Nine Years Later

I’m almost at the nine-year mark. 

As it goes with time, some days it feels like yesterday and some days it feels forever ago. But with all of it, it feels like my life only began after August 27, 2014. The BEFORE always feels surreal…vacillating between “Did the before Kristen really exist and what was she like?” and “Did Jake really exist and where did he go?”

Someone told me once that when someone you love dies, you actually grieve three separate souls. You obviously grieve for the person you lost. You also grieve for the person you were while they were still alive. But you also grieve for the relationship you had with that person, because that’s gone forever as well. This has stayed with me. Grieving three different and separate beings at the same time is a lot. Realizing this has allowed me to give myself a little grace when I’m beating myself over why I suck so much at this grieving thing and why I can’t seem to get unstuck.

The guilt and shame are still there. I don’t think any amount of therapy or grief work or meditation or journaling or crystals or tree-hugging or psychic mediums (yup…tried all of these!) will make that go away.  I’ve just accepted that they are a part of who I am now. It suuuuuucks. If a stranger walked up to me and told me they felt guilty or shameful about anything, anything at all…I would truly believe that person should let that shit go.  It’s not helpful. I’d say, “Forgive yourself.” But. But. I can’t be angry at Jake for what he did. The anger is still there, however. So, my anger is directed inwards—which looks and feels like guilt.

People ask me all the time how my kids are doing. I never know how to answer this question. I don’t know the difference between “they’re not great because of life” and “they’re not great because their dad took his life and that’s a ginormous daddy-sized void that will never be filled.”  Maybe they would have struggled in the same exact ways anyway? We can’t go back and live parallel existences to compare. Each one of them has become the person they are because of their traumatic experiences. So, I don’t know the answer. I try my best to just be here and answer questions when they have them and hopefully they feel loved. Like me, they have difficulty comprehending that what he did wasn’t actually a choice…it was the only way to end the pain.  That’s too big for a child’s developing mind. It’s too big for my mind. So, I don’t know if they’re “okay.”  If I compare them to other kids, they don’t seem ok. But you can’t compare people. It’s like comparing apples to elbows to zebras or something.

Earlier this week, a person drowned in a lake around the corner. It was discovered that this person had taken her life. I haven’t been able to comment or even acknowledge until right this minute. However, I am constantly thinking about that person’s loved ones and what they are going through. I feel their pain. The shock. The disbelief. The sadness. The feelings that there are no words to describe. How when they wake up after a fractured sleep, they’ll forget for a teeny amount of time until their bodies remind them.  I feel it with them. The thought that has really struck me is how I am just hitting the nine-year mark and they are still at zero. In nine years, they will be where I am now and I will be at eighteen years, but the important thing won’t have changed for any of us.

I was talking to a dear friend who also lost her husband suddenly. We both have the same thoughts that the anticipation of how the date/dates are going to be typically ends up being worse than the dates themselves. For me, I usually try to distract myself and that’s helpful. But without being fully aware of it, I’ve noticed that I’ve become more irritable and less patient. I’ve been taking long naps in the middle of the day. I force myself to interact with my children without being snippy. The relationship between the month and the change in my behaviors didn’t click with me until today.  I wish I could “Choose Joy” and all that, but it honestly doesn’t work that way. My body is going through the motions of trying to dance like my daughter (until she rolls her eyes and gives up on me). I make football carpool karaoke playlists so we (not including my son who only grunts) can sing at the top of our lungs on the way home from practice (I’m determined to have the best football carpool of all the carpools). But. But. On the inside, there is so much sadness and even while I’m doing these things—the memories of August 27, 2014, pop into my head uninvited and they are gruesome and terrifying, and I hate them.

For those of you who don’t know, my dad got to our house at about the same time as the first responders. My husband, who of course initially survived a gsw to the head, was still conscious and walking around the house. I’ve read the descriptive police reports. The EMT reports. The Medivac reports. But I only see their side of those moments from the pictures those words paint for me. My dad was there though. A few days ago, I asked my dad what he saw that day. Was Jake trying to talk? Did he recognize my dad? Did my dad talk to him? These questions came out of the blue and I’ve never asked them before.  My dad put his head in his hands, sighed, and whispered “Oh Krissy.”  He looked at me with glassy eyes and said “I can’t. Do you really want to know?”  I shook my head and whispered, “No. I’m sorry.” 

That’s all I can do for today.

XO

K

This one is hurting.

This one is hurting.

The absolutely fantastic part is that my first son is graduating.  I didn’t allow myself to think about it at all until a few days ago.  We have struggled and crawled and clawed our way here and I hadn’t been sure we were going to make it.  So, I just didn’t think about it.  This is certainly a reason to celebrate!

