The broken clock is a comfort, it helps me sleep tonight
Maybe it can stop tomorrow, from stealing all my time
And I am here still waiting, though I still have my doubts
I am damaged at best, like you've already figured out
The broken locks were a warning, you got inside my head
I tried my best to be guarded, I'm an open book instead
And I still see your reflection inside of my eyes
They are looking for purpose, they're still looking for life
I'm falling apart, I'm barely breathing
With a broken heart, that's still beating
In the pain, there is healing, in your name
I find meaning; So I'm holding on, I'm holdin' on
I'm barely holding on to you -Lifehouse
Here I find myself again. That awful, heart-wrenching pain in which it hurts to be awake. I know it all too well. It hurts to breathe. The only relief I find is in sleep, and when I wake up for even just a moment, it hits me all over again. I feel physically ill. I can't bring myself to eat. Once again, I ask that question, Why? God, what are you doing? Can't you give me a break? Really? You can't let ANYTHING good happen to me? I try every day to be a loving person. With every new person that I meet, I do my best to look under the surface. To remember that everyone I meet is fighting some kind of battle. That is one gift Evan gave me; to appreciate everyone, every day. To love people, because you never know how much time with them you will be gifted. There is no doubt in my mind that Evan knew how much I loved him, that he was my hero, because I told him on numerous occasions. I have no regrets. I resolved to keep it that way; to never let a moment pass without telling people how I felt. Family, friends, relationships. I have to fight the urge to feel as though I am being punished for that. I have to remind myself that this is not how God works. He is not punishing me. It is just so, so hard.
You know when you're a kid, and you fall down, and you get the breath knocked out of you? And you're okay, but it's just really scary for a minute. And you have to take long, deep breaths. I feel like I just had the breath knocked out of me. Breathing is a chore, and right now, it's about all I can muster.
And any time pain surfaces in my life, and any kind of loss, it brings back those awful reminders that I just want to block out forever. Those memories of the day we found out, Mom's reaction, that feeling when you know something awful has happened, but you don't know what it is yet; that "I can't tell you over the phone, just please come to the house" statement that I heard from Dad that day; the frantic prayers.."Please, God, don't let it be Evan, or Mom, or anyone else I love so dearly..." I called my friends and told them to just pray. The same feeling I had yesterday, that "it can't be" , blindsided, shocked feeling. A different situation-but that same, gut-wrenching, familiar feeling. That feeling that I know so well. How is that I already, at my age, know that feeling so well? I had to grow up way before I was ever ready to.
You see, this is the price we pay for love. To love some freely, fully, and faithfully is to make yourself completely vulnerable. If you do not make yourself vulnerable, take the risks, and love, then you will tragically, sadly, miserably "under-live" life. Grieving is an inevitable part of being fully alive and living in love, but the risk of grief is no reason not to love. Grief is just the inevitable price we someday pay for a lifetime of intimacy, joy, and love with friends, parents, children, siblings, and spouses(Chuck Poole). Would I take back every memory of Evan, because it hurt so greatly to lose him? Not in a million years. Friends I've lost, as recently as yesterday? Never. All the relationships I've lost? Nope. At the end of the day, I have the LOVE of my Savior above all, who never leaves me. Who holds me through the storm. Who never changes. Who loves me when I sure don't deserve it, when I'm mad at Him, when I believe AND when I doubt. Unconditionally. And on top of it all, He blessed me with a wonderful family and friends.
You know the song "Wear Sunscreen"? Some of the lyrics include, "Don't worry about the future. Or worry, but know that worrying is as effective as trying to solve an algebra equation by chewing bubble gum. The real troubles in your life are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind; the kind that blindsides you at 4 PM on some idle Tuesday." It's true. The things that I worry about endlessly are things that are not likely to happen; the things I never thought would happen are the things that I am blindsided by; that I never expected. And the Matt Kearney song, "She got the call today. One out of the grey. And when the smoke cleared, it took her breath away. She said she didn't believe it could happen to me, I guess we're all phone call from our knees."
