shifting sand

What do I do? What do I do when I have no idea what to do, when the spinning in my head won’t stop and my body won’t move? I come here, here to the blinking cursor and I write. I write and I write…

I’m devastated today. Saturdays are usually ‘good’ days. When I open my eyes my husband is still beside me. We spend the morning lying in bed, talking, not talking, whatever until hunger drives us out. He’s home. He doesn’t have to drive an hour and fifteen minutes to teach Zoology or Physiology. He’s mine. It’s one of my favorite times.

But lately my restlessness has been nearly impossible to quell. I can’t sit still… but there’s nothing to do.

The past month things inside of me have started to shift. It’s been confusing. It’s made me irritable and even more irrational. I’m naturally an introvert. I think that would surprise a lot of people but it’s true. Even in college I was much more contented on my bed with a good book than mingling with the crowds. When I’m wounded my reclusiveness is amplified and after Damon’s death I was completely nonfunctional. People, probably more than anything, freaked.me.out. I could not converse. I’ve never been good at ‘small talk.’ I’m far too impatient and blunt. I think a lot of things that people are so concerned with are downright stupid (always have) but for the past year it wasn’t just that I didn’t like it I couldn’t do it.

I couldn’t think. I didn’t care.

But here I am realizing that for the last few weeks I’ve undulated between craving human interaction and being thoroughly confused by the feeling. I’ve been thinking things like ‘who am I?’ ‘what do I have now?’  I’m jealous of my husband who has a purpose every day, who gets up and goes to a job, who uses his mind and his education, who single handedly supports us. I want to contribute. I miss having a life… and for that I feel guilt. 

The new person I seem to become every few months confuses me. Nothing is stable inside of me, everything is shifting sand.

Fear… it rules my life. To do anything is to battle it and often to do nothing is to succumb.

What if I can’t? What if I try and I fail? Fear…

I’m not who I was… who do I want to be? I have to remake myself according to an entirely new set of rules and I have to do that without my child. Can I?

This sucks. Today is black… deep, dark, black.

Until next time.    

What love looks like

 I don't have a picture of the people who prayed for 24 hours or the circle of friends who stood on our front lawn and sang last night while we sat on out bed and sobbed but that's what love looks like.

Damon's Dance Application

The application is finally up. Thanks so so many people's hard work we have $10k to give away to adoptive families. Hanging on to this good for dear life.

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Damon's Dance Adoption Application link

the gray

I just got out of bed… it’s 5pm. I just laid there and stared, at nothing, at everything… and thought and thought and thought. The thinking is dangerous but sometimes I’m just too tired not to. I’m sad. I’m so so so sad.

And here I am, sitting in this chair staring at the blinking cursor on this screen. I’m drawn here like an addict, like I’m going to find something here I didn’t find the last 200 times I dumped out the black tar from my heart and sifted through it.

Maybe I do. Maybe when I write I sort through things on some level maybe that’s why I’m here, again.

I’m so ripped apart, so torn, so whipped by the ravages of grief. The trying to live while dying is the hardest thing I’ve ever done. Maybe it’s more like living while dead. I died. I died a year ago Wednesday. I lay down in that grave with my son and I never came out. Yet some ghost of that person sits here today. That person is torn between the devastation, ache, missing and loss that is her life and the new life kicking at her ribs with every ounce of strength his little feet can muster. I’m torn between the relieved smiles when he moves and the memories of when Damon didn’t.

I exist in the world between. The space between life and death. Days like today when my soul leans, longs, aches for death’s side produce angst and guilt because of the lives loving me from the other side. Because I know what that feels like, to be left behind. And still my heart aches to be with my son. My arms ache for him. My soul cries for him and for the thousandth time I cry out ‘why?!’

From the gray…

kicking, screaming and tsunamis

Some days I’m just pissed. Today is one of those days. I’m not mad. I’m not angry. I’m pissed. I want to scream and cry and kick and cuss and throw things. I’m pissed.

I’m pissed that this is real, that this is my life. I’m pissed at the suffocating cloud that has descended onto my house snuffing out laughter and conversation and nearly suffocating those who are just trying to survive this hellish month.

When things get really bad, when there aren’t words, when we’re short and snappy and inconsolable Will and I have taken to just saying “I hate life and I love you.”

I saw a tattoo last night. I like tattoos and piercings and all manner of things people get judged for. This particular tat said “It doesn’t get better. You just get better at handling it.” This is the truth people absolutely do not want to hear. I think an enormous part of the awkwardness and avoidance bereaved parents experience is plain and simple fear. If it could happen to me it could happen to you. I’m a reminder that life isn’t as sunny and perfect as you want it to be. The fact that I refuse to say it gets better, that the pain lessens, that the screaming ache in my chest ever subsides is even more terrifying. It doesn’t get better. Some days I’m better at handling it. Some days I’m not. Today I’m pissed.