The hurting part is that he isn’t just my son.  He is ours.  It is hitting me hard that Jake won’t be there to see him graduate.  How is this even happening?  He should be there. The pain when I think about his absence during this milestone event has been unbearable at times during the past few days.  Worse, then, I start to wonder —did he think about his son’s future graduation day when he did what he did?  He couldn’t have, right? 

I’ll never have the answer to that question so I wish it would just go away. 

There is a saying that the “body keeps score”.  I haven’t actually read the complex neurological description of this—but I do know how it feels.  To me, it feels like I am suddenly gasping for air.  My breathing is shallow, my heart is racing, and my legs have a hard time holding me up.  The crying is so hard that no sound is coming out.  This is what my body did when the joy of realizing my son was graduating was followed by the realization that Jake won’t be there.  It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me, but for some reason, it did.  For whatever reason, the trauma and loss felt new again and my body responded like it was experiencing it for the first time. 

So, tomorrow we graduate and I’m going to maybe be a mess because his preschool graduation seems like yesterday, but hopefully mostly be okay because I got this out of my brain to share with strangers or friends who might be feeling some sort of similar things. 

He should be there though. 

xo

P.S. There are 26 valedictorians.  26!  What the heck?  I think that invalidates the meaning of valedictorian.  Also, there better not be 26 speeches. 

Time and Grief

Jake would be 49 years old today. 

On his last birthday, he turned 41.  It seemed like that was his happiest birthday yet.  We were on vacation in San Clemente.  Jake’s extended family came to celebrate and spoiled him rotten.  An uncle, who he had not seen since he was a kid, showed up with his family.  He met a half-sister that he never knew he had.  His eyes were smiling.  I cried with gratitude when his aunt left and thanked her for making his day so special. 

34 days later, well, you know. 

8 years probably seems like a long time to some.  “8 years?  Surely, she has moved on.  Surely, she has healed.  After all, time heals all wounds?”

8 years is nothing. 

Time, as it relates to grief, doesn’t really exist for me.  Grief is a highly personal experience, yes, but I’m sure there are others who relate to this.  It’s not a series of stages.  It’s not even like the story about the waves in the ocean that crash just when you catch your breath (although it’s admittedly a nice story that tries to explain something unexplainable).  At least not for me. 

My grief is a deep sadness that comes from love and loss.  It is always there.  Time will never lessen it or make it go away.  It resides inside of me permanently.  It is never when I stop feeling it.  No amount of counseling or support groups will make this stop.  I am not stuck—at least not in terms of grief.  It’s just a part of me.

Grief, for me, doesn’t look like moping around and crying every day.  I am a happy, laughing, dancing, singing person.  I am dorky and I crack myself up.  But the grief is always there—because the loss won’t go away. 

I could really go on, but I won’t.  Today is a hard day for me.  Today I mourn Jake, think about his last birthday, and feel grateful that he was so happy on his last birthday ever.   

xo

This Post Is Not Happy or Inspiring (just so you know)

I’m about to vent.  Maybe it will be more like complaining.  It is complaining.  I’m about to complain. 

While I fully anticipate eye-rolling from those reading this (and really, I get more eye rolls in a day than I can count, so I’m immune), I want to say upfront that I am fully aware of how blessed and fortunate I am.  Yes—I live with grief and the trauma we’ve experienced every day.  But I do consider myself lucky.  I do count my blessings every single day.  I go to bed every night full of gratitude.  (Okay—that last sentence is bullshit.)  Do I feel bad about complaining?  Absolutely.  Knowing how fortunate I am brings on guilt and shame for even feeling sorry for myself in my own head! But, if I’m trying to deal with these complex feelings, maybe some other people are as well.  Maybe it will help someone to know he/she is not alone. 

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again.  I am not a “single” mom. I am a solo parent.  A solo parent with 4 children who also live with trauma and grief and deal with that each in their own way.  Each one of them has massive anxiety that manifests in different ways. 

I have fought for and continue to fight for each of them to get the education they need.  They all have rights according to IDEA Section 504 and some of the fights with the different schools have been more difficult than others.  At times, I’ve thought that it would be easier to just give up.  Of course, I don’t.  I haven’t and I don’t think I will.  As parents, this is what we do.  But I’m so tired and this is part ONE of my complaining.  Because it is so hard to keep doing this alone.  Talk about anxiety!  Shit.  I can be up at night for hours analyzing notes and data, writing and re-writing e-mails, and live with that sickness in my stomach for days leading up to a meeting. 

