean you’ll reach the level Mr. King reached, but if you don’t write, you’ll never know.

I AM a writer. When I sit down and take a stab at putting words to the page, I’m a writer. (I’ve actually written a total of ONE book, published.) I love to edit. (I’ll admit here: I do edit spelling and punctuation. The ideas though, no planning and very little forethought this time around.) I also love to “dump.” (That’s writing whatever comes and leaving it be. See: this blog so far.)

This week’s writing brings my attempt at being consistent in writing weekly dumps to WEEK FOUR. As in, I’ve posted something four weeks IN A ROW. I aimed for Wednesday as my weekly writing day. Two of those Wednesdays landed on holidays. And yesterday I was driving home from a visit, and the thought didn’t occur to me until it was too late to write (my brain was mush). And, here we are.

There were ideas during the past week of what I might write about that never really stuck. I’d like to delve into fiction, make up a story. I used to be really prolific as a teenager, writing multi-character tales in spiral notebook after spiral notebook about a tough female police detective and the two men who vied for her affections while she solved complex crimes.

I also heard a really good line in someone else’s book about tree seeds and the need for fire to allow those seeds to sprout and make new seeds by breaking down the protective hulls, and how often humans have to go through the fire (breakdown) in order to grow stronger (heal), and I thought I could make that into something deep and meaningful (I still could).

In the end, I decided to just write about writing. By actually writing. I’ve written many poems, which were all written during painfully emotional periods of my life. I have tried to write poems during times of joy, but it never conveys my feelings in quite the same way as sorrow and despair do.

Here is a poem I wrote after my sister took her life:

My feelings of sorrow. Her life cut short.

That’s part of what it takes to be a writer, I think. Being able to dig in to the real feelings and emotions and being willing to share that honesty, even when it hurts. Want to write a love story? Remember all the truths of your feelings and emotions in the triumphs and challenges of being in a relationship. Want to write a novel about a tough female police detective? Watch a LOT of television crime dramas.

Oh, watching a show (movie, television, shorts on YouTube, whatever) and writing. Last night husband and I watched an episode of a show with an idea that a planet is hiding inside of a space storm. What a fantastic idea for a story!! Except that it’s been done, and I’d want it to be original and fresh. Which it can be if I wait a while and carve out a plot in which this idea has a great story. Why would a planet need to hide in a manufactured space storm?

Stuff like that, ideas for stories and poems, is all around us. In real life and in movies that were already produced.

I’m running out of steam and words and ideas. For now. Plus, I want to eat lunch. And since I’m not holding these and editing them, now seems as good a time as any to wrap it up.

Let me mention those “likes” pages from last week’s post before I go: Fox Reviews Rock, Dirty SciFi Buddha, Coach Esther, The Autodidact Professor, and Maia. Each of these pages is unique. Maia hasn’t posted anything new in a while, but they keep liking my stuff. Perhaps something will inspire new works.

Thanks for stopping by.

Living As A Fictional Character

01 Wednesday Jan 2025

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First day of 2025. It’s a Wednesday. Today is a Wednesday. The first Wednesday of the next 365 days on Earth.

Yesterday during a support meeting someone shared about writing a personal behavior inventory. That speaker talked about the loneliness and isolation they felt early on in their addiction recovery. That share reminded me of a couple of things: the loneliness I felt during most of my life and, how much I’ve changed over my lifetime. The thought that came while the speaker was sharing was this: What was the story I wrote about myself early on that led to that feeling of loneliness and isolation in my late thirties?

My life was fiction. I made it up as I went along and eventually I believed it. The marijuana and the beer helped a lot, as a coping mechanism, a social lubricant, and a way to believe the stories I told. I never wanted anyone to know the truth about the house I lived in, the fear we felt or the helplessness we experienced. I experienced. So I made up a new, powerful version of myself. All my stories, that truly ended in tragedy or heartache were transformed into epics where I was the hero. I said the things I was thinking to the people who needed to hear them. I kicked the asses. I fired the weapons. I had the best adventures. And it was all fiction. Well, most all of it.

I did steal a car when I was fifteen. In fact, I stole that car twice. (That’s not actually true, stealing the same car twice. I meant to steal it a second time – I still had the key from the first time – but we got picked up for breaking curfew before we could go get the car.)

I ran away a handful of times and put my trust in people who couldn’t be trusted.

I brawled once with my stepbrother in our garage on a day when we’d both had quite enough of what our parents were modeling as appropriate behavior. The fight came to a draw and we both felt a lot better. Afterward we went back into the house to play a board game.

The point to this post is this: I made up my life to impress you and to protect me. And when I experienced that loneliness, that isolation, that LACK of connection, I realized yesterday, sitting in that room, that I created that. How COULD you know me? Everything you thought you knew about me was a lie. I didn’t know who I really was. How could I expect to connect with anyone?

I spent that first year of my sobriety trying everything that I knew I’d once enjoyed. I tried cross stitch and crossword puzzles, and regular puzzles; painting and card making and photography. I read more. I discarded the things that no longer lit me up. And I did more of the things that I enjoyed.

I also learned how to make friends and discern real friends from folks who were still working an angle.

