fear...

There's a C.S. Lewis quote that I've probably posted here many many times. In it he says that no one told him grief felt so much like fear.

There is so much fear.

It occurred to me last night that the ever present pain now has a close companion. Fear, fear, and more fear...

There are the fears you probably expect.

When I rock my rainbow before bed it always takes many minutes of talking myself into laying him down because of the fear that he wont wake up. When he wonders into another room and I realize that he is quiet my heart screams every step to find him because I fear that something horrible will have happened. Every four months when the blood work comes back I fear the worst. I fear that his body will start losing a battle with the world...

There are those fears, then there are these:

I fear conversation. I fear small talk and "how are you?" I fear being alone because it is then that the darkness can find me but I fear being with people because I can't fake it like I used to. I fear losing yet another friend because I am just too much to handle. I fear people's unconsidered, thoughtless, or judgmental words... because they hurt like hell. I fear those many, many moments when the words just wont come, when I can't remember why I am where I am, or what the names of things are. I fear being perceived as a jerk because I just can't operate in the world like you can. I fear the panic attacks, the helplessness, the ever crashing waves. I am terrified to celebrate that my rainbow has turned TWO because what if that is the end? What if whatever force or being that runs the world notices that he is growing, and loved, and helping to heal his broken parents?

My world is entirely ruled by fear and I have no idea what to do about it.
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I know no other thing to say but to ask again that you, who allow this kind of pain and confusion into your life when you read my words, be kind because everyone you meet is fighting a hard battle.

I hurt... I fear... I hurt...

Until next time...

I carry him...

In one of my classes we are studying the endocrinology of development, specifically what hormones are involved in sexual differentiation. As part of our assigned reading we read an article about many of the ways a person can be an intermediate between the sexes. One of the things we read about is called a michrochimera.

Turns out that during gestation fetal stem cells cross the placenta into the maternal circulation and that these cells incorporate themselves into the maternal system. The fetal cells have been detected, living and functioning, in a woman as old as 94.

When I read this I was in scientist mode and my mind went off on a tangent about how that could work... biologically speaking. I mean seriously, HOW does that work. Cells that are genetically different from the body are working as part of the body. Cool.

Today, while I was sitting in class, my instructor said "So a mother carries cells from every fetus she has ever carried." and I lost it.

It hit me.

I carry him with me.

I LITERALLY carry him with me, physically.

Nothing will every make Damon's death better, or ok, or his absence any less agonizing but I am holding on to this with everything I have.

I carry him...

Every Second, Every Minute, Every Day

I miss you

mediocre

So, I have PTSD... ya'll knew that... I knew that

I had a full on panic attack on Friday but that's the first I've had in months. I can go to the grocery store and restaurants (I even order for myself now). I can even do that really horrible "how are you?" "Fine, you?" bull crap now. (Though today someone asked how I'm doing and I said "shitty" and they didn't know what to say for a full minute... I guess sometimes I can't do it). Long ramble short, I've come a long way back into society. I think I was starting to believe that I'm functioning pretty close to "normally."

I've always had to work hard to learn. I'm not a hear it once, got it kind of kid (my hubby is). Knowledge is hard won for me but I've always functioned really naturally in an academic environment. This is the first semester since I've come back to school that I've had a truly full plate. I'm teaching, taking classes, and researching... and its kicking my butt.

I'm not new to this either. I was a single parent through much of my master's work. I put in nearly a full year on my PhD before Damon's death. Sure, it was hard but I rarely felt like I just couldn't hack it.

My brain is broken.

I was told by a few therapists before I gave up on the whole therapy thing that my mind is fractured. Because I can't deal with my memories of Damon's death I've partitioned it off, thrown up iron walls surrounded by a moat filled with crocodiles... you get the picture... and that this dividing of my mind prevents it from working correctly. I believe them. I believed them then. Believing them doesn't make me any more likely to walk back into those memories, but I believe.

I believed them because of the panic attacks, the incessant crying, the constant fear, the all consuming ever-present hurt.

But only in the past few months have I started to realize that the damage is not only emotional.

I regularly forget words, as in five or six times in a day, words like "door" and "computer" not to mention "argenine vassopressin" or "dompamenergic neuron." Everyday. I can't remember where I parked my car and perhaps most frightening of all to an academic, I cannot incorporate new information. I can learn it but I can't get it to sink down into me. It just sits there on the surface, tickling my mind when I try to go find it.

So I'm asking myself the question... can I deal with being mediocre? Can I accept average (really below average for a PhD). If I face the fact that I simply am not the person that I was in all ways, including my intelligence and capability, what does that mean? Can I still do this?

