Mental Health And Addiction

I’ve debated for two days whether or not to post this blog post to social media for fear that it would embarrass my family and friends, but I realized today that the more I read about other people who are struggling in ways similar to myself, the stronger it makes me feel. Mental health is so important. And for so many of us it means life or death. I’ve struggled with Depression, Anxiety, ADHD, OCD and Borderline Personality Disorder so badly that I was put on an antidepressant when I was nine years old. For some of us, it’s a lifelong struggle. Not necessarily with the diagnoses, but with doctors who are willing to prescribe you medications you need, psychiatrists, therapists, and counselors who are sometimes not even willing to treat you, insurance companies that only cover some medications (I’m currently on a new medication that’s a Tier 4 for Blue Cross Blue Shield and without the manufacture’s coupon, it’s over $400 a month that insurance won’t cover), employers that are or aren’t willing to give you time away for doctor’s or therapy visits and on top of the many logistical problems, the stigma.

Nobody asks to be this way, I assure you. And it’s not always straightforward. I’m not depressed 24/7/365. There are good days and there are bad days. And for someone like me, it’s a Catch-22. In November of 2016, I posted a thing on Facebook about this, I had a full on mental breakdown. My depression was out of control, I was starting to isolate myself in very unhealthy ways and I decided to take some time off of work and work with a new psychiatrist and therapist and I was put back on medication for the first time in many years. I believe I went home from the psychiatrist’s office that day with five prescriptions. For the next few weeks, I lived off of saved vacation and sick leave time from my job, then when the new year rolled around, I was granted six weeks of FMLA leave, unpaid. The regional supervisor of my company (not my boss, my boss was the bomb diggity) required me to present a doctor’s note upon returning to work stating that I could perform my job better or with the same ability as I could before I took leave. None of my doctors believed I was ready to return to work. I lost my job.

I continued taking prescribed medications and then for whatever reason, I felt like I had been on them long enough, they weren’t making me any better and I wanted to stop taking them. Without telling anyone, I stopped taking all my medications in November of 2017. On Christmas Day, 2017, depressed, suicidal and feeling like I had no way out, I packed one bag, didn’t tell my parents where I was going, and I left. Where I went isn’t important. Who I was with isn’t important. What’s important is that I ended up in the fetal position in someone’s bathroom, unable to breathe, and wanting to die. The depression consumed me. And the thing about my ADHD, is it’s a combo ADD/ADHD. I absolutely have the hyperactivity component of ADHD, except my “hyperactivity” is mental, not physical. Hyperfocus with ADHD can sometimes be your lifesaver when you’ve procrastinated and you need to get something done, but if your brain is only hyperfocused on the most awful intrusive suicidal thoughts, you’d do anything to make them stop.

So I did drugs. Banging Crystal Meth to be exact. Go big or go home, right? When you've tried all the right things and they don't work, you'll try anything. So here’s where I’m about to get into some very unpopular opinions, but hang with me here. It saved my life. I’ve never been a drug user, a drinker, socially, but with the exception of the medications I was prescribed, it’s never been my thing. Imagine that. But, laying in that floor, wanting nothing more than to die, I would have taken anything to make it hurt less and what was available to me at the time was Meth. You know you’ve read those articles where they take about if you give Adderall to your kid, it’s the same as giving them Meth, ok… yeah, kinda. I’m not a chemist and I can’t tell you all about chemical compounds, but it is pretty close. I took Adderall for years, then switched to Vyvanse about six years ago, which, to me, is 10 folds better than Adderall.

But moving on, just like most drugs, Meth gives you all the feel goods. It floods your body with Dopamine which is what makes you feel what I call “content.” I’m not going to get all science-y here because I’m not qualified to discuss chemicals in your brain. But this is my unpopular experience with Meth, it saved my life. I think because Meth was so closely chemically related to medication I had been on for most of my life, I felt like I was breathing for the first time in a long time. I felt like this fog in my brain was gone. I felt like I could get up in the morning and not be a zombie. I felt like I could think clearly for the first time in almost two years. Yes, of course, there were downsides. I didn’t eat properly, I stayed up for days at a time, went into debt, eventually got arrested, spend a month in jail, and lost custody of my child.

