Not gonna sleep through September

 “Wake me up, when September ends.” 

I liked this song by Green Day. But it never meant much to me until the end of September, 2010. That's when he died, and I couldn’t be in my own head then. It hurt too much to be there. To try and block out the pain, and the relentless stream of flashbacks, I would put ear buds in, connected to my phone, and blast any music that played on my app. I would turn up the volume on my phone as loud as it would go and shut my eyes tight as tears poured down my cheeks.  I used this thought blocking method for months, whenever I could, but especially at night. It was too quiet at night.  I would take a sleeping pill, blast the music in my ears, and not even notice the tears that pooled on my pillow.  I did this for months. Bravely smiling during the day, and drowning the thoughts with music at night. Night, after night, after night.  This is how I “coped.” I’ve learned that brains under trauma, or at least my trauma brain, find interesting ways to not deal with reality or pain. As humans, we are really good at “stuffing” things. We stuff envelopes, pizza, bra’s, even emotions. We somehow think that if we show too much emotion, we are perceived as weak. And weakness has no place in us. Or so I thought. So the music played on. And this song by Green day kept cycling through. "Summer has come and past, the innocent can never last..” “Click” I always changed that song, because it hurt too much. There I was again, stuffing the pain down, pushing it away. I was weak, I was broken, and I felt like I shouldn't be. I should be stronger, I should be over this. I should be ok. I was taking pills for anxiety, depression, sleep, and blasting music in my ears at night to deal, I was “getting through it," by not getting through it…. Until I read this scripture found in The Book of Mormon:

Ether 12:27

         

And if men come unto me I will show unto them their weakness. I give unto men weakness that they may be humble; and my grace is sufficient for all men that humble themselves before me; for if they humble themselves before me, and have faith in me, then will I make weak things become strong unto them 

Weakness does belong with us. Without the weak, we wouldn’t find the strength. It’s ok to be weak, to show emotion, to cry and talk. This is how we heal; this is how we become a stronger version of us. This is how our heart stretches and grows and finds the beauty in this fragile life we've been given. 

Chances are you will loose someone in your life. It’s a reality no one likes to face, but a reality nonetheless. If you have lost, or know someone who has, the greatest gift you can give them is giving them permission to be weak. Let them cry and don’t turn away. Let them speak of their loved one, who once lived. And you speak of them, too. Don't be afraid to share memories, good and bad. Laugh and cry and feel. Feel it all. I wish I would have done this then, but I am doing this now. And it’s scary, and it hurts, and sometimes I want the ear buds back, but then I remember my weakness helped me find my strength, a strength I never knew I had, until I was weak... and I don’t want to sleep through September.

 I found my heart in my weakness, what will you find in yours?

Xo, Stace

I used to have this dream.... 
Two men stood before me. The one on the left had his hands stretched open.  His face was out of focus, almost grainy. He called to me but I couldn't hear his words. There was never any sound in this dream. He came into focus for just a moment, almost like my eyes were a camera lens I'd adjusted, and I could see his perfectly crooked smile. My stomach did a flip-flop and my heart burned. With his eyes and his arms stretched open he was beckoning to me. And somehow I knew, I felt, he was asking me to chose him. Meanwhile, the man on the left stood motionless. I felt helpless. How could I choose? The burning in my chest moved up my throat, until I felt as if I might choke. I gasped for air.

I'm awake.

I look over at the man on my left, my husband, who is peacefully sleeping. He is real, and he is here now, I tell myself. That was just a dream. But my mind is in an almost hangover like space from the dream. I feel sick, dizzy, and my concentration is hazy, thinking about the choice. Which man would I chose if I had too? The man on the right in my dream I know is Colton. My deceased husband who unexpectedly passed away in the fall of 2010.  There was no ugly divorce, no parting of ways, no ends to the "I love you's" he would whisper in my ear all those nights we lay tangled in sheets. We were husband and wife, young lovers, parents and confidants. That would never change. Until that day, that stupid regular day, when without any warning, it did change. "He's gone..." I heard the doctor say "He's... dead." I held his cold grey hand in the intensive care unit of the hospital as life support was unplugged and tears poured down my cheeks. I was all of the sudden drowning in the reality that my life as I knew it,

would never be the same. 