Speaking of that sickness in my stomach, I have two kids who seem to be in trouble constantly.  Because of various “events” over the years, my mind is always wondering what might be happening today.  Is my 4^th grader in “in-school suspension” and I haven’t even been notified?  Am I going to get a phone call or e-mail today about a kid taking too long in the bathroom?  I visibly cringe when certain phone numbers show up on my phone or e-mails with one of my kids’ names in the subject line show up in my inbox.  Sometimes my hands are actually shaking when I answer the phone or open the e-mail.  The knot in my stomach burning as I wonder “What now?”  I truly believe one child is already labeled as the “bad kid” or “problem kid” at one school and is unfairly blamed in multiple situations.  I know he’s not perfect and I know he does things he shouldn’t.  But I also believe that in any given event involving multiple kids, my kid is the one who is automatically blamed.  Guess what else?  When it is proven in the next few days that my kid wasn’t actually to blame, the school doesn’t contact me to let me know.  They don’t apologize to him for blaming him or threatening him with Saturday school if he doesn’t shape up.  I think about how this affects him and his developing self-image.  (Side note: when did getting in trouble at school become so easy?  When I was growing up, a kid had to do something pretty bad to get sent to the principal or be suspended from school.  Bullying was real but nobody talked about or used that word.  Now the pendulum has swung to the other extreme and I believe bullying has become an overused term, where it should be saved for situations of serious offenses towards other kids.  The term has lost its value. Even saying something stupid like “I hate your shirt” is considered bullying.  That wasn’t bullying when I was growing up.  That was about kids being stupid and saying stupid things because kids aren’t perfect.  They are learning and growing.  Anyway…)  I worry if my mostly oblivious child is labeled a bully, will he grow into that label?  I hope not.  Because he’s not a bully.  He’s sweet and loving and cares too much about what other people think.  So, in defending my children, I am also known as a “problem” parent.  My kids and I…we are “problem” people.  So yes—I am defensive and scared every time I pick up the phone or open an e-mail.  My brain goes into “fight or flight” mode.  It’s a truly exhausting way to live.  I’m so tired of handling these events alone.  Dealing with the schools alone.  Trying to figure out what really happened and why—alone.  Wondering how to manage, discipline, or comfort, alone.  How to talk to each kid about it, alone. 

My oldest struggles with so much.  I need to maintain his privacy, so I won’t go into detail except to say this.  He is in 11^th grade.  He is genius-level smart, like his dad.  I have friends with kids his age and they are talking about college.  On Facebook, I see pictures of friends visiting college campuses with their kids.  But that doesn’t seem to be the direction we’re headed.  It breaks my heart.  It also tears me up because it’s my fault.  I thought he’d discover the desire to succeed within himself (yes, I know now that this was a stupid thought…which is why this is my fault).  I’m constantly trying to find a balance between pushing too hard or pushing too little.  It feels impossible to find this magical balance.  Regardless of what I do, I’m frustrated.  Not just “GRRRR—why is the cashier making small talk with that customer two people ahead of me” frustrated.  But exasperated and discouraged all the time. I find myself in the world of magical thinking—fantasizing that Jake will come back and help me.  Help my kids.  Having two parents doesn’t magically produce perfect children without problems.  I get that.  I’d just like his help.  I’d like to talk this all through with him and come to decisions together. 

It’s probably just me, but I do feel like I talk to many parents who tell me how lucky they are because their daughter is just a “really good kid”.  She does her homework, is studious, has impressive friendships, and stable moods.  She has impeccable fashion style and doesn’t cave to peer pressure.  She’d rather play the guitar and write her own music than sit in front of a screen all day.  Of course, I’m exaggerating (a little).  My daughter isn’t even 12 yet.  From the time I found out I was having a girl, I made many decisions.  I would never talk about my body in a negative way.  There would never be talk about diets or weight.  I read all the books about self-esteem in girls.  I followed all the advice.  Something happened along the line though.  Her dad took his life when she was 4 years old.  That wasn’t in any of the books.  Would she still look at herself in the mirror and pick herself apart if her dad was alive?  Would she still have massive mood swings ranging from near hysteria over trying to pack a backpack to being the sweetest little mommy’s girl in the range of a minute?  Would she still choose “friends” that tear her down only to be kind the next day?  Would she think she was stupid because she doesn’t understand fractions or failed a test she studied for?  Would she still resist my hugs and encouragement?  I don’t know.  Maybe.  I just don’t get the chance to find out.  Her hormones are in flux and she struggles with this like many girls her age.  She also has the added “missing daddy” piece.  I live in a nearly constant state of aggravation with her.  But I also just want to hug her and hold her and convince her that she’s worthy of everything good.  I don’t want to do that alone!  I can’t do it alone.  She needs him. 

With everything going on with the kids, I am still supposed to maintain a household.  There is supposed to be cooking and cleaning and grocery shopping and laundry and repairing things.  Parts of my home are falling apart. It doesn’t matter if it’s something big (my deck is falling apart) or something small (suddenly I can’t get my shower faucet to work)—it overwhelms me to the point of inaction.  Parts of my home are disgusting and it just all smells like a combination of dog, boys with no hygiene awareness, old food, overflowing garbage and general grossness.  Being in my house brings on more anxiety because of all the clutter, disgustingness, and smelliness.  There is nothing calming.  Except for my bed.  Most of the time.  Example:

Kid: Mom!  When are you going to put up Christmas lights?