So here’s the thing about mental health that’s tricky. I’ve been back home since October after spending 27 days in a 90 day rehab facility where they didn’t think I needed to be on any medication. Yeah, okay. So I came back home, got on new medication, starting seeing a new therapist and sitting here today, I can feel myself getting worse. I ate for the first time in two days yesterday. I showered for the first time since Sunday last night. I feel stuck in that place again that a year ago I felt so compelled to escape from. It’s terrifying. Nobody wants to let themselves get back to that place. Especially if you are a self-aware person and you realize it’s getting bad again. It’s exhausting to fight against yourself every day. It feels like my body wants to get up and fight and my brain is just like “nah, guh, not today.” It is a miserable battle to fight against yourself because one of you will lose.

So I plead with you, if someone you know or someone you love is struggling, not only with mental health issues, but addiction of any kind, save your judgment, your snarky Facebook memes, and harsh words for your therapist. Because if you’ve never endured the kind of hell that makes you want to end your life, you have no place to judge how that person chose to escape from it. Some of the kindest people I’ve ever met in my life were/are addicts. They put a roof over my head when I didn’t have one. Fed me when I was hungry and never asked for anything in return except to be kind to those that are struggling. Not every addict is created equal. Not everyone on Meth is outside vacuuming their lawn naked at 4:00 a.m. and planning on stealing your shit.

Addiction and mental health, more often than not, go hand and hand. Misdiagnosed, undiagnosed and untreated mental health problems are such a huge underlying cause of addiction. I’ve seen it first hand in myself and in others that I care about. So if you or a loved one is struggling, they don’t need your judgment, they need your compassion and love and company. I don’t have a car at the moment because I let my tag expire and I’m not working so I don’t have $224 to get a freaking sticker (don’t get me started), but the loneliness is excruciating here at my parents’ house. Y’all, call your friends who are struggling, unless it’s me, you know better than to call, you better text. Tell them you miss them. Instead of saying “hey, let’s get up soon,” say “hey, I’m on the way to your house, you need anything, I’ll be there in 20.” I know everybody is busy with their own lives, but take a minute today to think about the people you care about who are having a hard time and let them know you care.

I Am The Opponent

So you know the thing on Facebook, “Memories” where it recalls every post you’ve made on said date since you’ve had Facebook. That’s awesome. Mostly on this date I’ve posted quite hilarious things that my child has said because she is really quite the comedian.

January 22, 2017:

Tyler’s trampoline she got as a Christmas present went rolling end over end through our backyard and I said “Hey, Ty, your Christmas present is escaping.” And my 6 year old walked calmly from the living room to the kitchen window and paused for a second before saying “Well… shit.”

And on January 22, 2015 (Tyler was 4 years old), I posted:

Things Tyler Grace has said tonight...
"Mommy, am I still awake when my eye skin is closed?"
"Did you know sometimes my breath whistles out of my nose?"
"If I had a nickel for every time I said that, I'd be famous."

The same night I explained to Facebook world that I had to explain how tampons work to my four year old:

“That moment when your kid walks in while you're handling "lady business" and asks you what you're sticking up your butt.... number one on my list of things I don't want to explain to my 4 year old... tampons. ”

January 22, 2014, Tyler Grace was 3:

Things that are said in my house that I'm pretty sure aren't normal:
"Stop walking on my counters."
"I can't wait until I'm grown and I can have the big closet and you can have my room."
"If you don't get out of my room, I'm gonna fart."
"I'm not going to school today. It's raining and I'd rather sleep."
"Stop trying to shut yourself in the refrigerator. You're not hiding. I can clearly see you."
"Be careful, don't lock yourself in the dryer again."

And then all the other years there are some funny memes and whatnot and then I scroll down and I find a seven year old, terribly grainy picture taken on a Blackberry cell phone of me holding a sleeping Keller at a Mexican restaurant in Prattville and I just stop. I remember the afternoon we went. I remember telling Evan to take the picture. I don’t remember whether or not Ty was there. I think she was, but then again, I’d probably have a picture of Evan and Ty together because she always sat at his side of the table. Always a daddy’s girl.