 From then I lived minute to minute, then slowly day to day, and eventually month to month. Only anchored to happiness by the two little people in my life who called me Mom. Who needed me. Who gave me purpose. I kept getting up each morning for them, I kept making sandwiches and giving bubble baths and going on walks for them. All the while a brave smile was on my lips, but just beneath the surface, an ache was throbbing deep within in my heart. I felt as if I would never find love again because who would want this mess that was me? I didn't even want it. 

Slowly, the seasons changed. The snow melted, and the sun warmed my face again. The hurt was always there, but it stung less and less. And then, he came into my life, the man on the left in the dream. He made me smile. A real smile. He made me laugh. Like the kind that makes your stomach hurt. I gained weight back that I had lost from being too sick with sorrow to eat. Color flushed to my cheeks again. He didn't care that I was broken, he loved all the pieces of me. He was patient. He helped me see there could be a future for me again. And I knew this to be true when one night specifically, he gave my son a bath and gently snuggled him in a towel and with a smile he asked me where his diapers were. I almost cried right then and there watching them because I knew he was the one. I knew I wasn't going to be alone anymore, because he was here now. And he loved me, but most importantly, he loved my fatherless kids. 

So... We married. 

And I thought somehow, if I re-married (I was only 21 when Colton died) that this new man would fill the void of the man I lost and I could finally "move on." That I could exchange my "widow" title for a "Dawson's wife" title and I would no longer be a member of the club that no one wants to be in. I could put all of the emotions of widowhood in an organized box wrapped tight with a bow and put it away, because now I was Dawson's wife and that somehow meant that I wasn't Colton's widow anymore. I was "moving on."

 And I can't deny, life was good. We moved away, started fresh, had more babies. Yet in the stillness of night, I kept being tormented by the dream. 

Colton and I never had a formal "goodbye." He was here one day, and literally gone the next. Which left my brain in a state of chaos with so many unanswered questions and two men in the shadows. 

Who would I choose?


Recently, being in a haze from the dream, I drove the familiar road to Colton's grave. It's rare that I get to be there, but when I do, I soak in the quiet clarity it brings. I sat on the cool grass next to his stone and watched as the sun dipped below the mountains. I spoke quietly, as tears began to glide down my cheeks. "Look how far we've come Colt. Look at where we are now" "You know I love you," I pleaded to the heavens, "Please, know that I love you." The sun dipped lower and I wiped tears away. I had to go. 

  Several days later, I had that dream again. About the choice. But this time both of the men stood still, the man on the right smiled softly, as did the man on the left.  I woke up and I could breath. I felt peace. I realized something that set my heart free. One love doesn't cancel out the love of another. Where there was deep love, there will also be deep loss. I didn't "move on," I moved forward. I can't forget Colton, or what we had. I can love and miss him for who he was to me: my puppy love, the father of two of my children, the one who made me stronger; and that love doesn't affect the love I have now for Dawson: the one who showed me the sun again, who gave me two more children, who makes me laugh and tells me I'm beautiful everyday. 


So it's not about a choice, because there is none. 

Love is unique. 

I am Dawson's wife AND Colton's widow. 

And I am beautifully broken...

xoxo,

Stace

A Letter to Mom:

Hey Mom,

I know it’s been a rough week....

I can tell by the way you look at me. You’re trying to listen to my stories, but your eyes don’t meet mine. I see you force a smile. I love it when you smile. It’s ok that we ate the same boxed macaroni and cheese that we had last night, tonight. It was good Mom. And maybe I had to search through my laundry pile to find some socks for school, but guess what? I found them! (They even passed my sniff test!) You tucked a stray hair behind my ear before I got on the bus for school and said you could see my cute freckles. They’re the same ones you have Mom. I watched you make a sandwhich, clean up a pile of barf, help build a lego car, kiss an owie, and take laundry to the washer, all while holding the sick baby. You raised your voice when he dropped his full cup of milk all over the kitchen floor at dinner, but you still kissed the top of his head while you refilled his cup. And he spilled that one too. I snuck out of my bed tonight and saw you in the living room, on your hands and knees, picking up the toys and all those cheerios he played frisbee with. You caught me, and I told you I was so thirsty I might die, so you let me have a little water. You hugged me close and sent me back to my bed. Then the baby cried and I heard the gentle sound of your soothing voice, the same voice that calms me when I’m hurt or scared. I closed my eyes, and felt safe. I dreamt I could could fly. 


