I am not a writer.
Recently, my sister in law has started blogging again. I used to love her blogs so very much, and when I saw she was blogging again I was pretty excited. I love reading what she has to say, no matter how dark it can be. Life can be dark and her not hiding from it is inspiring, courageous, and so beautiful. Her words are why I am choosing to blog this. I, too, need to get things off of my chest. Hopefully the writing helps. [Thank you, sister]
I have already stated that I am not a writer. I donât put words together very well, and can definitely jumble things together. My emotions speed on and my train of thought has a hard time catching up sometimes. For this post, I will not start at the beginning, more the middle. The middle seems more fitting for today.
The middle is not the middle of my life. On this day, that would mean I am starting at age fifteen. While I could tell quite a bit from that time period, I will save it. Todayâs middle starts in 2012. I wanted to say 2013, but to understand 2013, one may need to understand 2012.
2012 was a pretty big year for me. In January I started on month three of my full time job. The only job I have stayed with for so long, and the only one I absolutely loved. I worked as a daycare worker, inside of a church, that also had a pre-school. It was and still is a dream job. I worked with the younger kids there, so ages three and four. I still remember their faces and names, though it was so long ago now. They were all wonderful. What was not wonderful was being pushed into roles that I did not want. I could work with the kids and do my job, but I was pressured into more. By that I mean I was pressured to go to church, and pressured to start teaching on Sundayâs at their church services. Now, going to church at the time was no big deal. I didnât realize I was being pressured. I liked hearing what two, of their many pastors, had to say. My Grandparents were so proud of me for working there and going to church, I felt like FINALLY I was not disappointing them.
I did not start teaching Sunday school. It was at that time that I realized what was happening and I wanted to run. I wanted to run so far away. My boss had said many things and I felt like she had me on this track that I wasnât ready for, nor did I want. But it was what she wanted. In May, I finally quit my job. It hurt. A lot. I felt like I abandoned those kids, but also myself in a way. Life went on for both myself and the daycare, but I have not been the same.
Around late summer of 2012, I started babysiting the most wonderful little baby. I was so nervous about it, but did try my best to make sure she was well taken care of. Everything her mom told me, I did. Her mom was and still is wonderful. How she is opened my mind and heart, where it had previously been shut by the daycare. I loved my job again.
Here comes 2013. A whirlwind. A rollercoaster ride to the deepest parts of my world. I know I talk about this often, but it needs to be said again, so that the story is there, in the open.
On April 5th, my mom had her birthday. Now, we never really celebrated her birthday, but this year felt different. A need to do it was there. My husband, son, mom, and I went to my Grandparents (her parents) and had a birthday dinner. My Grandma wasnât the best about eating, saying everything tastes bad, but this time... this time she loved it. Absolutely loved everything. We had a wonderful day. One of the best birthdays ever.
On April 6th, I went to my very first Evansville Mom Prom. It is exactly how it sounds, a prom for Moms. You dress up, eat, and dance until you drop. (Or they turn off the music because the venue was only rented for so long)Â I had my prom dress on, hair done, everything felt wonderful. I was nervous, yet excited. My nerves got the best of me a little beforehand and I had to urgently pee. My Grandparents house was closest to the venue, so I stopped by there to pee. My husband was driving me, so he went in the house with me. Instantly my Grandma commented on how beautiful my dress was and how pretty I looked. That felt great. There was only one other time she had seen me dressed up that much. I used the toilet, made sure my dress wasnât tucked into my tights, washed my hands and started to head out. Before going I asked her if she was okay. She had her usual response that she didnât feel good. (She had said that most of my life.) She said to my husband, âI didnât know you had a mustache!â That sentence alone should have been a huge red flag. He had a mustache for 99% of the time she has known him, which at that point was about six years. I didnât see it, only thought of it as a funny Grandma thing. I think I told her and my Grandpa I loved them and left. Left her sitting in her chair, watching tv. I went to Mom Prom and had the best, most wonderful, positive night. I needed it because the next morning, my Grandma died.
I could explain all the things that happened in detail from the moment I woke up that day. They still feel fresh in my mind, even after almost four years. But, I donât want to get to that part. I want to talk about the things after that.
I felt guilty. Guilty for not staying. Guilty for not knowing 100% if I told her I loved her. Guilty for having a wonderful time the night before, instead of staying. I felt alone. I wasnât the only one heavily grieving her loss, but in my mind it sure felt like it. I tried to lean on my rock, my support system. It wasnât there. I had to hold myself up, yet was turning upside down and inside out.
Right after Mothers Day, I lost a huge chunk of family. This time not to death, but to life. Iâm still not 100% on how that happened, but I do know part of it was my fault. So I piled on more guilt. More loneliness.
That summer, I felt as is I were under murky water, couldnât breathe or see, desperately reaching my arms out to find something to hold on to. Something to pull me up out of this terrible, slow death. While I did find a life raft, it wasnât what I needed. My life raft came in the form of a person I had known since I was fifteen or sixteen. I will always appreciate the light they sparked in me, but this wasnât the life raft I needed.
In August, or so, I was not babysitting any longer. I feel like I had failed there, too. I had went on two big trips, out of town, and those crippled me with anxiety. So much that I could not babysit anymore. How I handled all of that, I still feel guilty for. The kiddo and mom are still some of the best people ever.
In September I was casually on facebook, like I still do. I saw a post that didnât quite make sense to me. I found out through facebook that my other Grandmother, my fatherâs mother, had also died. I had no idea she was even sick. No one told me anything. Granted, I wasnât (and still am not) on speaking terms with my Father. But, no one told me. That summer spark was blown out from under me. My step-sister did call and informed me of everything. At that point it was too late. The guilt and loneliness was back. Why did I not get to know my other Grandmother like I did my momâs mother? Why did I not ask how she was when I thought she had moved? I can never answer those, but it weighs on my mind.
My, in person, support still ended up being that lighthouse of the time. I will forever be grateful for them allowing me to grieve by their side and showing me about lighthouses. They still were not the life raft I needed.
Somewhere around that same time, my husbands parents moved and we werenât âallowedâ to see them as much. I put quotes because that is what was said. I wonât explain details, just that it was very difficult and more guilt piled on.
This guilt and loneliness has taken a toll on my mind and body. I am not the same person I was before. I do not believe in God, church, or heaven, like I used to. Trusting people is very difficult. My anxiety is out of control, so much that I am on medication, something I did not want at all, but definitely need.
In February of 2014, I went to a wonderful tattoo artist named Richard Holt. He worked with me on drawing up a lighthouse tattoo and then added his art to my leg. I still absolutely love it. It was my starting point on being a lighthouse. Shining my light to those who are in storms, or just need a friend on a sunny day. Since then I have come a long way with how I think of things, but not so far on my depression and anxiety. It feels like I am moving forward and backward constantly. Of course, some days are better than others. But, to know the me from now, you must understand the me from then.
I may have found my life raft, but at this point I am not sure. It feels like maybe itâs myself. Maybe itâs dear friends. Maybe itâs the positive things I try to surround myself with. But, I can almost feel it in the murky water. I will keep reaching, for I have not drown all the way yet.
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