I look at these “Facebook Memories” every morning. It’s the first thing I do when I wake up. Part of me wants to remember some of the good memories, part of me wants to make sure I save every picture of Keller, ever, and part of me wants to forget that I was a human being posting on the internet from the years 2006-until I became a mom. I’m very glad cell phone photos weren’t a thing in high school and for most of college and there’s not so much evidence of the stupid shit I did then.

But I look back on these memories every day and more often than not I just sit there thinking “how in the fuck did we get here?” I went from a doting wife and mother, happy to be raising two kids under the age of two in pure chaos to a depressed, suicidal, recovering addict, pending felon, who has one dead kid and lost custody of her other one. Like, how the fuck did we get here? I know losing Keller was the most detrimental blow to my mental health, but I was surviving, I was okay. I was still finding humor in Ty’s shenanigans, I was still functioning. I was still social, did brunch with my girlfriends, dated casually, made time for myself, worked full time, had my own house, a brand new car, my child went to private school, I had everything anyone my age could have hoped for, but it wasn’t enough.

I don’t know that anything will ever be enough to fill this void. And it’s not just a void left in my life where Keller was, it’s everything before that and everything else I lost with him. Everybody says “just fake it ‘til you make it,” but what if you can’t fake it forever? And what if you never “make it?” I get so exhausted pretending that I’m okay. I get tired of telling people “I feel better, maybe this medicine will help.” When really, more days than not are bad. More days than not I want to crawl out of my skin. The anxiety is crippling. Sure, I could take a Xanax every morning when I wake up, it’s written on my prescription for me to take one during the day and two at bedtime, but I’m terrified that if I start to take them every day, I will NEED them every day. Life is overwhelming, at best, on most days, and I don’t want mediocre days to require me to reach for a pill because there’s so many bad days that I want to numb, the okay days will now seem overwhelming.

And I feel alone. Completely, 100% alone. I feel trapped. I feel jaded. I feel misunderstood. I’m confused and frustrated and bored. I’ve tried to find “hobbies” as outlets to distract myself. I tried to teach myself how to crochet, that is Satan’s craft. I thought I would learn Spanish. I always wanted to. I took three years of it in high school and college and couldn’t tell you a damn thing. But after a week, my excitement for it just kind of dwindled. I used to make those really intricate friendship bracelets, but again, the contentment just goes away one day. I was reading, a lot, probably more than I ever have in my life. I was averaging 3-4 books a week, then, one day, just stopped midway through the first Game of Thrones book and haven’t picked it up in almost a month. Writing used to be an outlet and while today, I felt compelled, most days I don’t even want to open my laptop. I just now, last night, got a satellite thing upstairs in my room where I can pick up local channels on my tv, but even then, it’s just background noise to scrolling endlessly on my phone.

I don’t know how to pull myself out of this bleakness I’ve created. I don’t even know how I created it, but I did. I look back at the few years following Keller’s death and I wonder how in the hell I held it all together. And then I wonder if I was trying to, again, “fake it ‘til I made it” and I just didn’t make it. I’ve had a lot of people ask me if I was “happy” before Keller died and if these things that I struggle with now are just a product of that. Truth be told, I’ve never understood “happy.” I define happy as an overwhelming feeling of contentment and joy and so no, I guess I wasn’t happy. Then or now. I don’t remember the last time I felt a calmness in my soul where I felt like me, as a human being, was at rest. I’ve always felt restless and scared, almost haunted like I’m always standing on the edge of a cliff and one misstep, one distraction, will send me falling, so I’ve always faked this kind of carefree attitude to hide the fact that every minute of every day I’m just waiting for the one small thing that will send me over the edge. But I’ve faked it so well and for so long, that I’ve allowed all of these expectations to be placed on me, never allowing anyone to see how much I struggled to try to keep up with them.

