Grief thoughts

In 2012 I learned a lot of things. I learned how to crochet little baby hats with ears and horns. I learned the process and ceremony of dressing a stag in the forest in the fourteenth century. I learned at least a couple dozen symbols for alchemical mercury. I learned that I am smarter than I thought I was, more stubborn than I expected, and more vulnerable than I ever imagined. Most unexpectedly (because who ever expects something like this) I learned about grief. Grief hurts more than broken limbs, severe cuts, migraines, infections, any other pain I've ever felt. Grief is blind pain.

I went blind. I couldn't see my own confidence anymore. I couldn't find my optimism. I lost sight of my strengths. I started groping in the fog for distractions, tricks to keep me from facing reality. I made unfair demands on people who were unprepared or unwilling to deal with my broken self. I turned my back on the people who loved me unconditionally and only wanted to see me happy. I complicated everything. My poor choices were like a drug. I didn't have to cry over my grief if I could cry over my own self pity. It didn't matter if I was drunk or dramatic, I numbed myself. In a grotesque way, while I didn't do this, I think I understand now why people cut themselves. The damage I was doing to myself caused me to both feel something, and kept me from feeling anything at the same time. I kept breaking myself to keep myself from feeling the sting of healing. God, our minds are messed up things.

When all the bullshit finally stank enough for me to climb out of my mess, I couldn't believe what I'd done or what I'd become. I was just animated pain. A walking, talking, barely breathing, mass of gasping crying pain. My people who love me tell me not to be embarrassed, but it's going to take a while before I finally forgive myself for the damage I caused.

I'm trying very hard not to make this read like an amateur self-help post, or worse, an angsty journal entry. But this situation sucked. It really really sucked! You can't truly understand tragedy until it tears away at your heart.

I still don't know what makes it better. Time, I suppose. But I'm starting to remember, or rediscover, the things that make me feel good.

Prayer, or meditation or affirmations or whatever. Connecting to the part of life that is quieter and more meaningful than the surface. I rediscovered prayer and I'm grateful for it. It's getting easier.

Love. That complicated, inexplicable thing that naturally falls into place. The love of my family, my friends, my husband. The greatest feeling is reawakening to real love.

Confidence. Not doubting everything, especially myself. And remembering to listen to my truth.

Acceptance. Lord, grant me the serenity to accept things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

This is a hard week. Jordan's birthday is on Wednesday. The end of February marked six months. My family and I still wake up in that thick fog of the nightmare. We all still make blind mistakes. Sometimes the pain still feels unbearable. But I'm finally starting to open my eyes and see the glint that will eventually line the fog silver. The pain sometimes starts to feel like the raw type that comes with healing.

Thank you so much to my people. To the ones who have held me delicately when I kept trying to crumble. To the people who patiently helped glue me back together. To those who will start over and over and over picking up the pieces of me when I start to fall apart. Thanks for seeing me when I couldn't see a thing.

Here's to scabs and scars. Healing is messy business.

Shit just got real...shitty. But I'm in England, so there's that.

The middle of August, right before I turned 30, I posted a highly optomistic fun post about the advice I would like the older me to give the younger me. Since then, things have happened that the younger me couldn't possibly begin to imagine, and the "older" me is not prepared for.

I don't want to let my dirty laundry blow in the internet airwaves. As much as I'm an open book, I'm not a tabloid. At least I hope I'm not. But some things I will disclose because I feel compelled to write about them.

On August 28 my sister Jordan passed away from a car accident while vacationing in Jamaica. I don't wish that sort of shock and pain on anyone in the world. Jordan was honest, courteous, fun, intriguing, brilliant, kind, beautiful, creative, compassionate, adventurous, she was someone for whom you could ask yourself, what would Jordan do, and if you followed that answer, things would be just fine. Things don't glimmer as brightly as they did three months ago. And the most painful part of it all is if she knew the sort of pain that her passing set off, she would be so unhappy about it. She made everyone feel better, and right now things feel, well, they're tough—really tough.

Oh Jordan, I wish you could tell me what to do.

I've also been going through a...what is it...a 30-year-old identity crisis maybe? A post-graduation depression? A "really,-this-is-where-I-am-now?" state of mind? I've got questions for myself that I really don't know how to answer, and at the risk of starting to throw all that dirty laundry up in the air, I've never felt so low.

So, I did the most extreme thing I could think of. I ran away to England for a couple weeks to visit a dear friend. She's going to university in Durham where she studies in a World Heritage Site. Yup, my friends, Anna goes to university in a bonafide castle.
She took me to the cathedral and into the cathedral library. Things that are on my bucket-list: spend more time in castles and do research in a cathedral library.
The Durham Cathedral is where the English historian, Bede, is entombed. I will never stop loving the relics of history. Sure it's morbid, but bring on the dead!

We spent a bit of time in one of the student pubs in the 15th century section of the castle. Apparently the kitchens are in the 12th century part of the castle and are the oldest operating kitchens in England—no big deal. We also went to an amazing bookshop called Barters Books in Alnwick. It's where the "Keep Calm and Carry On" poster was discovered.

I'm here for twelve more days, and in that time I will continue to blog, clear my head, think about what I want and, I don't know. Of course being here, near a university, nearly jobless and lost, I can't stop thinking about a PhD. When things get hard that's what I do. I run back to the harsh but oddly comforting arms of academia.
Oh Jordan, wherever you are, I sure could use your reasonable mind right now.