Me: (I can’t put up Christmas lights.  I have cooking and cleaning and laundry and grocery shopping and work.  Hmm.  I see some people use companies to put up Christmas lights.  Let me try that.)

Man on phone from company that puts up Christmas lights:  Blah, blah, blah, lights, blah, blah, blah, schedule, blah, blah, $700 minimum, blah, sound good?

Me: (NO!  NO!  NO!  That sounds terrible!) Yup!  See you next week. 

Me the next day: Hi!  I’m calling to cancel the Christmas light appointment I made yesterday.  I love my kids and want them to be happy but not $700 worth.  Yup.  Have a great day. 

Kid: Mom.  Everybody else has their lights up!  You’re not even going to put any up, are you?

Me: (just wondering how I can get Christmas lights hung up outside) 

Next day me: (I have a great idea!  I’ll get the kids to help me put up Christmas lights.  It doesn’t have to be show worthy!  It doesn’t even really have to be pretty.  They’ll be happy and we’ll do some problem solving together!) 

Kid: MOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMM.  WHEN are you putting up Christmas lights? 

Me: I’m trying to figure that out.  I thought we could do it together. 

Kid:  Okay, yay!

Me: Okay—let’s get started.

Kid: Now?  I can’t.  I will later. 

Me: (In bed at 9pm in that place right before you fall fast asleep.) 

Kid: MOM!  I’m ready! Let’s put up Christmas lights!

Me: I’m just about to fall asleep.  I’m not doing it now. 

Kid: I knew you were never going to do it. 

____________________________________________

I have to say something about the judgment from other people and parents.  This hardly happens at all anymore.  I have incredible people in my life.  I cry just thinking about them.  But, when it does happen, my body tenses up and I can actually feel it start to tingle (not in a good way).  For anybody out there who thinks they are a better parent than any other parent—please stop.  You might not even be aware of it.  Are you a better parent than me because your kids eat all healthy foods?  Are you a better parent because you and your kids volunteer at soup kitchens?  Are you a better parent because you have an immaculate display of Christmas lights?  Read with your kid every night?  Have family game night/movie night/meeting night?  I am not judging you if you do any or all of those things.  Please don’t judge the rest of us. Some of us are exhausted.  You’re probably exhausted too.  You can do these things even though you’re exhausted.  Some of us can’t.  Two parent households…single/divorced parents…blended households…solo parents….let’s not judge.  Let’s support.  Let’s listen.  Let’s not give advice (unless asked for it).  Let’s also NOT pretend to understand what it’s like for other parents.  Okay, off that soapbox for a minute and a half. 

In summary, I am overwhelmed and exhausted and I cry all the time.  I will always be a solo parent who longs to have her husband and the father of her kids back.  I’ll always be the sole parent of four kids who are not only trying to figure out life like all kids do, but have the missing dad piece.  The deceased dad piece.  The dad who took his own life (and none of us can understand that piece….no matter how old we are) piece. 

Constant hyper-vigilance CHECK

Constant worry CHECK

Constant guilt CHECK

Constant guilt about having a pity party for myself in my head CHECK

Constant guilt about complaining out loud CHECK

Current panic that I might die tomorrow and all anybody will remember is how much I complain CHECK CHECK

XO—K

August 27, 2014

Seven years ago today was the darkest day of my life.

I hate this day.

I remember hearing and reading that I just needed to get to the one year mark. Seven years later and I’m still waiting for the lightness I had in the BEFORE.

Today is the day I experience the most “magical thinking”. Maybe there will be a knock on the door and it will be him. Maybe I’ll see someone running down the trail and it will be him. Maybe I’ll walk out the door and he’ll be working on the car. It’s sad when the “magical thinking” does not come to fruition. I know it sounds crazy but it doesn’t feel crazy. It feels real. Like these things could actually happen.

Often, my daughter asks me what I would do with a time machine. She doesn’t want an answer because she tells me what she would want me to do. “You would go back in time and save daddy, right?” Yes. A million times, yes. I want to go back in time and save daddy. “If you had one wish mommy, what would you wish for? You’d wish that daddy was still alive.” Yes. That would be my wish.

I want my time machine and my wish. Why are there even words for “time machine” and “wish” if they aren’t even real? Maybe this is where I’ll expend my energy today. I’ll be angry at stupid words. Maybe that will help to keep me from remembering every moment of August 27, 2014.

I wish he was still here. It’s a sad day today.

All the Dates

The end of August.  Intense flashbacks.  All the dates.

2014

Saturday, August 23^rd: The day that Jake asked me to take him to the ER because he was thinking about hurting himself and needed help.  Also the day we spent a couple of hours (max) at the ER before we were told that he was not considered a risk and would be discharged.