I don't know.

Until next time...

So sensitive..

Don't be so sensitive

Let it roll off of your back

Get a thicker skin...

The last is my (least)favorite.

I have no skin. I walk through the word with virtually no emotional armor or resilience. If you take me down you take me down for days.

I feel every word. I feel every look, every snarl, every slight.

It hurts.

People often tell those of us who walk through the world emotionally vulnerable to be "thicker skinned." It's possible to develop thicker skin, as in your real physiological body covering skin. You can do it. On parts of your body that are exposed to constant wear the skin will thicken... As it thickens you lose some of the sensation, you lose a great deal of the flexibility, the color changes. In the end it looks and feels nothing like the original skin. It is protective. It serves its purpose well.

I honestly don't know if I could do this emotionally or not. I know there are people who have. There are people who, in self preservation, have thickened. They have lost much of their ability to feel. In the process they have become very inflexible and, perhaps, to those who knew them before, unrecognizable. You probably know them, too.

Sometimes I really really wish I were thicker. EVERYTHING hurts. People are angry and opinionated and mean. Speaking about things people don't want to hear makes me a target.


But... some people are genuine and kind and honest.

Some people entrust me with their truth... their own deep hurt

Some people sacrifice their time and energy to raise money for Damon's Dance

Some people never forget, never stop, ever offer their support


If I grew that thicker skin, built that wall of armor that protects me from the mean and angry and opinionated would I still cry out of an overwhelming gratitude to the amazing women who organized a Damon's Dance fundraiser? Would I still be a person my friends can trust with their hearts? Would I still be able to feel it when people purposely poor their love and affection into me? Would I be closer or further from the woman, wife, mother that I want to be?


It sucks to be so sensitive. I really sucks to be a deeply sensitive woman trapped in a body with a very, overly, obnoxiously honest one... seriously. But even if I could turn it off (and I don't think I can) I don't think I would be willing to accept what that would do to the rest of me.

Much like grief, sensitivity is not an illness. It is not something that needs to be changed. It is not a weakness any more than aching for a child I will never hold again is a weakness. It just is.

Until next time...

The one where I call some people out...

I spend a lot of time working in places like Panera... I'm pretty niche-y about where my brain works.

I hear a lot of conversations about church, god, faith... etc.

These conversations have stimulated a lot of thought and a lot of pain. I'm trying to decide if I have the courage to publish my rather extensive and, honestly, quite critical thoughts as I've been writing them for the past year or so. I haven't decided yet.

Quite frankly I don't know if I can emotionally withstand the potential backlash. Ya'll all know I'm barely holding it together as is.

But I will say this:

No one, I repeat, NO ONE wants to be your mission.

We are people.

The bereaved.

The broken.

The addicted.

The atheist.

The agnostic.

The angry.

The wounded.

The smelly.

We. Are. People.

We are not your project. We are not your obligation.

Wanna hurt someone? Make them your "mission."

Enough said.

Until next time...

Facetiming Rainbows

The Rainbow baby has discovered facetime...

I don't even know where to start here so I guess I'll just go all brain diarrhea on you and hope it makes sense.

I honestly don't even remember the first time he facetimed but clearly it made an impression. Yesterday He brought my phone to me chanting "Papa... Papa... PAPA!!!" at least twenty times. He wants to call his Papa Bear (his name is Barry... you get it). We called Papa and Grams, who dutifully answered and tried mightily to have a conversation with an almost two year old who mostly giggled, said "Papa!" and "Bye!" He was so persistent I asked them to make videos of themselves talking to him. They did and he watched them at least thirty times each. He also insisted we call his Aunt Angi, by name (genius baby).

We tried to get a video of him watching the videos and talking to them (because we're modern parents) but he has some sort of 6th baby sense and stops doing anything adorable or video-worthy the second any recording device is activated. Seriously, how does he know?

Today I thought the videos would satisfy his facetime obsession. It was not to be. He got into my facetime app on his own (again, my baby is a genius) and started with the chanting "Papa!" We facetimed with his Papa! and Grams twice today and only because I started hiding my phone.

So... if you are in my contacts and you start getting random facetime requests if you answer you will likely find an absolutely adorable baby staring back at you, maybe asking for his Papa! or maybe just saying "Hi-eeeee" and "bye!" repeatedly with no intention of actually hanging up.

This has been the highlight of my weekend truth be told.

We're starting hell month and things will get really dark. I'm so glad that my rainbow is such a bright fire inside me.

Until next time...