I’ve always felt the need to live up to the expectations, whether real or imagined, whether they were someone else’s or my own, and to be in a place where I don’t even have any expectations for myself but to try to make it through the day without being ugly to anyone, I feel incredibly jaded. You know when people have those out of body experiences and they see themselves as if they’re watching someone else, that’s how I feel every day. I feel like I’m part of a team, me, my family, my children (dead and alive), my boyfriend, my friends. My life is a game and right now, we’re losing, miserably, and I’m just watching the game from the bench and it’s getting worse and worse and all of these things are happening and I’m screaming from the bench “put me in, let me play,” but the loss is too great and I’m so far from the star player I used to be, that I would only make it worse. At this point, the fear of absolutely causing more harm is greater than the glimmer of hope, of not even winning, but narrowing the gap. I feel like the game of life is just giving us blow after blow, scoring point after point; our opponent is ruthless and unyielding and I’m just screaming from the sidelines for a referee to call the game so that the one or two players that I have left in the game, fighting like hell, can rest.

They are so tired. But I needed them to come into the game for me. I needed them to come in and win for me. But I’m tired of watching them bleed out for nothing because I’m who they’re fighting against. I am the problem. I am the heartache. The disappointment. The depression. The anxiety. The lies. The addict. The failure. The sadness. Every single frustration that the players on my team feel are because they’re playing my game of life against me. I am the opponent.

Homesick

I haven't blogged in a very long time, and I seem to get asked, more than I think is necessary, why I isolate myself when my life gets hard and... well... this is what I got:

I isolate myself so I can be alone, where I owe myself no explanations, no justifications, I can just be. It took me more years than not to accept the thoughts that race through my head. The good, the bad and the downright scary. Which thoughts to accept as truth, which ones to question and which ones need to come and go like a mid-summer Alabama thunderstorm; the ones that pop up seemingly out of nowhere, bringing their fury raining down on you without warning, then fading away as quickly as they came.

Those thoughts are the ones that scare me the most. The ones no one would understand. The ones you can’t forgive and the ones no one can forget. They pour from my lips like venom. A powerful poison that causes the utmost pain.

But mostly my thoughts move to my son almost instinctively. Because when I’m alone with my thoughts, I am with him. I miss him more than my mind can comprehend. My logical brain rejects the fact that he’s gone because it’s not logical that he’s dead. It doesn’t make sense. It’s not right or correct and it goes against the natural order of life. I know that he’s dead. I know that he’s never coming back. I know I can’t trade places with him. I know those things, but I will never accept them as truth.

I feel like I fell in love with all the wrong things in this life. I fell in love with music. With art. With calmness. With monotony. With color. And warmth. And I fell in love with the way certain things smell and taste. And I fell in love with a little boy who made me feel all those things at the same time. And holding him in my arms was more natural to me than breathing. There could never be another.

My grief pours out of me like a levy has been breached. The city of my heart was supposed to be protected by all the walls I built stone by stone over most of my life, but a little boy came along and tore all those walls down like they never even existed and then he was gone. I built this heart under sea level, protecting it the best way I knew how. He tore the walls down and I didn’t pull out before the hurricane hit.

I was selfish. I was blinded. I didn’t see whatever was there telling me we were in danger. I love that little boy so much. I still keep pictures of Keller and Joey. As much as I don’t understand, I understand how Keller looked at Joey. Keller was in awe of Joey. So was I. I look at those pictures to remind myself that we all loved and trusted Joey, especially Keller. You couldn’t keep them apart. I can’t accept what happened as fact.

I fell in love with a little boy and it cost me my entire life. I will wonder around this world aimlessly searching for something that can never be found. Like a ship floating out to sea with no captain and no destination. Every storm brings a beating to its shell, eventually chipping away enough of its strong, protective exterior to cause it to slowly, but surely, sink to the bottom of a watery, dark tomb that’s filled with the ghosts of every mother that’s come before her. Because none of us survive this – we only endure it until death so graciously comes for us.