Today I started a baby registry. I needed to DO something.

I’ve been running myself into the ground this month. I’ve been going as hard as my doctor and husband would let me. I’ve had ten different DIY and organization projects going. Partly because I’m nesting but mostly because I’m running. A few nights ago I was throwing-two-year-old–fits-tired and my husband confined me to bed to rest. “You’re exhausted baby, REST!”

The movement stopped and the tsunami of grief hit me like an unblocked J.J. Watt.

Over the past few days since I’ve been thinking about running. Why do I run from it? It always catches me, always. It catches me, holds me down and drives its white hot and ice cold stakes through every inch of my heart, soul and body. There’s nothing I can do about it. The MISSING, the pain, the ache, the guilt. Torture.

Maybe someday I will sit and wait for the wave. Maybe someday I will not run myself into the ground only to fall exhausted into the teeth of the oncoming ravages but something occurred to me when I was berating myself for running. Its human nature. If you were released into an enclosure with wild animals and you knew somehow that they would definitely, without question catch you in the end you would still run. I sure would. So I run.  

Every day is hard. Every minute. Every breath but this month sucks exceptionally. I’ve wondered if we should be doing something. I’ve read about people who have balloon releases or tree plantings. I don’t want to commemorate the most horrific day of my life. I want it to cease to exist. I want someone to sedate me and I want to wake up in April. The only thing I really want to do is a tattoo. I want to get a simple mark, I’ve considered slashes like whip marks and dandelion seeds because they remind me of him, but something every year. Something painful, something that says I don’t forget who was taken from me on this day. A mark for every year. This year I can’t because I’m growing Damon’s little brother but I will. I will make sure I’m marked. Every year.

Until next time…

Successes and failures in domesticity

I promised you successes and failures on my journey to hyper-domesticity. Here are a few.

A few weeks ago Isaiah and I attempted from scratch cinnamon rolls. He loves the things but all of the pre-packaged stuff has dairy and monohexapentagobblygook so I set out to make beautiful rolls. We did it together and it was a lot of fun but as you can see they turned out a little different than we expected. It's ok. They tasted fantastic

Before

After

This one I am particularly proud of. The hubs has been in need of a side table for his favorite chair for, well, ever. I found the drawer at ReStore for $.92, the legs at my favorite little flea-market (read pile of junk, happy digging!) for $6 (for all 4), already had the drawer pull and got the material for the top for $2.92/yard. I love it. Orange!!!

Before

After

Already had this chair (and two more just like it that are on their way to becoming a bench), just paint, fabric and some more paint. I did the little blue detail myself. I saw fabric like this at JoAnns for $16.99/yard. I loved it but wasn't about to pay for it so I broke out my brushes. I'm still debating adding some orange to the design but for now this beauty is our computer chair. 

Sorry I don't have the before for this one. It was a red full height table sitting in our back yard. Now its and ottoman/coffee table. Can you see the living room theme now? (Ignore the junk all over the floor. The living room is also my 'studio').

I'm off to pack a lunch (speaking of domesticity).

Until next time....

That rant you've been waiting for

WARNING - this post is about pregnancy and contains words like *butt* *cellulite* *crap* and *stretch marks* and I'm in a particularly defiant mood, proceed at your own risk <3

So, you know how when you're pregnant you gain weight... everywhere?

Yeah, me too. Lately I've become more and more infuriated by the seeming barrage of 'perfect body' images... everywhere!

Little known Jodie fact: I battled anorexia in my late teens and early twenties. I got (like scary) skinny... and stayed that way... for a while. I can't speak for anyone else who's battled this particular demon but I will say for me that you don't wake up one day 'not anorexic.' The thought patterns and insecurities that drove you there in the first place are always dancing around the edges of your healthy self image waiting for a chink in your armor.

Right now I got a lot a chinks.

When you're devastated, deeply bereaved, wholly bereft everything is a battle, everything. It becomes easy for the dancing demons to find chinks.

I have to live the rest of my life without my child. I vowed not to give a crap about crap that doesn't matter, never again. I'm not saying my body doesn't matter. I'm not saying fitness, health and body image don't matter. They do. I'm a bit of fitness junkie. I LOVE to work out from the burn during to the endorphins after. I love it.

But lately I'm feeling triggered. I'm feeling triggered by images of women who's bodies are labelled 'ideal.' I'm being triggered by the media's obsession with celebrities who dare to gain weight while growing their child and even more so with the ones who apparently don't. I feel the pressure of an unattainable expectation. That crap doesn't matter and it pisses me off.

I seriously feel like all of us with curves, stretch marks, cellulite, bumps and bulges (aka real bodies) should start posting pictures so the world knows variety is ok.

Lastly what really motivated this post was the perception by many I know that I do not struggle with body issues, that I do not gain weight while pregnant and that my post baby body magically appears upon hospital exit. The LAST thing I want to be is another pressure point. God forbid!