We are all a phone call from our knees, aren't we? People kept telling me that they couldn't imagine, when we lost Evan. I thought myself, "I can't do this". Those are the first words I uttered. Here I am today, still doing it. But you know what? You can do it. I can do it. Believe me, if I can do it, anyone can. It made me a stronger person, in fact. Because when you are faced with the unimaginable, when you get that phone call, you don't have a choice but to survive. People are faced with all kinds of situations. My Aunt found the love of her life; 13 years later, my Uncle Bob was killed in a car accident. A close friend of our family faced a life-threatening brain injury 6 months after giving birth to her precious child; She was not expected to live, and she struggles every day through therapy. Without warning, a husband leaves his wife after 4 years of marriage. We are faced with choices in life, and are dealt cards that we never expected and don't want.
Then, and certainly not overnight, but we eventually come to a fork in the road, and we have a choice to make. We can become bitter, sad, miserable people; or we can praise God through the storm. We can be mad for a while, or we can stay mad forever; We can choose to love again, or we can stop loving. We can never let our guard down again, or we can eventually learn to take another risk. I believe that I will make the right choice; I certainly hope so.
I am really just a bunch of contradictions. I think we all are. I shut people out, I let people in, I keep a wall up, I let my guard down, I believe and I doubt, I hope and I get discouraged, I love and I hate(I actually don't hate anyone) , I feel bad about feeling good, I feel guilty about not feeling guilty.
Letting someone in is hard. I don't do it easily. When we lost Evan, I shut everyone out. I didn't realize it at the time. In my dazed world apart from reality, I wasn't aware of it until I came out of the haze and looked back. The bottom line is, it's hard to let people in, especially when we get hurt. I let my guard down-finally, truly, and fully. Did I know there was a risk associated with it? Of course. That's why I was so hesitant. It's never easy to put yourself out there, to be exactly who you are, to refuse to change who you are, to be open and give someone your heart, and to find out that they don't want it. The easy way out is to keep that wall up-if you never let it down, you don't risk the hurt. But if you don't risk the hurt, as Chuck Poole says so eloquently, you will "tragically, sadly, miserably under-live life."
It's interesting when you look back and see the signs. Kind of like I didn't realize I had shut myself off from the world; that the Lord had sent people to carry me through a most horrific time in my life after Evan died. Friends that loved me unconditionally; that continued to show up when I didn't want them there, when all I wanted was to be alone. That still remained my friend when I was so mad about taking stupid medicine that didn't want, that I slammed the water down on my parent's bed. It wasn't until I looked back that I could see it. A couple weeks ago, I just had this awful feeling in the pit of my stomach, that something was wrong. I couldn't put my finger on it, I just didn't feel good. I had to go into my office and just put my head down during lunch. People kept asking me what was wrong, and I honestly didn't know. I just didn't feel like myself. Maybe it was God's way of preparing me; I just didn't know for what.
Eventually, you find that the pain subsides; that you're able to breath a little easier. I just wish it would get here already! Alas, patience in that sense has always been hard for me. I want to feel better NOW. But you have to get it out; you have to grieve, you have to cry and be mad, or it will assuredly come out at some point or another.
And I remind myself: the Lord is all-knowing. It is SO hard to put all your trust in Him; but that is what He calls us to do. My soul wants to lash back, what ARE you doing? I didn't sign up for this!
But you know what? I have survived the unthinkable; an unimaginable tragedy. I can survive this. I am a survivor. God give me the strength to believe those words.
And the good news is, I've finally lost those last few pounds that have been pestering me, all in the last 12 hours! See, there is a silver lining. Thank goodness I haven't lost my sense of humor!
I'll say it again: I AM A SURVIVOR. You are a survivor. We may fight different battles, but we are all survivors.
The Lord will FIGHT for you; You need only to be still." -Exodus 14:14
Tuesday, September 8, 2009
Sunday, March 15, 2009
I just got back from a most incredible weekend at Ft. Stewart. I was so blessed to be there, and I feel like a bit of healing took place. Let me back up though.
