Roots

I sat in the car, eyes full of tears, and as the procession exited and headed towards to the church I thought to myself, "please don't let us go by the house." Yet, at the familiar stop light we made a left turn and then a right turn, and I found myself being driven down the street where my father grew up, and the last stable, tangible piece of my childhood. The house grew closer, it's grey-blue front, the driveway, the porch, and though it no longer belonged to our family, I could see within and feel the love and laughter. The tears fell slowly as we drove by on our way to one of the churches of my childhood to celebrate the life of my paternal grandfather. Roots, I reminded myself, it is roots, and though your last grandparent has passed you have your parents, your extended family, and your own family.

It has been almost 8 years since the passing of my grandfather, the man with whom I played cards, took me bowling, out to eat, made me laugh, and told me stories upon stories. He was at all of my graduations, helped me move into college (more than once), and gifted me with the most incredible pasta rolling pin. He was the last of my grandparents to pass, the final deep root that kept me anchored. Growing up moving around the country I always knew that no matter what I had my extended family, my grandparents back in the hometown of my parents; it was the one constant in my life. With his passing I was uprooted, and while I knew I had my parents, my own family, and my extended family, everything was different. 

Six weeks ago I lost my my longest childhood friend, another root removed. After battling illnesses for 4 years she passed away, a month shy of her 44th birthday. A leap baby, I would tease her about her age, yet in truth she had more wisdom and grace and compassion than most of us. Jess was my kindergarden friend. The one person that managed to keep track of me despite me moving away at the age of 8 and then moving multiple more times.

In the midst of my undergraduate years she found my email and we emailed occasionally. Nothing too frequent, nor anything too in-depth, but the connection was there, yet life took over and we lost touch again. With the advent of Facebook we reconnected and finally we connected in person, 20+ years in the making. When I divorced it was the catalyst our friendship needed, pushing us into a new space as I tried to find my footing as a single parent.

Jess became the person I would call when I was on a long drive; she was the person I called when life was good, when life was crap, and everything in-between. We laughed a lot, cried some, and she offered insight, guidance and simply held space. The past 6 months she was the person I left messages for every morning; a check-in on my day, a well-wish for her for the day, and a promise to connect.

When my life fell apart last year I could always count on Jess, despite the fact that she was ill herself and dealing with ongoing medical issues. Jess held space like no other. We made plans to celebrate her discharge from the hospital with a bonfire like no other. We made plans to celebrate her birthday with cheesecake and laughter and kitty snuggles. The last month of her life we sent voice memos, endless voice memos, simply unable to connect on the phone, and when we finally did briefly it was with a plan to catch-up again soon. It never happened. 

I lay prone upon my bed the night of her passing, unable to move, tears that would simply not come, despite knowing I needed them. What was I going to do? Another root, another stable point gone, and I knew in that moment, without fully understanding, that life had changed again. There are still so many mornings and so many drives that I pick up my phone to leave her a voice memo, to call her to chat, and I simply cannot, so I speak to her, knowing that somewhere she is listening. At times it helps, at others it is nothing more than an exercise in futility and I fight back the tears for my loss. She's happier and healthier where she is, yet I find myself again uprooted, working to create new roots, new anchors.

If I close my eyes and listen I can hear her telling me that I am rooted, that I have my children, my parents, my ancestors, my widespread friend circle, and a new path, a new root growing. She would tell me that my maple is more rooted than I believe, and to listen to the heartbeat of my forest.

Jess and I at her 40th

Ashes to Ashes

 A little over 2 months ago my life imploded and crumbled to dust. It was the darkest period of my life, even more dark than periods leading up to my divorce and early post divorce. Anxiety and depression assaulted me daily and I began a course of medications to find some balance. The side-effects of the medications became as much of a problem as the anxiety and depression, and it was one more battle I had to try to find the energy to fight and manage. But this story is not about the medications and effects, this story is about the creation of the ashes of my life.

I had a plan.

