so. in the middle of everything there’s one thing that keeps coming up, one thing everyone keeps saying, one recurring theme: it will get better, i’ll heal and get back to normal. i’ll move on.
i get it. you know? i know it will happen. i know it’s inevitable. it will get better. i will begin to heal. i will eventually move on. but normal? there is no normal any more. normal is long gone. there will be a NEW normal eventually but there is no normal to go back to. nothing will ever be the same again.
NORMAL was talking to my dad every week. it was him checking about my car, asking how money was, what the boys were up to, when i was going to come see him again. it was listening to him talk about football games or golf or fifty cent taco night at the bar. normal was my dad being upset every time i moved that my house wasn’t good enough. it was grandpa showing up at every birthday or holiday with WAY too many presents- there was no such thing as getting a few things on the wish list- it was EVERYTHING on the wish list. normal was great big grizzly bear hugs and snoring that put old school cartoons to shame. normal was having a dad i could call any time for help or love or laughs. there will never be a normal again.
so what do i go back to? i guess the answer is that you don’t go back to anything- you have to move forward. but it’s fucking hard people. it’s hard to move forward. it’s hard to move. it’s hard to breathe. it’s hard to know that all the things that were so special, the things i took for granted are just gone. they’re memories now. and i’m TERRIFIED that memories will fade with time.
i don’t want to move forward. i don’t want to have a new normal. i don’t want to forget.
i know that eventually i’ll have to. i know that time and life will force me to. but for now i need to hurt. i HAVE to hurt before i can heal. i have to ask my questions. i have to be angry. i have to cry. i have to rage against the universe and curse the unfairness of it all. i have to find time to let myself feel all the different things.
i’ve been told over and over “this is the life” but i say BULLSHIT. BULL. FUCKING. SHIT. this is NOT the life. it is NOT normal to lose your brother and your grandmother and your father and your step mother all in less than a year. YES, loss happens. but holy fuck universe- give me some fucking room to breathe and deal with things. can we space these out a little more? you know...like...NEVER? and yes, i understand how unreasonable that is. i understand life and death and eventually we will lose people. but FUCK. not all at once, you know?
so. the questions really are: HOW DO I HURT? and HOW DO I HEAL? i know that i have to do both. and here’s what i’m attempting (poorly, but attempting):
talking about it: friends and sounding boards and therapy and hell, even perfect strangers are all hearing little bits and pieces of what i’m going through right now. there’s several reasons for this: #1- it validates my feelings. wait...validates isn’t the right word- it makes them real. when you’re forced to put words to things you have to know what you’re saying. you have to be able to call it by name and once you’re able to do that it doesn’t seem so big and scary. it makes me really think about what i’m feeling so i CAN say it. #2- every person you come into contact with is there for a reason and at a specific time. i believe that with every part of my being. every person is there for you to share something with or to share something with you. you never know what you will take away from an interaction, or what you may be able to give them. whose to say that the checker at the store didn’t also recently experience a loss and by my talking about mine it lets them know that they’re not alone in the shit-pile the universe is shoveling out? maybe they can tell me how they’re getting through it or i can tell them how i am. maybe it’s something as simple as making another human connection. maybe it’s an opportunity to learn something new or laugh for a minute or be reminded and one of a million things. TALKING IS GOOD.
writing about it: if talking is good, writing is fan-fucking-tastic. as much as you can talk about something there’s a sense of finality to see it in front of you. writing has always been my core self. it’s what i ALWAYS go back to when shit hits the fan. i have journals from every hard part of my life. it’s my chance to talk to myself and talk to other people without being interrupted or thrown off track or forgetting what i was trying to say. i can organize it, tweak it, work it through until i really know it’s exactly what i want to express. it also gets it out of my head- there’s something about writing for me- i can think about it forever, i can talk about it, but until i put pen to paper (or fingers to keyboard) it won’t be OUT of my head. once it’s written i can finally put it to rest. i can know i’ve said my peace. i can know that it’s there. it’s a tangible thought. it’s no longer just my own voice in my head, it’s out there- if this makes sense to you, you’re probably also a writer. if it doesn’t make sense- trust, it really helps me.
and i'm finding new ways to write. ways to force myself through it. i'm making myself write on my lunch breaks at work- it makes me get through things and feel it all without being allowed to fall apart. i tried to write at home one evening and just found myself staring at the wall and getting lost in emotions and getting NO writing done. when i write at work i have to focus, i have a time limit, i have to get it out and still be able to function for the rest of the day. i make myself write about the hard things that i know i wouldn't be able to face otherwise. it's been very helpful.
ink: i waited until i was 27 to get my first tattoo. every single one of my designs is something i picked, something that represents a part of me, something that helped me deal with a different part of my life. a tattoo on my foot for my kids. “destiny” on my wrist to remind me every day that there’s a time and a purpose for everying. the flowers growing up my calf to remind me of all the battles i’ve made it through. the vw for my brother. and now my dad’s badge on my shoulder to never forget who he was and what he meant to so many people.
i went in a week or so ago and had this new one done. and it’s my dad. it’s his badge, his badge number, hell, my artist even mixed some of my dad’s ashes into the ink for me. it’s as much of my dad as i can get and keep forever. and there’s something about the pain of getting ink- it puts a REAL pain to the pain in my heart. as i was on the table for this last one i started crying- something NOT ALLOWED on tattoo tables. you know how there’s no crying in baseball? there’s no crying in tattoos too. so there i am on the table, all of 5 minutes into the ink, and i start to cry. IT DIDN’T HURT (which was surprising given the placement). that is to say the INK didn’t hurt. but it hurt to the very core to think of why i was getting the tattoo, what it meant. it made me really face it again- you can’t deny your father is gone when his ashes are being put into your skin. you can’t say he’ll come back one day when you’re holding his burned badge in your hand for the artist to get the design from. you can’t pretend it didn’t happen any longer.
and you know that thing about talking that i mentioned? how each person is there at a certain time for a certain reason? turns out my tattoo artist was law enforcement. he worked as an EMT for years, had been recruited for the WSP, had tested for Kootenai county- all places my family of cops has been. my dad studied to be an emt back in the beginning and was a WSP. my brother started his career in Kootenai county. my artist UNDERSTOOD. he knew what it meant to put this badge on me. he had read the news and followed the story. it meant as much to him to be able to do the ink for me as it did for me to receive the ink. it wasn’t just some random person all...whatever...with the gun. we were able to talk about it through the process. he understood the tears and made an exception to the rule for me on his table crying.
and it really did help me start to heal. going through the pain, working through the meaning, making sure the ink healed right- it’s helping me heal a little more every day. i still tear up when i look at it. i still hurt when i remember why it’s there. i have a hard time explaining it to people without turning into a slobbering crying mess. but each time gets a little easier. i can’t say each day is getting easier yet. just when i think that something comes along to submarine me. but you know...eventually...right? that whole being forced to move forward and find a new normal? it will happen whether i want it to or not, right? so. welcome to my healing.
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