Evan's unit just got back from their 15 month deployment. My parents went out to Colorado Springs for the Memorial Service with all of his unit back home. I can only imagine how emotional the experience was for them and Evan's fellow soldiers, but just listening to the stories my parents recounted back to me, even as I cried through them, part of me found peace.
One story I like in particular was one they told of their attempts at promoting Evan. Because of his skill, they wanted to make him a sergeant-Evan said no. They wanted to make him a team leader-Evan said no-but, they made him a team leader anyway. One day that they had training, one of Evan's soldiers was late(this is out at Ft. Carson), and the person above Evan tells him to just smoke the guy(chew him out, in effect). Evan proceeds to do just that-and feels so guilty that he later buys him a steak dinner and takes him to a movie-ah, just like Evan. We both got that guilt gene.
They also said that Evan was just fearless-that he absolutely had no fear. One time they were all hiking up Pike's Peak, and when they got to the halfway house, the people there recommended that they turn around-they were already up to a feet of snow. Evan insisted that they continue up the mountain. He was finally about waist-deep in snow when he was talked into going back down.
I find this so interesting because I am just about the exact opposite of fearless. I have many fears, some that are rational and some that are very irrational. Evan was the closest to anyone on this Earth in terms of DNA to me, and we are very different in that regard. My Aunt reminds me that it has always been that way though-when Evan was a little boy, and we were at the lake, he would beg her to go faster on the jet ski, and to do 360's, while I was begging her to slow down. She didn't know how to explain to me at my age that she had to go at a certain speed to keep the jet ski going straight. Yes, we have always been different in that regard. Evan, always the risk-taker, me-eliminating any possible risk whatsoever. But that's just the way it is-the way it always has been.
They also said Evan was one of the best and fastest runners in the platoon. Apparently he would say his favorite "yo mama" jokes as he passed one of his other friends while they were running. That's another thing-everyone mentioned to my parents how funny Evan was. Some couldn't even hold it together without laughing, they just said Evan was so funny-and his "one-liners" were often over people's heads. They said you couldn't be in a bad mood around Evan-that he always just lifted everyone's spirits.
I have recently gotten back into running, pretty often. I started with a 5K a couple weeks ago, and at that time, I can't even remember the last time I actually ran, but I have been working out pretty consistently. I have to credit my Aunt with this, but she told me one day a month or so ago that when she is in a cycle class pedaling, and she thinks to herself that she can't pedal any further, she pictures Evan in her mind and says to herself, "If Evan had the courage to get up and do what he did every day, I can keep going." And so she does. This has been most helpful to me as well. If I ever think that I cannot lift this bar again, I think to myself, If Evan can do what he did, I can lift this bar one more time. And I do. Dad said he has had the same thoughts. We draw on Evan's courage to carry us through when we think we cannot do it alone.
Dad said it was an emotional day, and that you could tell the soldiers were hurting and felt a bit awkward around them. He ended up sitting next to someone one of the days they were there, at lunch, and somehow sensed that he would be open to talking about that day that Evan died. Dad asked if he would mind if he asked some questions about that day they lost the 5. He said he didn't mind, and Dad heard firsthand from a soldier what happened that day.
I cried as I listened to these stories-I just couldn't stop the tears, and these soldiers are the closest thing to Evan as we have-they are the ones that were with him every day, and in those final moments. We will always be connected to them in that sense.
The seminar at Ft. Stewart this past weekend was incredible. I decided sort of last minute to go with my Mom. TAPS stands for Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, and it is a support organization for people who are military survivors. I met some incredible people there, other "gold star families", and we had different sessions and small groups on grief and losing a loved one in the military. I spoke to a general who I felt a strong connection to, and also several members of the Atlanta Rotary Club(they sponsored the event), one who is going to come and run the Memorial Race in June with his daughter. That just goes to show you just one person along the way who was so touched by Evan's life and our story, he is going to participate in one of our events.