I had a plan to move to Bend, Oregon and raise my children in a town that better meets our needs and lifestyle. A town where I feel at home, safe, protected, and at peace. A town that values the outdoors, being active and community and connection. A town that strives to care for its own, and while it is not perfect it is trying, more than I see in so many other communities. I had a job in Bend, I had my non-profit in Bend, my best friend in Bend, and a growing community of friends through my job. I had a plan to move there and continue to grow the non-profit and eventually transition to working that full-time as a paid employee and likely a small job on the side to supplement income as needed. I had a plan to create a lifestyle that supported my physical and mental health in ways that are extremely challenging living in my current community. I had a plan.

Having primary custody of my 4 children does not give me the right to just move them across the country, I had to come to an agreement with their father to move them. In brief he was not agreeable to them moving, thus began a year long legal battle for relocation. On April 20th, the day before my birthday, we all attended court, the children spoke to the judge alone and expressed their opinions which were relayed back to me via my attorney. I found myself in the very real and very painful position of continuing my quest for relocation and likely being denied relocation and primary custody of my children, the only option that was guaranteed was to rescind the relocation request and have the battle for change in custody follow due process through the courts. In 10 minutes I was forced to make a decision: fight for my move and potentially win or potentially lose everything, or give up relocation and keep custody until it could proceed through the court. My heart was breaking, I sat in the courtroom hallway fighting back tears, breathing, shaking, trying to find the decision that met my needs and the needs of my children. This move was for me and for them, and I knew that if we moved it would be incredibly challenging for them, I knew that it would strain our relationship, but I also knew that given time and space to heal and move through it we would do well in the end. Having grown up moving I know the resiliency of children and moving, but also the trauma of it. I sat in the hallway battling in myself, the clock ticking, my heart racing and breaking all at once, torn, watching my world finishing burning into ashes. The last important component of my life fuse lit and burning out. I made the decision to pull my relocation request, I simply couldn't take the risk of not moving and losing primary custody. It would break me further than I was already broken at that point.

Earlier in the month of April I lost my best friend. My best friend of the past 3 years simply decided to stop speaking to me, stop being there for me, stop answering calls, texts, anything. Having been as close as we were and having supported them through so many trials and challenges it was killing me to have lost them, lost their support when I needed it most. I needed that person that simply understood me and grasped that this was more than "just a move." They knew what this meant to me, and understood how deeply important to me it was, and I was abandoned by them without explanation. A fight had been had 2 months previous that had not been resolved, but I had been hoping that we were going to move forward as we had in the past. Every other fight, disagreement, and confrontation we had had over the 3 years we worked through, and we always told each other we worked through it because we cared about each other. I still cared about my best friend and I wanted to work through it, but I also desperately needed that support from them. Support that I had received previously, and I could not, and still cannot understand, why it was withheld. Why, when I needed them the most they abandoned me? Left me, ignored me, triggering so many of my trauma responses I swirled and spiraled more. Court loomed closer, there were challenges with the children and court, my birthday loomed, and the person that I had been closest to for 3 years was missing by their choice. My heart broke, my soul adrift, and I began to crumble, to implode, unable to bear anything more, fire burning throughout.

I struggled to sleep, I struggled to eat. I struggled to get out of bed and get to work at the desk next to my bed. I did it though. I got up slowly, I struggled to focus on my tasks, taking double and triple the time to complete tasks as April wore on with the loss of my best friend and court approaching. With the loss of my best friend also came my resignation from my non-profit. The non-profit that I helped create; the organization that I built from the ground up; from the logo and community and website, that was driven primarily by my effort. It was a passion project, one that I poured my heart and soul into. I was proud of the work I did, it brought me much joy and it was such an honor to be a part of it. Yet the organization was changing and the leadership and I were in conflict and I could no longer stay with an organization that did not value my opinion, my work, my time, and did not appear to believe in open and honest communication anymore. The non-profit was the one thing that I still had hopes of, the one thing that was going to be my light in this time of extreme darkness, and it went away. With the loss of my best friend and my non-profit I crumbled, but had little time to grieve those losses. Medication was not working, therapy was still in place and yet it was still not enough. I was unbearably sad, yet also so numb to everything. My body and mind unable to process anymore hurt. Food was a chore, everything was a challenge, from a simple shower to making dinner. I persevered, the kids were fed, chores completed, and life moved on. I was not ok, yet there was no time, no space to fall apart.