My boy was all the best things about life. He was the smell of the rain. The first day of summer. A white Christmas. The feel of fresh cotton not yet picked. The excitement of a New Year’s Eve countdown in Times Square. The feeling in your stomach before your first kiss. The color of the sky right before a sunrise over the lake. The warmth of the sun on your face on a hot Ft. Walton afternoon in July. He was catching fireflies in a jar and sucking honeysuckles and every happy childhood memory. He was every good thing about life in and of himself and he’s gone and he took with him everything about happiness I’ve ever known. He took my life with him.

And now I’m sitting alone in a foreign living room watching the wall. The world is quiet for a moment. The white noise in my head silenced. And then girls start piling in from outside and I know that soon I’ll have to put on my mask. The one that says “I’m nice” and “I’m friendly” and “I’m approachable.” And it all just seems so exhausting – this fakeness.

Alone, I am just me – a grieving mom, a student of knowledge, a writer, a quiet solo artist. I dread sitting in chairs where the next chairs are so close I could reach out and touch the skin of a neighbor I didn’t buy property next to. A gross invasion of my personal space, even though no one else feels that way. I sit here and try to write and my thoughts are fluid until they are drowned out by voices so loud and harsh they interrupt my train of thought like a Monday morning car accident. I want to scream at them to shut up, but I know better. I was taught better. That’s not polite. That’s another mask I have to wear.

Everything is so distracting. The motion of the ceiling fan out of the corner of my eyes. The breeze of the air on just one side of my face. The way the air goes on and off again. The noise of a hairdryer humming so loud it almost vibrates my ears. The way the plants move to the rhythm of the ceiling fans, like they are performing a beautiful ballet, so effortlessly swaying.

Then a door slams, jolting my mind out of its mindless wonder and I am once again brought harshly back to this cold reality where I am sitting alone in a place I don’t want to be, with people who I don’t know, sitting on furniture that isn’t mine, listening to voices I don’t recognize in a house that is not my home. But yet, I don’t want to go home. There’s too much pain there. Too many unanswered questions.

I’m homesick. I’m homesick for a place of beauty. A place of peace. A place where I am free. A place where music fills the empty spaces and happiness flows freely like an open faucet. I’m homesick for sunsets that make one question if they’ve ever really seen beauty. A place where the water is so calm, it calms the soul.

I’m homesick for a place I’ve never been. A place where eggshells are in the trash can after making breakfast with your family, not on the floor for people to stumble over. And gossip has the word “Girls” at the end and it’s not a verb. Where people say what they mean and mean what they say. Where second guessing pertains to a game of Clue, not your self-worth. A place where love is infinite, not conditional. Where manners and pleasantries are natural and appreciated, not tiresome, old learned habits. A place where dogs bark and tails wag and you’re never without a warm welcome from a four-legged fur baby, no matter if you’ve been gone an hour or a whole day.

I’m homesick for places so beautiful and filled with love they envelop the soul and fill the empty spaces of the heart. I’m homesick for a being as equally as a place. I want to fill my heart with all the most beautiful and perfect things in all the spaces he left and I want to live in that place where happiness exists again, where my heart is whole and love lasts forever in the flesh and children never die and the correct order of living is restored.

I am homesick for a place that doesn’t exist. A place where my boy is whole again. A safe place where he is laughing and not scared. A place where he and I are together and mommy can save him. A place he doesn’t have to suffer, where he doesn’t have to hurt. A place where mommy is okay and sissy is still a pain in the ass.

A place where resting isn’t followed by an autopsy. A place where I dress my son to get dirty, not dress him to be buried in dirt. A place where the word “momma” comes from the mouth of a little blonde-haired, blue eyed boy who looks just like her. A place where the book “Goodnight Moon” didn’t sting so fucking bad. And hearing the words to “You Are My Sunshine” didn’t take your breath away. Where hospitals are a place of healing and not of death. A place where innocence still exists and is protected with the utmost importance.

So I isolate myself because I want to kiss the lips of ghosts and I long for people I’ve never met and I dream of places that do not exist. And I am home sick to death that my soul is not filled with them.