Sunday, August 24^th: Jake ate his first En Fuego burger (later to be changed to the “Jake Burger”).

Wednesday, August 27^th: The phone call. The medivac helicopter.  The police station.  The special room at the hospital.  The wailing.  The blood. 

Thursday, August 28^th: Brain test.  Twice.  Official date of death.  Time 1:26pm.

Also Thursday 28^th: Organ donation.  Kept on life support.  I could not leave his side. 

Friday August 29^th: Still in Neuro ICU.  Awaiting test results and all the things involved in organ donation. Feeling some comfort in thinking about the enormous number of people about to receive Jake’s organs.

Saturday, August 30^th: Informed that some test irregularities indicated that Jake’s organs were not suitable for donation.  Another loss.  Life support machine was turned off.  I lied on Jake’s chest and listened to his heart as it kept beating.  Even after life support was turned off.  They had told me that would happen.  But what if they were wrong?  They could be wrong. So I lied there, holding my breath, and willing with every ounce of my being for his heart to keep beating. 

Also Saturday, August 30^th: I left the neuro ICU after being there for 96 hours.  It felt like I had lived my whole life in that ICU and I was afraid to leave.  Eventually, they made me walk away from Jake.

Down the hall, into the elevator, down to the lobby, outside to the parking garage, into a car.  That car drove me to the place where my kids waited.  I walked in the door and they ran to me hugging and happy and asking, “Where’s daddy?”

Sometimes I feel like my life didn’t even start until the AFTER, because it can be so hard to remember the BEFORE. 

The Fucked-up-versary:

Year One (2015): Drank. A lot.  Like..a lot.

Year Two (2016): Went on a family vacation to Montana.  Surely I would be okay if I were somewhere else?  Nope.

Year Three (2017): Trail ½ marathon with a dear friend. 

Year Four (2018): Mt. Rainier hike with another dear friend.

Year Five (2019): First backpacking trip with a dear, and very patient friend. (I wasn’t very good at it!)

Year Six (2020): Getting my hair done.  A bit different from years past.  But my hairdresser was a good friend of Jake’s and she’s known him for longer than I have.  So whatever that afternoon looks like-even for a few hours—she and I will understand each other, and I know I will take comfort in being with someone who also loved Jake. 

Also Year Six (2020): I know my wonderful friends will be on standby for whatever I need. Walking. Crying. Talking. Letting me tell the story of August 27th, 2014 over and over again. Drinking. Eating all the desserts. Or understanding that maybe I just need to sleep through the rest of the day because I’ll be waking up on the 28th, reliving the official date of Jake’s death.

Too many dates to get through.

I never know what to expect.

xo

Summer

Summers are hard.  All “the dates” are in summer.

I was out during a “girls’ night” last weekend and having a good time.  I hadn’t been out anywhere since the quarantine started.  It was my first night eating at a restaurant! The weather was beautiful, and the company was wonderful. 

Completely out of the blue-I felt a sick feeling in my stomach and my eyes welled up with tears.  I excused myself and I got away before they started flowing.  The worst part was that I had no idea why I was so sad all of a sudden.  Was it hormones?  Was it fear because I had been out for the first time since quarantine?  Was I sad because the other moms occasionally mentioned their husbands or talked about things their husbands did with their kids? I didn’t know.  But none of those thoughts made sense.  I’ve been hormonal and I’ve been around moms/dads/kids for the past 6 years and it has not reduced me to tears.  (Well, I’m sure it has. But nothing I can remember.) 

I took my deep breaths and stopped dead in my tracks. It felt like I had actually walked straight into brick wall. 

Jake’s birthday was the next week. 

My body knew it before I realized it. 

In the beginning of the AFTER, my body felt this way all day every day.  Then, my body would remind me every Wednesday.  Then on the 27^th of every month.  Last week it surprised me with his upcoming birthday.

July 24.  Jake’s birthday.  A day that I feel should be celebrated because it was a very important event in history. It brought Jake into this world.  That was a really great day.  Thank God for that day. 

What I remember the most though, is his last birthday.  His 41^st birthday.  The last one he celebrated.  We were on vacation in California with the kids and my parents.  There was a big birthday party for Jake and for a variety of reasons, he was beyond happy. 

He didn’t grow up with big birthday parties or large family celebrations like I did.  He enjoyed our big family gatherings, but it was always my family.  Not his own.  Well, on his 41^st birthday, his aunt, uncles, cousins, and a half sister he had never met before, came to celebrate in a big way.  Jake smiled and laughed and relaxed and enjoyed every minute of it.  I remember crying with gratitude as the party came to an end and I stopped his aunt before she left.  I remember telling her what an amazing day that was and thanking her for making Jake feel so special. 

What I wouldn’t give to go back to that amazing day and the pure innocent bliss that existed at any point in time in the BEFORE. 