I sat in that courtroom hallway with only a small fuse of life left, having burned away so much with the other losses, and now it burned away my job and my move and my future. Ashes, dust, nothing left, no pieces to make a puzzle. No strength. I am not a phoenix to rise from the ashes. I am a woman, nothing more. One who was incredibly broken, not ok, and yet still asked to carry on, to move forward. To grieve quickly and briefly because it's "only a move" "only a job", yet it was never just those things. It was a lifestyle, a safe place, a peaceful place, and a place that provided comfort in the pine tar and smoke tinged air with the snow capped mountains surrounding the town and the river carrying the heartbeat of the mountains within it. It was gone. My chance removed of my own accord. The sacrifice I made for my children that I did not want to make. I made it because of my deep love of them, but this was one that broke me. In a month I lost my future, my best friend, my safe place, my organization, and so much more. It's challenging to put into words all that was lost. 

I have not grieved it all. It seems impossible at times to grieve it all. Where do you start? How do you portion it out? How do you find the time and space and safety to become vulnerable when you are already dust? How do you share this with the world?

Two months later and I still struggle to find the words, to grieve it. Tears come at times, life is moving forward and there have been some incredible moments over the past 2 weeks and amazing people coming into my life, but I know I have more grieving and healing to do. I do not have a path forward, I do not know where I will be in a few weeks, a few months, much less a few years. It's ok not to have those answers, but there is so much instability that I drift. I am thankful for the people that have become anchors, and the new ones that are supporting me with open hearts and empathy. What a challenging time to come into my life, and yet as has happened before people have arrived in my life at challenging points and made such lasting impacts that I have a small amount of hope blooming again.

There have been more smiles and laugher in my life these past 2 weeks than there have in the past 2 months, for which I am thankful. I see and feel parts of me that seemed to have been lost forever. It is not a return of those parts, but an emergence of new. I do not have a path, I do not have a plan, but I find more moments of strength and courage. In this I can take some comfort, and in knowing that anchors are there for me.

Tomorrow begins the start of the next chapter. Tomorrow their dad begins his battle for joint custody and I have to find the strength, courage, and energy to fight for what I believe is best for my children. What is best for me as well. I am scared, I am terrified, I am exhausted, I am sad. Knowing I have a handful of people supporting me is giving me the strength to proceed and I will. 

As I have said so many times before reach out to your friends, to your family. So much of this story has been withheld, and maybe I will write more on it one-day, but without those people texting me in April, giving me hugs, and calling me I would not be where I am today. Without all of you being there despite me not reaching out or reaching out right before I would have fallen further. My heart has gratitude for all of you for being there, even when I told you I was alone, and you told me I wasn't. Thank you for letting me disagree with you and have the space to move through some of this grief safely. 

Turning 43 in the middle of all of this was not what I wanted, not what I envisioned and again I find myself with trauma on and around my birthday. Six years ago I knew my marriage could not be saved on the weekend of my birthday, a turning point in my life, and here I am with a no plan again coming off of a birthday. I love plans, yet at this point I can do no more than walk through each day, each moment, each breath and let things unfold.

Peace, I pray for peace.

One year, 2 days

One year and 2 days I embarked on my new position at my hospital. It was a HUGE leap of faith for me. I had no idea what exactly my job would entail, in fact my manager and those that advocated for my position didn't quite know what my job would entail. It took me out of daily patient care and into the tech and analytics world. Analytics I'm wired for, tech not quite as much, but thanks to some amazing mentors I've made my way. I certainly have a lot that I can still learn, but this job has been a blessing.

This job allows me the flexibility that I need in my life right now that I just can't have with a full-time patient care position. It allows me to have days like the other day: taking the kids to the dentist, fielding a conference call in the dental waiting area, dropping them at school and then hosting a very important conference call from my minivan while parked in front of the school. It's with the blessing of my management that I am able to do these things. There's something to be said for an amazing manager.