Mom and I have decided to attend the National TAPS seminar in D.C. This is on a much greater scale-over 1000 people, multiple workshops, the President and other special guest speakers, and a Memorial Day Service at Arlington. Someone said this past weekend that people had wondered why she went to these seminars, and that it must make it worse to rehash everything-in fact, I cried most of the day on Saturday as I recounted exactly what happened to Evan and our relationship-but she also said it's connecting to others who truly DO understand, and it's like getting some of the poison out. Exactly-like getting that poison out. It's also something that is not going away-I realized this weekend that of all the people that were there, our loss was the most recent-people were there that had lost loved ones up to 15 years ago and longer-and it is something we already knew, but something I wish I could convey to people that haven't been through it, is that it will ALWAYS be a part of us. We will live with this loss FOREVER-as long as we have breathe, all of us. We will miss Evan every day for the rest of our lives. It isn't something that is going away. But-we will make sure he is never forgotten.
And to me, that's what gave me that little bit of peace I returned with coming home today. One thing I said in my sibling group, when asked how I "cope" with the loss, is that I made a promise to Evan from day 1: he would not be forgotten. That as long as I am breathing on this Earth, people will know. I wear my pin because I want people to ask me about it, and give me the opportunity to tell them what a sweet, brave brother I had. And all I can do is continue to do that every day for the rest of my life, until I finally see him again one sweet day.
Evan's unit just got back from their 15 month deployment. My parents went out to Colorado Springs for the Memorial Service with all of his unit back home. I can only imagine how emotional the experience was for them and Evan's fellow soldiers, but just listening to the stories my parents recounted back to me, even as I cried through them, part of me found peace.
One story I like in particular was one they told of their attempts at promoting Evan. Because of his skill, they wanted to make him a sergeant-Evan said no. They wanted to make him a team leader-Evan said no-but, they made him a team leader anyway. One day that they had training, one of Evan's soldiers was late(this is out at Ft. Carson), and the person above Evan tells him to just smoke the guy(chew him out, in effect). Evan proceeds to do just that-and feels so guilty that he later buys him a steak dinner and takes him to a movie-ah, just like Evan. We both got that guilt gene.
They also said that Evan was just fearless-that he absolutely had no fear. One time they were all hiking up Pike's Peak, and when they got to the halfway house, the people there recommended that they turn around-they were already up to a feet of snow. Evan insisted that they continue up the mountain. He was finally about waist-deep in snow when he was talked into going back down.
I find this so interesting because I am just about the exact opposite of fearless. I have many fears, some that are rational and some that are very irrational. Evan was the closest to anyone on this Earth in terms of DNA to me, and we are very different in that regard. My Aunt reminds me that it has always been that way though-when Evan was a little boy, and we were at the lake, he would beg her to go faster on the jet ski, and to do 360's, while I was begging her to slow down. She didn't know how to explain to me at my age that she had to go at a certain speed to keep the jet ski going straight. Yes, we have always been different in that regard. Evan, always the risk-taker, me-eliminating any possible risk whatsoever. But that's just the way it is-the way it always has been.
They also said Evan was one of the best and fastest runners in the platoon. Apparently he would say his favorite "yo mama" jokes as he passed one of his other friends while they were running. That's another thing-everyone mentioned to my parents how funny Evan was. Some couldn't even hold it together without laughing, they just said Evan was so funny-and his "one-liners" were often over people's heads. They said you couldn't be in a bad mood around Evan-that he always just lifted everyone's spirits.
I have recently gotten back into running, pretty often. I started with a 5K a couple weeks ago, and at that time, I can't even remember the last time I actually ran, but I have been working out pretty consistently. I have to credit my Aunt with this, but she told me one day a month or so ago that when she is in a cycle class pedaling, and she thinks to herself that she can't pedal any further, she pictures Evan in her mind and says to herself, "If Evan had the courage to get up and do what he did every day, I can keep going." And so she does. This has been most helpful to me as well. If I ever think that I cannot lift this bar again, I think to myself, If Evan can do what he did, I can lift this bar one more time. And I do. Dad said he has had the same thoughts. We draw on Evan's courage to carry us through when we think we cannot do it alone.