My youngest son was so bonded to my husband.  Jake was everything to him.  He adored his father.  He was only 2 years old when Jake died.  About a week ago, there was a rare moment when my youngest exhibited some vulnerability.  He was chatting about time travel and wished he could go back in time to right before Daddy (did what he did) and tell him not to do it.  My ‘baby’ boy said, “I would tell him that he has four kids that need him and love him.  And they will miss him…” My son’s voice trailed off at that point as he realized he had exposed a chink in his armor and I truly witnessed the change in his face and his body.  Where he was open just a second ago, he was now closed.  Shadows and darkness again.  I wanted to stop and beg him—get down on my knees and plead with him to go back.  To open again.  Please.  “Do this baby boy”…open up and come back to me.

But of course, I couldn’t beg or plead or make a huge deal about it because then I might never see that openness from him again.  I’m grateful for the glimpse, though.

I have always loved summer.  I still do, but now it’s different.  I do enjoy myself but then my body stops and reminds me what happened in the summer almost 6 years ago.  Six years seems like a really long time, doesn’t it?  I remember when I first attended my support group, I met someone who was 4 years past his tragedy.  I remember thinking, “4 years?  He still needs support group after 4 years?”  I smile sardonically at my naivete.  The number could be anything, because the number means nothing. 

My body will always remind me of that. 

Relationships and Father’s Day

Me: Can you please go make Papa a Father’s day card?

12-year-old son: But why?

Me: Because he’s your grandfather and he does everything for us.

12-year-old son: He’s not my father.  He’s your father.

Me: But…

12-year-old: Father’s Day is just a day for people who are lucky enough to still have fathers who are alive.

_________________________________________

In the BEFORE, I had many close friends.  In the AFTER, I have many close friends, but they are not the same people.  There are a handful of exceptions–I mean relationships with people who were there in the BEFORE and the AFTER.  For a very long time, I felt badly about the lack of connection I felt with some of my BEFORE people.  My BEFORE friends didn’t do anything wrong.  They were persistent about being supportive. But something had changed. Of course, that “something” was me. 

The friendships I developed in the AFTER are the only people who know only the AFTER Kristen.  For a long time in the AFTER, I stayed pretty closed off.  I was angry, devastated, traumatized and in so much pain.  I was in a fog all the time.  I made friends with a few new people in the AFTER but shut down quickly.  I didn’t trust anyone.  I thought I was being judged.  I had very conflicting feelings about whether I wanted new people to know about me or not.  At any kind of social gathering or school function, I’d wear a color that blended into the walls so that people wouldn’t notice me.  After sports, when families met for pizza or ice cream—-my immediate, knee-jerk reaction was to decline.  I’d ask someone to bring my kid with them so that he/she could enjoy.  I was so scared of trying to interact with “normal” people.  (Go ahead-insert snort here). 

Anyway, in just the past couple of years, I remembered that nobody is “normal”. What is the definition of ‘normal’?  What a stupid word.  I had to be very aware and make an effort to be open to people again. It was a very uncomfortable feeling for me.  Sometimes, its still there. But I am so grateful that I pushed through and continue to push through that discomfort.  I have formed so many wonderful friendships because of it. 

I know lots of people are wondering about the “other” kind of relationship.  Over the years, I’ve tried some dating.  Of course, online dating wasn’t around when I met Jake.  People met people the “normal” way.  At bars and parties 😉 I have gone back and forth with the online dating thing.  Mostly, back.  Truly, I don’t know if it is an actual disinterest in wanting to be in an intimate relationships or fear.  I tend to return to online dating when I cannot possibly meet anybody.  Like during a huge snowstorm where nobody can go anywhere for three plus weeks. Or during a worldwide pandemic when we’re not actually allowed to go out and meet new people.  (Side note-because of the pandemic, I can’t even hug my friends…so the thought of making out with someone kind of grosses me out.  I even flinch when I see people standing closer than 6 feet apart on tv shows.)  Those are my busiest online dating times! Why?  Because they are completely SAFE.  I can chat away and never come in danger of having to actually meet this person.  I also have a few “safe crushes”.  These are dudes who I have secret (or not so secret) crushes on and it’s so safe and fun for me because there are so many obstacles in the way (person doesn’t know I exist, person lives 3000 miles away, person is someone who would be a pinup from Tiger Beat if Tiger Beat existed for people my age…etc.). I’ll give you an example. Picture this:

 I’m sitting at home snarfing down food in my pajamas and a giant hoody, hadn’t showered, kind of grossing myself out kind of look/smell, when the doorbell rings.  I go and peek out the door and see a man who I’ve never seen before, but he’s clearly my destiny.  He’s looking for me.  This is it. I don’t need no stinking online dating!  The right one comes to my house and rings the doorbell.  Just like that. Yay! So easy.  I fling open the door-not really conscious of the fact that those thoughts just played out only in MY head-and say “hi”. 

