wish you were here

I feel like I should include some sort of disclaimer with this blog. If the last one I posted about Matt made you nervous and uncomfortable, please do not read this. My intent is not to send you into some sort of panic and make you squirm in your seat. This is my way of coping.

A key part of accepting what has happened is coming to grips with the fact that it's NEVER going to be better. That the pain is NEVER-ENDING. It may morph into a different form of pain but it is a wound that will never heal.
It will leave you with a limp. Sure, you'll be able to walk.. but it will be evident that you were hurt. Badly.
Facing the cold, hard truth that life is forever altered is hard to come to terms with because that means change is inevitable.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

The five stages of grief. I hate putting any sort of punctuation after each of the stages because it makes them seem so... contained. When in reality there is nothing clear-cut or black-and-white about them. The books I've been reading make the stages sound so cut-and-dried, like they're all packaged and labeled, tied-up with a perfect ribbon.
They neglect to tell you that just because you've accepted it doesn't mean you're not going to deal with denial on a daily basis, along with depression, a dash of bargaining and a sprinkle of anger. Grief is as unpredictable as a toddler. I don't even like putting the stages in a certain order because you can go from denial to depression to searing anger to begging and pleading with God and then land back in denial-- all in about 5 minutes.
I'll think I'm doing alright.. or coping anyway and then all of a sudden I'll snap. Maybe it will be triggered by a memory, a restaurant, a smell or maybe it'll be nothing more than opening my eyes in the morning.

You know you're grieving when you want nothing more than to be haunted. "Inhabited or frequented by ghosts" is how the dictionary defines "haunted."
OOOH, PICK ME! PICK ME! (Uhh.. to be haunted by MATT, not some random ghost, just to clarify.)
The desperation to see him leaves me frantic. Thinking of how there's nothing I can do about it makes me so irritated sometimes. I can feel my heart accelerate and my breathing turns into hyperventilation as I rack my brain trying to come up with something.. anything.. to make it possible.
I'm sitting at the cemetery as I write this and I could swear I feel some sort of presence here, like I'm being watched. I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see my big brother walking towards me.
I would give literally anything to see him.. for him to walk up, tap me on the shoulder and tell me this was all just a nightmare and it's time to wake up.

Why don't they include "apathy" as a stage of grief? I have such a total and complete lack of care in so many areas of my life now.
This, of course, does not apply to my family and friends. They are the reason I get out of bed in the morning. Some days all I feel like doing is curling up on the couch (with an unlimited supply of Oreos) and sobbing. I am so thankful for my kids that keep me going. I have my time to grieve but I can't just quit and give up because they are my everything and I know I have to pick up the pieces and keep things moving. Their happiness and well-being is everything and sitting on the couch accomplishes nothing. Their little smiling faces and knowing that my brother would've wanted me to take care of them and myself keeps me doing everything.. from going to class to brushing my teeth (well I guess I do that for EVERYONE'S benefit) to doing laundry (I mean I haven't seen the actual floor of my laundry room for like 5 years but you know what I mean.)
Since Matt died, my sense of care and concern for those close to me has been heightened greatly. Not that I didn't care before but I think when you lose someone you love you start to see things differently. There's no gray area anymore. It's all black-and-white. The things that truly matter come sharply into focus and everything else fades to black.
There are some things that mattered so much to me before October 14 that became insignificant details that will never be thought of again because of that night.
The things that really matter in life aren't things.. they're people. Tragedy has a way of highlighting what's really important to you. You learn that you can't overuse the phrase "I love you" if you mean it.

Do me a favor, would you? When you're done reading this go tell the people that matter to you the most that you love them. Your kids. Your spouse. Your siblings. Your best friends. Your mailman. (Ha, just kidding on that last one. Unless of course your mailman happens to be a family member or close friend.. otherwise I'm thinking that might land you with some sort of restraining order.) Maybe there's someone in your life you care about but history, time, bitterness, whatever it is, is keeping you locked in a state of pride that leaves your relationships at a standstill. Get over your petty differences, put aside any hurt and anger you might be holding onto that keeps you from being close or at the very least telling them how you feel.. and reach out. Call them. Write them. Text them. Do something.. because guess what? We all say we want to live each day as if it were our last but isn't it funny how we make excuses about why we just CAN'T take the first step to repairing damage that has been done? The truth of it is one of these days it WILL be your last and I know for myself I don't want to die without telling the people that matter the most to me that they were my everything.

Grief takes so many forms. It's incredible the way it comes out unexpectedly, the tendrils of it slithtering and weaving throughout every aspect of life.
At restaurants, I find myself ordering the things Matt liked to order. I'm pretty sure if you cracked my head open a bunch of Guns N' Roses lyrics would spill out. One of his guitar picks is on a chain around my neck that I'll wear for the rest of my life.
Incorporating all of the little things that made Matt who he was into my life is my way of showing loyalty to him and ensuring his memory will be kept alive.

So weird how when shock wears off you're left with a devastation that is unbearable. You know like how if you have frostbite or are super cold, it doesn't really hurt when you're outside and frozen? It's when you get to someplace warm and the feeling starts returning that there is pain.
I read this book about a surfer named Bethany Hamilton that had her arm bit off by a shark. She said she felt no pain when it happened, while she was in shock. Your body doesn't even bother with pain receptors during that kind of trauma because your brain knows that you are very aware there is danger and it is life-threatening. She said when she woke up in the hospital the next day that's when she felt the pain, when the shock had wore off and the healing began.
The shock of my brother dying is gone and in its place is this horrible, burning, heart-wrenching ache that rises and falls like a rollercoaster.

Death doesn't change what you are to someone. It doesn't mean Matt isn't my big brother still. He always will be. All death means is that it will probably be a while before  I get to see him again. It puts some time between us but I'm thankful I knew him well enough so that I can hear exactly what he would say in response to anything I would ask him.

It's been 66 days. How is that even possible?

My parents used to have a Cessna when we were younger and as a family we'd fly all over the place in it. I'd always get stuck in the back, which was fine by me because Mike or Matt would sit next to me. Anyone that's flown can relate to the adrenaline that pumps through you as a plane takes off. The engines screaming louder and louder. The gravity that pins you against your seat as you ascend into the air.
I can remember sitting in the back of the plane with Matt with our headsets on, grinning at each other as we sped down the runway. It was our favorite part of the flight.
Since Matt died I keep having that feeling of taking off in a plane.. but it's not in a good way. It's not like how I remember it was when my dad was at the controls. It's like taking off in a plane you know is doomed to crash. That feeling of being thrown back in your seat and all you can do is pray the plane won't explode. It's the feeling of total helplessness and knowing that there's nothing you can do but hold on to the seat in front of you with white knuckles and ride it out.
It's an out-of-control panic, fueled by grief.

I really, really miss my brother.

About this time last year Matt and I went out for lunch and I remember him, with a mug of coffee in his right hand, running his left hand through his hair, asking me how my writing was coming along.


I shrugged. "It's ok, I guess," I had said, "I'd like to write a book but I don't know what to write about."


The corners of his lips curled upwards and he grinned over his coffee, "I can think of a few things."


I laughed. "Well yeah, me too, but for those things I would need a pen name.. and a place to run to in Mexico if Mom and Dad find out."


Smirking, he replied, "Do whatever you've got to do to get it written. Writing is your talent and I'm looking forward to reading it."

So what am I gonna do? I'm gonna write a book, that's what.. and dedicate it to my brother.

I can't think of a good way to end this but I guess that's fitting since it's about grief and this grief is one that will never really end.