Mother's Day

My blogging has been slacking because... well... life, but I wanted to make a plea to anyone out there who knows someone or loves someone who is grieving. I posted a post called "The Strong Willed Woman in February of 2015, and you can read it here or you can scroll through the blog and find it yourself:

http://tgandsarcasticmom.blogspot.com/2015/02/the-strong-willed-woman.html 

I want to tell you how the grief of losing a child broke "the strong willed woman" into a million pieces. On April 13, 2016, we finally got our "justice." He pled guilty again and off to prison he went, but not without a fight. You see, what you read in the news is not all that goes on behind the scenes. We knew, even with that guilty plea, we still had a fight. There would be an appeal, and another, and another, all the way to the Alabama Supreme Court. All of this lasted until about November of 2016, when the Alabama Supreme Court denied to hear his appeal. Even after that, as early as April of this year, there was a personal appeal made to the new Judge in our case, since Judge Bush retired, for consideration of early parole. Thankfully, it was quickly denied. 

Keep in mind, this person has spent a little over one year in prison on a 16 year manslaughter conviction. To add insult to injury, his first parole consideration is coming up in 2020. If you're good with math, that's three years from now that we'll have to put on our "we're not scared" mask and go running down to the Board of Pardons and Parole and plead our case to keep him in prison. 

This is why I broke. It's NEVER going to be over. Sure, you have breaks, blocks of time where nothing happens and there's nothing to worry about. Then as sure as the sun rises, there is something to do. Justice. That word doesn't mean quite as much to me as it used to. More like we'll give you and your family "momentary peace" then, every so often, we'll dig all these emotions up again. And when these emotions come, they're just as raw and ugly and rip you apart in all the same ways they did the first time they tore you down. There's no hiding, no running, it's always in the back of your mind.

I told you that to tell you this: Mother's Day is coming up. Ohhhh... what a shitshow that day is. I've been told I'm not allowed to be sad on Mother's Day because I have Tyler Grace. To you people I pose this question: If you have children, which one would you be willing to live without? Yeah, I thought so. So let me say this: Mother's Day is allowed to suck. It's allowed to suck a whole, giant bag of dicks if I want it to because it's one of those days that can be grouped into my category of "Sucky Days" along with Christmas, his birthday and the day he died. Stop telling people who are grieving the loss of their child that they are or are not allowed to think or feel a certain way.

Because let me tell you something folks, there is no timeline on grief. It's not linear. It's not something that will diminish over time. It is a part of who we are now. It hasn't always been a part of us, but it is now and while it may take some time for you to realize that this grief has changed us, for us, we didn't get the luxury of having time to "get used to it." It was forced on us in the ugliest of ways, without warning and without a blanket to cushion our ass. So as strong willed as one might be, we're not unbreakable. 

To those of you out there who love someone who is grieving, especially a mother this Mother's Day, I need for you to show up and show out for them. I know I've gotten through Mother's Day before since he died and I'll get through many more, but for some, it's not as easy. On this day, THEIR day, be a punching bag because I promise you, these women, fight invisible, silent battles every damn day of their lives, give them something they can hit. Give them a face to scream at. Give them a judgment-free safe space where they can yell "THIS FUCKING SUCKS"  or "I'M SO FUCKING ANGRY I CAN'T SEE STRAIGHT"  or "I BLAME LOSING MY CHILD ON whoever." If you love them, give these amazing strong women, who fight battles we know nothing about, a place to release the demon that is the grief of losing a child.

Because, after all, it is THEIR day.

Finding Compassion

 

 

As I lay here tonight, trying to find the words to accurately describe what the holidays feel like for me as a bereaved parent, I find myself at a loss for words. I'm sad, I'm angry, I'm empty and I'm emotionally torn. I'm thankful that I'm still here. I'm thankful I get to spend another holiday season with my daughter and see her smile every day, but most of all, I'm sad. Sad that there will be an empty seat at our table. I'm sad that Keller was only allowed one holiday season. One Thanksgiving, one Christmas, one birthday. It's absolutely devastating. It's even more devastating to know these things were taken from him in a senseless act of violence. I'm not devastated that these things were taken from me, I'm devastated that my precious boy deserved so many more than just one. 