So here it is... Obviously as a former active anorexic I have body issues. I totally gain weight while pregnant. I just happen to be nearly 6ft tall so it may be a bit less obvious. I currently have that scene from The Backup Plan where Jennifer Lopez's character whines "I want my old butt back!!" repeatedly running through my head. (If you like RomCom and haven't seen it you should). Seriously, saddle bags, love handles, cellulite, the works. Finally, I know as a woman I'm supposed to be self deprecating and insist that I'm always fat and I always need to lose 5lbs and never ever admit that I actually think I look good. Sorry but I guess I'm not up for that crap. After delivery (I gained roughly 30-35lbs with each of my previous 10 month excursions into crazyville) I bust my a**. Seriously, I work HARD. I cut out junk and eat super clean and absolutely bust my tail. It's not magic. It's work. Annnnnddddddd.... I think I look pretty dang good.

Life is so so so hard. I'm not willing to put up with this bull anymore. If you're rock'n a super toned, crazy fit bod, awesome. If you're rock'n curves, awesome. I'm gonna work on staying in a healthy place in my head and keeping my shield up.

Until next time...

Silent Screams

I have so much on my mind lately. I'm swinging wildly between spurts of constant motion - go go go - to a complete paralysis of inactivity, sometimes soaked in sobs  sometimes cloaked in black. It's March. I have more than a few dirty words for March. Hey March, go to hell! I'm sick with the impending 27. The memories are coming faster, angrier, more insistent  I can't push the images away. What will 27 be like? Hell... it will be like hell.

My mind is all over the place, running, rambling  ranting. Everywhere from my fury over my triggering body issues (thanks media!) to the obvious, my missing baby, my Damon. The body issues rant is coming but it is so secondary...

Damon, it's been almost a year. A year...

There are no words.

I've noticed something. Those of you dragging yourself down this horrifying path tell me if you've noticed something similar. The silence.

I don't mean the awkward silence, or the deafening silence but the sort of knowing silence of the bereaved. I've noticed that those of us who know say so little. When my man and I lay in the tangle of each other's arms, grieving, we say virtually nothing. The pain is too deep. The loss is too much. The two friends I have who I speak with regularly who have had to say goodbye waaaay too soon are similar. Few words. Most of the words that are spoken are simple acknowledgements. "I know. I know"

I value this.

I've found that most everything else feels like a contradiction. Those words of "encouragement" just seem like arguments. People, good, kind, loving people just want to make it better. There is no making this better.

This leads me to the silent screams. I'm pretty sure we all have them. What are yours?

I thought I'd share mine. You see, there are audible screams... there are times when I moan, scream, rant and cry but those times are rare these days. The pain masters me in those times and I rarely allow it to do so anymore. Its just too awful. But the silent screams... those I wear every single day.

Damon had a book that he loved. A book of colors. Each page featured a color, grey with an elephant and a grey crayon... etc. His FAVORITE page was the orange page. He would grab his book and do his precious little backwards waddle walk into my (or his daddy's) lap and hand me his book. I would start at page one and his impatience would have him insistently flipping half way through the book looking for orange. This didn't really register before he died but after it was something we grabbed on to and have held fiercely  Orange.

Most of my silent screams are orange.

Will and I both wear these simple plastic bracelets. A friend got them for us. I think they were given out at the funeral. I honestly don't remember. I know there are several people who still wear theirs <3 We NEVER take them off, ever, ever. We've each had one break recently but we will find more.

As you can see I also have several pieces of orange jewlery. I usually wear a least one. This was a gift from my adopted 'mama'. I also have one I wear on my left wrist that was a gift from my SIL.

I have 19 orange Freesia flowers tattooed on my left side. The word 'Dance' arches over my hip where my little dancing baby always sat. The final flower rests on my chest where he used to lay his head. This picture was taken the day my tat was completed, the canvas has grown a bit since then!

I used to wear the necklace you can see in this picture every day. When I started to slowly emerge people constantly commented on it. They often pointed out how beautiful my little boy is. It hurt too much and caused me to withdraw so I switched to this necklace. Sorry about the sideways picture... I seriously can't seem to get that figured out. Anyway. I never take it off, ever, ever.

My fingernails and toenails are always painted orange. Please ignore the sloppy job, its getting harder to reach those bad boys!

Recently my cousin added orange streaks to my hair...

Today this ring came in the mail. I cried... It came with an orange business card that read "you make me want to dance." My friend who lost her beloved daughter only a few months before we lost Damon sent it to me. I love you!!

These are some of my silent screams, because the screaming will never stop and because there just aren't words. They sort of help me say "I will never forget. I will never stop missing you. I love you." Most people probably just see and tattooed, orange haired, orange toed misfit but now some of you know.

Until next time...