As I walked out the back door of my parent's house, I knew I was about to embark on a remodeling project like no other I'd ever taken on before. Every project that I'd done to this point was about moving kitchens, a wall here or siding there. This time there was no lumberyard that would have the supplies that I needed.
I did my best to put on a good face when walking into my parent’s home. As much as I wanted to tell them I was OK, I wanted to tell them I wasn't. If there were anyone on earth who understands or is at minimum willing to try, it would be my mom and dad. Solid people, the salt of the earth, the kind of people who make the word marriage what it is.
For just a moment, I felt...normal. Making the turn west towards my parents, knowing that they of all people would accept me for who I was made me feel like I belonged on this earth. I'd never signed up for a dead child and two divorces, but somehow that's exactly where I had landed. Reality sucks sometimes, but for a few miles the idea of going off on this journey had subsided.
As I let out the clutch, I knew that the minutes, hours, days and months ahead would be with little plan. The thought of that left me sick to my stomach, but I did my best to simply ignore it to a point of stone. If I don't think about it, I'll be just fine. I'd been doing this for years and had actually gotten pretty good at it.
After closing out my letter to Blake, I closed my laptop and tucked it under my arm. I just sat looking at his grave. What passed by like a breeze in a previous life, time just sat still. It was like one of those heavy fogs on a morning you gotta get somewhere, but it just clung to every part of me.
After disposing of all the things in my home that simply meant nothing to me anymore; packing what little was left into a storage shed, I took the picture I shared in my last post. I steppedback,closed the door, and placed a large chrome lock thru the opening and CLICK.
Less is more, anyway, that's what I discovered on July 18th, 2011. I took this photo that day after placing the last of the things I desired keeping with me for the next few months into storage. Just looking at the moment in time, my stomach is sickened by the loss and despair I was feeling. I didn't want another person to say to me, "be strong".
Needed: Glass, spoon or stiring device, milk, chocolate.
1. Poor milk into glass.
2. Poor strawberry syrup into class.
(These two are interchangable, meaning you can put the syrup in first and milk in second)
3. Stir until blended to your liking.
Wait, it tastes like strawberry. What the hell is going on here????????????????? Let me do this again.
2. Strawberry Syrup
that have ran rampant in my mind for years are being put in their place. Looking back, they began to have their way with me after my first divorce. Leaving that day and hearing Blake's cry haunted me. The demon of that memory still waits patiently for an opportunity to come play the game.
Yeah, some may call them this or that, but I call them demons, as they simply have no cause but to wreak havoc on my soul. Blake’s cry amplified a billion times over by his death, I questioned everything. As much as I wanted to forget, I wanted to remember.
Last week I was on the phone with a dear friend who's traveled a grief journey much like myself. I don't want to put words or thoughts in his mouth, but I know him well enough that we can talk about anything. We've walked in similar shoes and without a doubt we became friends in a short amount of time.
Over the past couple years, we've discussed anything and everything. Death, life, struggles, depression, business, yikes, you name it and I think we've gone there. This past Friday we talked on the phone, our conversation took us down a path we often follow.