 

But strangely, I feel overwhelming compassion for the family of the man that took my son knowing I'm not the only one that is suffering this holiday season. This man has a family all his own and I know they are suffering immensely. Although there's an empty seat at my table, there is also an empty seat at his family's table, two little girls who will be without their daddy and a mother who longs for her son to sit at her table again.

 

In a matter of minutes, two mothers lost their son. One for 16 years and one forever. I'm almost tempted to say that I grieve for her and his children the same, if not more, than I grieve for myself. I wish that I could take away her loss, because no mother, no matter what the circumstances, should be without their baby. I wish that I could hug her and tell her everything's going to be okay, that I understand her pain, because neither she nor I chose for this to be our life. I wish that I could sit and cry with her. I wish that I could hug his little girls and tell them that I'm sorry.

 

I will, for the rest of my natural life, mourn the death of my son, but I will also mourn for the "forgotten family" in this tragedy, wholly, respectfully and without judgment.

 

So this year, most of all, I'm thankful that buried deep inside of my being lies a desire to feel compassion for the people I once thought undeserving and that's a pretty incredible feat considering the circumstances.

It Takes A Village

Let's talk about relationships. Let's talk about post-divorce, holy shit, what did I get myself into, relationships. Because those can be, for lack of a better word, a clusterfuck.

So, you got divorced. You find yourself almost 30 and single with a six year old daughter. Dating hasn't gone well for you post-divorce, but low and behold, miraculously, your ex-husband has managed to find someone. Someone who he cares about and who cares about him. Awesome. Wait... this "new girl" is going to be involved in my child's life. Shit. I forgot about that. What the fuck do I do now? Well, you buckle up cupcake, it's about to get bumpy.

My philosophy has always been "it takes a village to raise a child." But what if that village isn't "your" village. Shit. Again. Well here's what I've learned:

1. You're not being replaced, momma, calm down. You carried this baby, loved this baby, wiped her ass, dried her tears and have loved her since the moment you laid eyes on her. You can't erase or replace that.

2. Maybe you're apprehensive to actually be fond of this new woman in your daughter's life. Damn sure caught me off guard that I might actually like the thought of my super manly ex-husband having someone there to do the girly things with my daughter when she's at her dad's, instead of playing in the mud and teaching her how to play XBox or whatever play machine he stays on.

3. Maybe this new woman who has entered your child's life is a hell of a good woman. Bonus. Think... this woman will be there to calm fears and dry eyes and do mani/pedi girl dates in your absence in a way that only another female can do. Because, I mean, how fun could it be to have a mani/pedi date with dad? Not so much.

4. We've had some messed up shit happen in our lives, my ex-husband and I, and my biggest fear has always been that he's away in Georgia with no one there to make sure he's okay. This "new woman" just took on that responsibility and removed a huge cause for stress in my life. She did that without batting an eyelash and that demands an incredible amount of respect.

5. When I got divorced, I never "pre-thought" what it might be like to see my ex-husband with another female. When it smacks you in the face, there's so many emotions you didn't see coming. Jealously - wow. Definitely didn't see that one coming. Not jealous of the actual woman that's with your husband, like she's prettier or smarter or better, just unexplained jealousy. She's found it in herself to love all the things about him that you didn't. Hell of a feat. I was dumbfounded with jealously, that came out of nowhere, like a surprise sneeze when you're on your period, that he had found someone and I hadn't. Jealous of their happy relationship when I'm struggle-bus'ing to get a damn text back.

So to the woman who dates my ex-husband:

Be good to him. He deserves it. If he's happy, he's a happy parent. When you date a single dad, there's more to worry about than just if you're making him happy. There's an amazing little girl who thinks the world of him.

I promise to never speak poorly of you, in front of my child, or under any circumstances, if only you'll promise the same in return. I hope you do all the girly things with her. I hope that she adores you. I hope that you adore her. If in the future, your family gets to meet my child, I hope they treat her just as any other grandchild, with all the love and adoration that only grandparents can give. I hope that we always have an open line of communication between the two of us, not just through this man that has brought us together. I hope you call me when you don't know how to handle a situation, because sometimes, only a mom knows what to do and I promise to give that advice freely, honestly and without judgment.