Dad said it was an emotional day, and that you could tell the soldiers were hurting and felt a bit awkward around them. He ended up sitting next to someone one of the days they were there, at lunch, and somehow sensed that he would be open to talking about that day that Evan died. Dad asked if he would mind if he asked some questions about that day they lost the 5. He said he didn't mind, and Dad heard firsthand from a soldier what happened that day.
I cried as I listened to these stories-I just couldn't stop the tears, and these soldiers are the closest thing to Evan as we have-they are the ones that were with him every day, and in those final moments. We will always be connected to them in that sense.
The seminar at Ft. Stewart this past weekend was incredible. I decided sort of last minute to go with my Mom. TAPS stands for Tragedy Assistance Program for Survivors, and it is a support organization for people who are military survivors. I met some incredible people there, other "gold star families", and we had different sessions and small groups on grief and losing a loved one in the military. I spoke to a general who I felt a strong connection to, and also several members of the Atlanta Rotary Club(they sponsored the event), one who is going to come and run the Memorial Race in June with his daughter. That just goes to show you just one person along the way who was so touched by Evan's life and our story, he is going to participate in one of our events.
Mom and I have decided to attend the National TAPS seminar in D.C. This is on a much greater scale-over 1000 people, multiple workshops, the President and other special guest speakers, and a Memorial Day Service at Arlington. Someone said this past weekend that people had wondered why she went to these seminars, and that it must make it worse to rehash everything-in fact, I cried most of the day on Saturday as I recounted exactly what happened to Evan and our relationship-but she also said it's connecting to others who truly DO understand, and it's like getting some of the poison out. Exactly-like getting that poison out. It's also something that is not going away-I realized this weekend that of all the people that were there, our loss was the most recent-people were there that had lost loved ones up to 15 years ago and longer-and it is something we already knew, but something I wish I could convey to people that haven't been through it, is that it will ALWAYS be a part of us. We will live with this loss FOREVER-as long as we have breathe, all of us. We will miss Evan every day for the rest of our lives. It isn't something that is going away. But-we will make sure he is never forgotten.
And to me, that's what gave me that little bit of peace I returned with coming home today. One thing I said in my sibling group, when asked how I "cope" with the loss, is that I made a promise to Evan from day 1: he would not be forgotten. That as long as I am breathing on this Earth, people will know. I wear my pin because I want people to ask me about it, and give me the opportunity to tell them what a sweet, brave brother I had. And all I can do is continue to do that every day for the rest of my life, until I finally see him again one sweet day.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
I'm not in the best place right now, so be forewarned. And I would not recommend reading unless you are willing to be pulled into the depths of my emotion, turmoil, and despair. In my darkest hours, it seems that all I know to do is write. When peace is nowhere to be found, and sleep refuses to come, and my mind won't just shut down despite my best efforts to force it to-I write.
Yesterday was one of those days I had to just remind myself to breathe. I lost something-someone-important to me recently,and as I lie in bed last night, flashbacks from that first week last year began to haunt me again. Loss through death and in other ways is very different, don't misunderstand-but they do have their similarities.
It was one of those nights that it was just painful to be awake. The only peace that came was in the form of sleep, and then as I awaken- reality hits all over again. I fear I am facing another sleepless night again tonight. I keep waiting for that joy that comes in the morning, something good, that light at the end of the tunnel, and it seems I only face pain. In fact, I am tired of being strong and surviving. It gets old. Surviving is all I can muster sometimes, and actually living-well-that is exhausting.
I long to be my happy, fun self again. I daydream about getting my "old self" back, and I'm so afraid somewhere along the way...I lost her. I had an epiphany a few months back, something as simple as just being patient and kind to someone, and I thought to myself..Thank you God, she's still in there. She shows up every now and then. I do fear that I lost a part of me that day..And there is no doubt-I will always have a hole in my heart, because I will always always miss my brother.