Man: (looks a little uncomfortable) I’m here to pick up my son, ‘Jimmy’.

Me: (I’m confused. What is he talking about? I must look dumbfounded because he was not at all who I thought he was)

Man: Is this Jake’s house? My son is here.

Me: (Stumbled over some words) Oh. Come in.  (New puppy starts freaking out).  He won’t hurt you.  I’ll go get ‘Jimmy’.

Me: (Head downstairs to the cave where my son lives). Oh hi, Jimmy? Your dad is here. (Go back upstairs). 

Me: (now upstairs) *stutter, stumble, mumble, no real words or sentences come out*

Man: Um.  I think your dog just had an, um…accident on the floor.

Me: Oh-I’m so sorry-did he—is it—shoes? (Grabs paper towels and starts to clean up dog pee from the floor…very sexy) He gets um….males…submissive, um peeing….fear of hats….

**Jimmy comes upstairs and leaves with his dad**

Me to Jake (14-year old boy): Hey, I didn’t know Jimmy was here.  You didn’t introduce me.  Tell me about him.

 14-year-old boy: I don’t know.  His name is Jimmy.  He’s good at…

Me: (I cut him off) So, what is his family like? What are his parents like?

14-year-old: Yeah, no I don’t know. 

Me: What about his mom?  Have you met his mom?  Where is she?

14-year-old: I don’t know.  Maybe they got like divorced or something. 

Me: Well, are they divorced?  Or do you just think they’re divorced? 

14-year-old: (mumbling as he heads back into his cave): I don’t know—maybe not. 

The town I live in is quite small.  Not geographically-just that everybody knows everybody or knows somebody that knows everybody.  Turns out, destiny/dog pee man is fairly well known in our community.  My good friends know him well.  So, as they tell me about him, I find all the things I “don’t like” and decide I don’t actually like him.  THEN I find out he has a girlfriend.  That changes everything.  That makes this man 100% safe for me.  I can crush on him all I want!  There’s no danger.  He has a girlfriend! Of course it’s okay to like him now! He has no idea who I am AND he’s already in a relationship.  Perfect for me.  I will note that he did come over one other time.  I knew he was coming though—I had just gotten home from work-in my work clothes-and I was prepared this time.  He showed up in his PAJAMAS!  Haha!  I thought I was very funny and clever when I asked him if he was sleeping over.  Then I went and texted all my friends about it.  That was all I needed.  I was very content with our “relationship”.  Still am 😊

So, THIS ( ☝) is what I’m comfortable with right now.  A man who doesn’t know me-wouldn’t know me if I walked into him at the store (I’m not sure I would even know him either if he weren’t standing on my doorstep)..my “relationship” with this man is my comfort zone as far as relationships go. 

There are people who tend not to believe me when I tell them I’m content. I’ve heard things like “There are lots of men who would love to date you” and “You just haven’t found the right one for you yet”.  They don’t take it at face value when I say I’m really okay with not dating.  Every once in awhile I’m not okay with it, though.  I wonder about what I’m going to do when the kids grow up or if I’m going to die completely alone.  I have tried to figure this out—am I really okay with this or am I really scared on a level I don’t want to think about yet.  Or maybe I just can’t imagine it.  When I read back these thoughts and stories I’ve just written, one thing is obvious—that I’m not really open to it.  Not now.  That’s fine.  But I also fear that the longer I go without it, the more closed off I am becoming to being in a serious relationship.  The more I won’t know how to be in a serious relationship.  Or maybe it’s possibly likely, deep down inside of this AFTER me, that I don’t deserve to be in one. 

The “S” Word

I don’t think I have said it out loud since it happened. 

At first, when people asked what happened, I looked at the ground, shook my head and whispered that I didn’t want to talk about it. 

After a while when others asked what happened, I looked at the ground, shook my head and said it was very tragic and unexpected. 

I used to attend a support group for survivors (SOS).  I credit the folks in that group for being my lifeline between the AFTER and the now. I called it- “My Group”.  “My Group” met a couple of times a month.  Even though we all knew each other, we started every group by saying our names, our partner’s names, and how they died. 

“I’m Jane.  My husband Joe died by s_______e in January of [year]”. 

Even in my group, I never said the word out loud. 

“I’m Kristen. My husband, Jake, died in August 2014.”

 “I’m Kristen.  I lost Jake in August 2014.”

Whenever I would mention to other people that I went to a support group, I told them it was a “group for people who lost their partners in the way I lost Jake”.  I learned multiple ways to get around not saying the “s” word.