Over a decade I uncovered all the stories I’d told that I’d enhanced to shed me in a beautiful, badass light – like when I told people that in high school I kicked the asses of these two guys who spit on my friend’s sister because she was different, awkward, not outwardly attractive – factually, there WERE two guys, and they DID spit on my friend’s sister, but I did nothing, and I suppose I wish I had, so I told the story differently. So many little lies like that, so many tweaks, that I had to correct within myself, share with those who understood, so I wouldn’t have to carry that crap around anymore. I still run scenarios in my head about what I could have said to sound brave or courageous or cool, and sometimes when I tell people the first part of a story, the true part, I also tell them how I wish I’d responded, followed by, “but that was just what I thought. I didn’t actually say it.”

I’ve learned how to say what I need to say, to stand up for myself and others, without being mean or shaming or demeaning to others. I live a non-fiction life now. It not nearly as exciting sounding, but it is real.

When you talk to me today, you’re gonna get ME. You can take it or leave it, and I hope you’ll realize I’m a work in constant, never-ending progress. And if I do slip and tell a tale, I will correct it most likely before I even finish telling it.

That’s about it for today.

Oh, before I go: Last week SIX people “liked” my post “Depression, Grief and Holidays” which is more than the week before so I want to acknowledge them here: Storyshucker, Inner Peace, Object Relations, Tiny Hearts, Coach Esther, and Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha. Check them out and share the love!

Thanks for the read! See you when another idea strikes me.

Depression, Grief and Holidays

27 Friday Dec 2024

Posted by in Slice of Life, Thoughts, Writing

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It’s been a long December.

First, a shout out to Inner Peace and Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha for a “Like” on my last post. Apparently, the only two people who read it. So my anonymity is safe.

Context (it might help): In October 2023 my younger sister (46) took her life while not in her right mind. It was shocking and confusing and painful, to say the least. Her death affected her father, her brothers, her two daughters, her mother, my children, her boyfriend, her ex-boyfriends, friends and colleagues, etc., etc., etc. It affected us each differently, of course, and we all handled it to the best of our ability.

Since this is my “journal” and I only truly know my experience, I’ll stick with me. My sister killed herself right after her birthday, and before the holidays, so the holidays took on a weird slant. People who didn’t lose a family member continue through life much like they did before. I did not.

My routines changed drastically. I forgot to eat, to dress, to shower, often. For months. I tried to wrap my head around the incongruent nature between the person I knew and the person who killed her. She told me what she wanted me to hear about her life, all the good stuff, the accomplishments, the positive forward momentum, and none of the real stuff – the suffering, the struggling, the despair.

First, I told myself I didn’t know her at all, how could I mourn a lie. Then I realized that there were a hundred signs in hindsight, and how was it that I didn’t see the signs. There was a brief time of “If only…” and “What if I’d…” Finally, I touched on the person I did know and how much I loved her before and miss her now. And then the anniversay of her death came. And following that, those holidays.

But last year, when Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas happened, my sister was gone for a minute and I was still processing – so I was numb, confused, in DEEP grief, and not handling life in the same way.

So this holiday season rolls around, a year later, and I host Thanksgiving. A BIG to do. Sixteen family members in my house. We had a great few days. Then they all left. And sometime during mid-December, while I’m doing the Christmas thing – baking, gift buying, wrapping, decorating (albeit, much lower key than I have in the past) – I dip. Emotionally, I dip LOW. I don’t want to get out of bed, or shower, or be festive.

I am so grateful to my friend for her suggestion that I PLAN the baking ahead of time and only do what I think I am reasonably capable of doing. I did the same for the gift buying and wrapping. I believe having certain things to do FOR Christmas helped me get through the end of the month. There was a lot of spontaneous crying – both quietly and not so quietly – and odd sleep patterns. And I moved like molasses. My husband was kind, ready for hugs and those sudden tears, and helpful when I remembered to ask for help.

Many people experience challenges during the holidays for a large variety of reasons. This year was no different. The way I approached it was though.

This year I was kinder to myself. I went more slowly. I practiced intentionality more deeply than I have before. I FELT those feelings, I journaled how I was feeling and the weird thoughts I had. I gave myself grace that I wasn’t living life like I had been before my sister died.

That was a big one, a great realization: I was waiting for the day when I felt – emotionally – like I had before she died. I didn’t put a date on that day, but I did expect it. And it hit me, on Sunday, December 22, 2024, that I was NEVER going to feel the same or be the same or do things the same way as I did before she died. Her death, that violent and unexpected act, changed me. Changed everyone who loved her, who was close to her. And ain’t none of us EVER gonna be the same.

Holding that thought, I moved through the last few days up to Christmas knowing I could do this one day at a time thing. And now Christmas is closed, and the new year looms up ahead.

I GET TO pick and choose what my life will look like tomorrow, carrying the grief, wearing it like a loose garment if you’ll allow me that phrase, walking with the grief in a way I hadn’t before. And I don’t know what all that looks like yet, what parts of me I’d like to leave behind and what new innovation I’d like to incorporate into my Self. I have a few ideas though. I’m going to slow down – my speech, my movement, my thoughts, my actions. I’m going to call more people and text them less. I may let some people go. Even go so far as to delete them from my contact list. I’m going to return to photography with an actual SLR camera. I’m going to create more, experiment more and make more mistakes. That’s a start.

Depression is hard to manage. I have the tools though.

Grief is the heaviest emotion I’ve carried, and I’m still here. Better? Different, Changed.

Christmas. It comes once a year for most people. I’m going to practice carrying the spirit of Christmas – good will toward my fellow humans, love, peace, joy, and definitely tolerance – every day, best as I can.

The tears are coming again. Gotta go. Thanks for stoppin’ by.