As I sat at his grave today, I reflected on memories of us and our family. One in particular stands out, probably not much longer than a year ago, when Mom and I picked him up from the airport and we stopped by to eat somewhere on the way home. And I thought to myself..Just a year ago, he was sitting in front of me, and now I am sitting at his grave. What? Is that even possible? God give me strength, I cannot do this alone. I often think if I just had a shred of the courage, the bravery he had..I would be so much better off. And then I am filled with pride-I cannot understand how anyone, let alone someone in MY family, with my DNA, could have the kind of courage he had. They must think about their death constantly-many soldiers have told me they write letters to their families if they don't come home. How does one face every day, not knowing if it will be their last? Of course none can really KNOW that, but in a war zone, I'm sure, it is much more likely to dominate your thoughts.
There is a saying that time heals all wounds, and-as I've listened to "My Immortal" several times today-okay-over and over(a friend today said I am a dweller, and like to make bad situations worse-And I'm ashamed to admit that it's true), I've thought about a few of the words..
"These wounds won't seem to heal; this pain is just too real. There's just too much that time cannot erase.."
There's just too much that time cannot erase. And there is. Time cannot "heal" or erase this. Time hasn't even made it that much better. Sure, I can eat and sleep and bathe myself again, but I think about Evan today the same, if not more, than I have since his death. And you know? I think time heals breakups, and bad days, but not this. And I still think I'm shock-thus, I can't be "healing". Sometimes I have to say to myself "Evan's died" over and over again, in some futile effort to somehow have it make sense or believe it. But you know-I'm pretty sure it will never make sense, and maybe one day I will wake up and believe that he is gone, but right now, as I sit on the verge of the one year anniversary on January 28th, I still don't. It's hard to feel like some people are "over it", or have forgotten, because it still dominates me. And I know it's not true..but eventually, people stop calling and sending cards, and you start to think they have forgotten Evan ever existed.
And..I feel sometimes I am treated like an alien. Not on purpose-I realize people just want to help, and be there, and people that haven't been through loss can't possibly understand, and I realize that people think talking about it or listening to me about it is only going to make me upset, but it's not true. I am tired of people avoiding it or me or whatever it is they are avoiding. I've started to just say, you know what? It's ok to talk about Evan. I need to talk about it. It's actually good for me. Because when everyone avoids talking about it, I have no one to talk to but my therapist. And I love her, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I need help more than an hour every other week! But it is hard, when it is the "elephant in the room", that no one wants to talk about, and honestly, people just look at you funny.
I spent three hours at Evan's grave on Christmas Eve, because-and maybe this makes me crazy, but I didn't want him to be alone. I just couldn't bring myself to leave. I'm not sure how many of you saw it, but towards the end of 2008, the Athens Banner Herald published a special section called "The year in pictures". There I was(again), front and center, that picture that so many refer to as "beautiful", the one of me lying on Evan's casket. It certainly sums up MY year. There was also another article, entitled "Notable People We Lost in 2008", that I encourage everyone to look at-Evan is included, along with Eve Carson, and many other wonderful, amazing people that Athens lost last year. As I embark on the new year, my usual "resolutions" seem so inept. I'm pretty sure that, all these considered, January will be the worst month I've had in a good while. Maybe day to day survival is all I can muster to "resolve" to do this year-or at least this month.
I recently read a quote: "Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes it is a quiet voice at the end of the day saying, I'll try again tomorrow." And so it is. My grief overwhelms today; tomorrow, I will try again.
Yesterday was one of those days I had to just remind myself to breathe. I lost something-someone-important to me recently,and as I lie in bed last night, flashbacks from that first week last year began to haunt me again. Loss through death and in other ways is very different, don't misunderstand-but they do have their similarities.
It was one of those nights that it was just painful to be awake. The only peace that came was in the form of sleep, and then as I awaken- reality hits all over again. I fear I am facing another sleepless night again tonight. I keep waiting for that joy that comes in the morning, something good, that light at the end of the tunnel, and it seems I only face pain. In fact, I am tired of being strong and surviving. It gets old. Surviving is all I can muster sometimes, and actually living-well-that is exhausting.