I never imagined myself in a role like this honestly. I left grad school and just wanted to go back to being a practicing therapist and find my way into some clinical therapy research. I made inroads into the clinical research, but there were a lot of obstacles and when my personal life started falling apart it was one of the things that fell by the wayside. In this role I can start pursuing that again.

The other component of this position is that I am not emotionally drained at the end of the day. I may have some significant mental fatigue, but I am not emotionally wiped. I never realized how much of myself I invested into my patients and families and the significant toll it was on my health until I was out of it. It honestly took almost 6 months to heal from that stress. Trying to go through a divorce and all the upheaval that it creates while simultaneously supporting families of children with disabilities in all different stages stripped me raw. I was coaching families on grieving the loss of the child they imagined during pregnancy while undergoing my own intense grieving process, and that left me tired and anxious. I have been able to heal myself and practice self care in a way that would not have been possible had I stayed in my patient care role.

Don't think that I don't miss my patients and families. I miss the magic that happens in a therapy session when you get to witness that first sit or steps on their own and know that you played a role in it. Or, when you give a child a piece of equipment and suddenly they're upright and mobile. I cherish those moments and magic that they brought to me. Today marks the return of patient care into my schedule. It's a tiny amount with only 1 scheduled per month, but it was wonderful to step away from my desk and use my therapist brain. To talk with a patient and family and figure out their needs and know that I can assist them.

I know what a journey I have taken over the past year in my career, faith, family and my own personal outlook. I am looking forward to seeing where the next year is going to be bringing me. I anticipate a year of more magic moments.

It's not always loneliness

Today I had the privilege of bringing my kiddos to a fun fall festival at a quaint town not too far from us. This isn't something necessarily out of the ordinary for us. They're used to adventures with me and in the summer it's known as #mondayswithmom. We had on coordinating shirts and had a great time doing crafts, taking a little hayride and walking the streets.

I can say that previously I have done these things and had jealousy issues and left them feeling crushed and lonely. It would hurt to see these "intact" families and know that it's just me and my crew. You wonder if it's bothering them too, especially when they don't say anything. It's a hope and pray that they're doing ok and just keep on trucking because there is nothing else you can do.

Today was different. It was the first time I've been to one of these events and not had massive feelings of jealousy or loneliness. I was content; I was happy; my kids were happy. This isn't to say there weren't moments of other feelings. There was a time waiting in line listening to two moms chatter behind me about not being able to take their two kids to this event because it would have been "too much" without another adult. I get it. I've been there, but I would have been stuck home my entire mom-life if it was "too much." I was the mom wearing a baby on my back and one on my front at times, or wearing one and pushing 3 in a double stroller. I'm not being judgmental about these moms, but I wanted to turn around and say I'm here with 4, alone! You can do it! It might be scary, but it can be done!

Despite these moms and being surrounded by intact families there were a few moments of just wishing that I had someone to share the experience with besides my kids. It really wasn't loneliness, just a desire for companionship. I'm at the point in my healing process to start to recognize the differences between the two. It's a good distinction. I can say that a few months ago I didn't think it would ever be possible. Thankfully, with a push from a friend or 2, my therapist and a lot of my own grit and determination I've grown a lot over the past 4 months.

It's not to say I don't get lonely. I certainly do, but it was nice to understand and be aware of the difference today. Especially after an event that would often trigger something. To me it's all part of the healing and growth process. I'll keep saying it until it sinks in- divorce is a grieving process. Those of you on the outside will never fully understand it unless you have lived it. Though we are grieving, we should also be growing. I like to think that at this point I am doing more growing than grieving. I think that today was a good reflection of that.

It's a good thing to be able to see that my family is whole and happy and "intact" in my eyes. I may not match what you think of when you think of a "intact family," but it's my views that matter more. My kids and I are happy, and I can't ask for more most days. I may have a wish and desire for companionship and a partnership in the future, but for now I am content to be me.