It doesn’t come up that much anymore.  For the most part, if I tell someone that I’m a widow, they don’t ask how my husband died.  I appreciate this. I am only speaking for myself-but I don’t like to be asked because I don’t want to say the word.  I don’t want to say the word because I hate it.  I wish it weren’t even a real word.  I don’t like being asked because I can feel the discomfort of others.  I don’t want to say the word because there are too many other “s” words that go along with it—sorrow, shame, stigma—and these words have become a part of me.  I feel them for me. I also feel them for Jake.  If I say that word out loud, then I feel the compulsion to defend Jake.  Anyway, when people ask me how he died and I tell them, that’s typically a conversation ender.  I am left standing there with a craving to explain.  To explain that how we lost Jake had nothing to do with his character—that he had been kind, generous, loyal, funny, talented, and so loving.  To explain how Jake smiled with his eyes. 

I learned only recently that it was okay for me to be sad even though other people had it “so much worse” than I did.  Other individuals experienced considerably worse pain, so I really had no right to feel sorry for myself.  After all, it could have been much, much worse.  I needed to be grateful that it wasn’t….much, much worse.  I have only started to try and accept that the hardships of others do not negate mine.  It is good to hold perspective. With social media slamming me with platitudes and urges to be grateful, with beautiful beaches or trails or waterfalls in the background, I must remind myself every day that it’s okay if sometimes my mind is stuck on things that don’t make me feel grateful. I know that for loads of people, these memes and quotes really resonate with them.  But for others, these platitudes can have a person believing that they can just WILL themselves into positivity, gratitude, and happiness.  If only that person was strong enough, good enough, resilient enough, deserving enough, persistent enough….if only. 

The other “s” words-the sorrow, the shame and the stigma—they all belong to me, too.  I feel these things because I am the wife of someone who took his life.  The stigma?  It’s there and it is real.  I follow widow boards and blogs that are not specifically related to the “s” word.  When I read about someone who loses a spouse in ANY OTHER WAY—unexpectedly, expectedly, sickness, accident—there’s a part of me that feels envious.  Because if I had lost Jake to something else-anything else—the stigma and shame would not be there. Not for him.  Not for me.  Not for my kids. If we had to lose him, why did it have to be like this?  Forever and always there will be a different kind of darkness because of how we lost him.    There’s no coming out on the other side from this. For me, there is no other side. This is where I landed, unwillingly, and this is where I will stay.  No matter where I go or what I do, that darkness will surround me.  I am not referring to the blackness of grief. I am referring to the stigma that comes along with how he died.  I will always live in that space. 

I have a good life.  Really good.  I genuinely smile, laugh, and have fun.  I am surrounded by so much love, generosity and kindness.  These lovely feelings and those unlovely feelings might seem contradictory.  But no.  They’re both kind of always there, just hanging out.  Sometimes one takes the spotlight and the other steps back.  I’m learning how to accept both of them without guilt and without pressure. 

xo

K

About Me!

Hi there-

I’m Kristen. I used to write a blog called “The Kristen Suit”.  I’m a widow with 4 children.  The title of my previous blog came from my dear friend who once said to me “You must be exhausted wearing the Kristen Suit.” She was referring to how, after the unexpected death of my husband, I still looked the same, dressed the same, worked the same, and sounded the same as before his death.  But I was not the same.  That Kristen was gone.

Anyway, I was reading through it one day, cringing, and in a fit of impulsivity, I deleted it.  Gone.  I didn’t even save copies to my PC.  I couldn’t delete it quickly enough. WordPress repeatedly popped up little windows asking questions about if I was “sure” I wanted to delete it. Then again-are you “completely sure”?  Again-‘You do understand that the words on these pages-where you poured your heart open for the world to read-will be destroyed and sent to the internet graveyard space never to be found again except if some real hard-core internet hacker REALLY wanted to find it‘ (in which case-you earned it-have at it dude).  YES!  Delete.  Delete delete.  DELETE. 

Turns out-people noticed when I stopped posting.  They searched for my blog online. People contacted me and asked me about it! I don’t know the how or the why.  But people were reading it and telling me they missed it!  Sooo..I’m back. 

I consider my life in the before and the after.  Every-single-tiny-and-huge-thing-about-me was changed by one moment—a moment.  In the time it took you to read that sentence, my life was divided into the before and the after.    Sometimes, a moment has that kind of power.  That terrible divisive moment happens to people all day everyday. 

I don’t promise quality writing or content.  I just sit in front of the keyboard and share my thoughts and experiences.  Sometimes it’s nonsensical.  Some days I’ll be irritatingly positive and some days I’ll be downright nasty negative but most days I’ll probably be somewhere in between.

I promise you this.  Raw, unfiltered stories and experiences and madness and revelations and stupid ramblings too. 

If you were a previous reader of “The Kristen Suit” and decide you want to read more, be forewarned.  I might repeat stuff.  It will be stuff I’ve forgotten that I ever wrote about in the first place.

My love to all the people returning and anybody new to my world as well.