I long to be my happy, fun self again. I daydream about getting my "old self" back, and I'm so afraid somewhere along the way...I lost her. I had an epiphany a few months back, something as simple as just being patient and kind to someone, and I thought to myself..Thank you God, she's still in there. She shows up every now and then. I do fear that I lost a part of me that day..And there is no doubt-I will always have a hole in my heart, because I will always always miss my brother.
As I sat at his grave today, I reflected on memories of us and our family. One in particular stands out, probably not much longer than a year ago, when Mom and I picked him up from the airport and we stopped by to eat somewhere on the way home. And I thought to myself..Just a year ago, he was sitting in front of me, and now I am sitting at his grave. What? Is that even possible? God give me strength, I cannot do this alone. I often think if I just had a shred of the courage, the bravery he had..I would be so much better off. And then I am filled with pride-I cannot understand how anyone, let alone someone in MY family, with my DNA, could have the kind of courage he had. They must think about their death constantly-many soldiers have told me they write letters to their families if they don't come home. How does one face every day, not knowing if it will be their last? Of course none can really KNOW that, but in a war zone, I'm sure, it is much more likely to dominate your thoughts.
There is a saying that time heals all wounds, and-as I've listened to "My Immortal" several times today-okay-over and over(a friend today said I am a dweller, and like to make bad situations worse-And I'm ashamed to admit that it's true), I've thought about a few of the words..
"These wounds won't seem to heal; this pain is just too real. There's just too much that time cannot erase.."
There's just too much that time cannot erase. And there is. Time cannot "heal" or erase this. Time hasn't even made it that much better. Sure, I can eat and sleep and bathe myself again, but I think about Evan today the same, if not more, than I have since his death. And you know? I think time heals breakups, and bad days, but not this. And I still think I'm shock-thus, I can't be "healing". Sometimes I have to say to myself "Evan's died" over and over again, in some futile effort to somehow have it make sense or believe it. But you know-I'm pretty sure it will never make sense, and maybe one day I will wake up and believe that he is gone, but right now, as I sit on the verge of the one year anniversary on January 28th, I still don't. It's hard to feel like some people are "over it", or have forgotten, because it still dominates me. And I know it's not true..but eventually, people stop calling and sending cards, and you start to think they have forgotten Evan ever existed.
And..I feel sometimes I am treated like an alien. Not on purpose-I realize people just want to help, and be there, and people that haven't been through loss can't possibly understand, and I realize that people think talking about it or listening to me about it is only going to make me upset, but it's not true. I am tired of people avoiding it or me or whatever it is they are avoiding. I've started to just say, you know what? It's ok to talk about Evan. I need to talk about it. It's actually good for me. Because when everyone avoids talking about it, I have no one to talk to but my therapist. And I love her, don't get me wrong, but sometimes I need help more than an hour every other week! But it is hard, when it is the "elephant in the room", that no one wants to talk about, and honestly, people just look at you funny.
I spent three hours at Evan's grave on Christmas Eve, because-and maybe this makes me crazy, but I didn't want him to be alone. I just couldn't bring myself to leave. I'm not sure how many of you saw it, but towards the end of 2008, the Athens Banner Herald published a special section called "The year in pictures". There I was(again), front and center, that picture that so many refer to as "beautiful", the one of me lying on Evan's casket. It certainly sums up MY year. There was also another article, entitled "Notable People We Lost in 2008", that I encourage everyone to look at-Evan is included, along with Eve Carson, and many other wonderful, amazing people that Athens lost last year. As I embark on the new year, my usual "resolutions" seem so inept. I'm pretty sure that, all these considered, January will be the worst month I've had in a good while. Maybe day to day survival is all I can muster to "resolve" to do this year-or at least this month.
I recently read a quote: "Courage doesn't always roar. Sometimes it is a quiet voice at the end of the day saying, I'll try again tomorrow." And so it is. My grief overwhelms today; tomorrow, I will try again.
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