I promise to never ask my child invasive questions about her father's life with you because no child should have to be the middle-man and I trust that her father will always be honest with me. I apologize in advance for any awkward situations in the future. This "post-divorce" dating is new to me too and, I assure you, just as weird on my end as it is yours.

All I ask is that you be good to him, be good to my child and be a healthy part of this village that's trying like hell to raise this crazy child. Welcome to the village, friend. We're all batshit crazy here.

"My Person"

 

It's been a while since I've blogged. I haven't been in a "sharing" type of mood, but I wanted to take a moment to speak on a few things that have weighed heavy on my mind in the last few months. With Christmas fast approaching and the mind-numbing emotions that surround the Christmas holiday, I've been actively trying to hide from Christmas. Christmas embodies the spirit of innocence and family and the impending start of a new year and new beginnings. But for our family, Christmas is a sore reminder of things that are not new, things that will never change and things that will never be the same.

 

It's also a reminder that coming at the beginning of the year is something Keller's father and I never imagined in our entire lives we would have to endure together. The murder trial of our sweet baby boy. A public spectacle. A full display of the unimaginable, heinous murder of our 13 month old baby boy who we made together and loved together, our grief and heartache, our journey for justice.

Sitting at work a few months ago, I came across an article on Huffington Post. And while it pertained to the Michael Brown case, this isn't about the Michael Brown case. It was about what it's like to be a father who's lost a son due to the actions of another. This quote about Michael Brown's father struck a cord with me, particularly this:

"Brown reaches for a pack of Kools and heads out of the barber shop. As vocal as he has been in the year since his son was killed, he tells me there are lots of things he can't say. Things that stem from the anger and sorrow."

 

You want to talk about a force to be reckoned with? The quiet, calm man, the man of few words. That's what Keller's dad has embodied since day one. I'm the storm and he's the calm. While in the midst of this "storm" we're currently trying to survive, he's not shared much of his feelings publicly, or even privately. I sometimes wonder what he's really thinking. Is he really this calm and collected? Is he really okay? I'm not, I'm a freaking wreck. Have you ever been really "spinny" drunk and you have to place one foot off the bed and place it on solid ground to keep from spinning? He's my solid ground. He always has been.

Quiet. Calm. Collected. My rock. My steady voice. My pillar of strength in my moments of weakness. My understanding. My "I feel you." My "you're not alone." I can't even begin to imagine the thoughts he doesn't say out loud. But then there are rare moments he allows those feelings to emerge, when I least expect them, full of emotion, full of pain, sometimes rage and I realize in those profound moments that we're walking this journey side by side.

Being the woman I am, I have been somewhat vocal about my son's death, sometimes more than I should be. There are sad days, angry days, days of incredible rage, days of complete misunderstanding, and days of all of the above wrapped into one. I've not been shy about sharing those feelings with anyone willing to listen, even on social media for all to see. But he stands solid and calm. I don't know how he does it.

We've "done life" together for the past nine years and I can say with 100% certainty that I couldn't imagine "doing life" with anyone else. We're not "together." Our relationship is far from perfect. We're not perfect people. But we care deeply for each other and consciously make tremendous efforts to do the absolute best we can for each other. We have each other's back. We're on the same team. So many people have told me "I don't know how you guys do it, you make it look so easy." Well, it's not easy. It's hard as hell. But we still have a remaining child together that deserves our absolute best and we make every effort we can to give her our best every single day, together.

A lot can be said about a man who puts his family first before anything else in the world, even if that "family" sometimes includes the mother of his children who is occasionally far from his favorite person. But this man, my rock, my calm, my solid ground, is the embodiment of the strongest man I could ever imagine having the pleasure of knowing and I'm so thankful that no matter what circumstances have been thrown our way, he still stands firm in my corner, without judgment or malice in his heart. I am eternally grateful and forever indebted to him to be able to call him "my person." 

And also, he has the WORST singing voice when intoxicated. He's not just "off key," there's "no key."