I watch you Mom, more than you think. I've decided that you’re kind of, what’s the word you use?...  A “Hot mess.” Like when you pick me up in the same pajamas you dropped me off in, or accidentally forget about my homework that was due three days ago. But all of that stuff you worry about, it doesn’t really matter, Mom. I get my eyes and the shape of my lips from you. I get back up when I'm hurt because I watch you do the same. I’m safe because of you. I'm loved because of you. I’m growing up more everyday, even though you tell me not to. And maybe one day, I'll even grow up to be like you. I love you Mom, because you love me.

xo,
Stacie

Broken

I visit the cemetery sometimes, where my first husband was laid to rest. It brings me peace to run my fingertips along the cool granite surface. To sit in the lush grass where almost 6 years ago, in this exact spot, I cried as a broken widow. A Mother of two fatherless children. A golf ball sized lump rises in my throat and hot tears sting my eyes. But not because I’m sad, more because I’m grateful. I comb my fingers through the cool grass, letting the tight stitches on my mending heart unravel. 

 “He’s gone, he’s..dead.” 

I heard the intensive care unit doctor say in a cracked whisper.
 He’s gone, he’s..dead. Those words would be on repeat, etched in my mind for the next 5 years. I would live by them. They would become a crushing truth. One that was always there. Even when another man put another ring on my finger and asked me to be his. Even when I moved away from the town where the ache originated. Even when a new perfect baby was placed in my arms. After the temporary highs of joy I felt left, those words floated gently down like a spec of dust, landing softly on my heart. 

He’s gone, he’s dead. 

When he died, I lost me, too. But I didn't know that then. No one ever tells you that part about grief. I’ve spent the last 5 ½ years trying to find the me I used to know. Endlessly searching for her, but she’s gone. She sloughed off me long ago. Buried in the same earth that now surrounds his cold casket. It’s a weird phenomenon trying to find yourself again in the wake of loss. The person you love is gone, but you’re still alive. The world around you ever churns ahead, but it leaves you behind, standing on a pile of rubble that was your life. You're shivering and disoriented. You don’t recognize this place. You’re cowering and savagely clinging to the broken pieces of rubble around you that are left like it’s all you have, because reality is, it is all you have left. Slowly, you stand. You get your footing in this new place and the sun warms your face again. I was that girl, cowering in the rubble of my shattered life, scared and broken. I salvaged all the pieces I could, and even found new ones. I carefully pieced them together forming a makeshift shelter against the storms that tossed me up inside. From behind this carefully crafted wall my heart morphed and ripped open. I peeked from behind my shelter. I saw beautiful things. I could absorb how beautiful everything simple really is. Like the contrast of deep purple mountains against a blue sky. Or the clean wonder of fresh rain drops scattered on a vibrant spring leaf. Or how warm your children's soft kisses feel against your cheek. I stepped out from behind the walls so I feel the beauty again, and see myself. Even a broken shard of glass is beautiful if you hold it to the light. 



 Sitting beside his stone, I feel the cool grass between my fingers again. It's fresh and continually growing up toward the sun. I turn my face upward, to feel it's warmth. Who I am now is undoubtedly different that who I was before, and I accept this. I’m kicking down that shelter I built. I’m tearing it up, piece by piece. I’m going to scratch and claw at it until it’s dust. The words, He’s gone, he’s dead, have been replaced. You’re alive, you're here. I close my eyes and let the heaviness of just being me, rest deep within my bones and I realize something. In these broken places, there is still light, there is still beauty, there is still me. 

And I want to be broken. 

 Xo , Stacie