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."
No comments:
Post a Comment