when it was expected. When it looked the way you thought it should. When it fit the mold and had a response you knew how to give.
Before enough time passed for the expectation that the broken pieces of our souls would somehow be rearranged into a whole being again. The person you knew before. And one whose happiness could supposedly be proven with a collection of smiling photos or an afternoon with laughing children.
It was easier because it was "allowed." The expectation that I'd be fragile, might burst into tears or have to leave/avoid situations that were too painful was accepted. Grace was mostly abundant and we were given the berth to be shattered.
Then time began to pass and we had to find a way to start functioning in the life we're left with. As my fellow wounded and lonely mama Melanie DeSimone says on her blog-in "the life I didn't choose." I didn't choose this. Charles didn't choose it. Eva, Charley and Max didn't choose it. And yet, here we are, living it.
Every. single. day.
I've noticed that we tend to disconnect ourselves a lot. We retreat to our corners and hide in our books, our tv shows, legos, computers, anything we can find to avoid the "stuff" we don't want to see/feel/hear/know.
And because we disconnect, we fade in the background, becoming a footnote in the lives of those we once held so dear. And it's never because we don't love them, want to be part of their lives or share new or old memories, it's because we are simply surviving. And when you're holding on by a string, oftentimes anything that doesn't involve grasping desperately to that lifeline falls to the side. And you don't even know it or realize it until one day, months have passed and you have no idea how your friends are, what's going on in their lives and if they might need you too.
Because over here, in this broken circle, we're still just holding on by a string and trying, and probably failing miserably, to figure out how to live again. Really live. Find passion, see God in all we do, seek to serve, teach each other how to love as Christ did.
Mostly I feel like I'm tired. So tired that words to communicate it seem to fall short and scrambled. And when I try, bless the hearts of so many that listen, I simply do not have the ability to make you see. That the hole you feel when your child moves out, goes to college, leaves home or goes to camp doesn't even give you one shred of the soul shearing agony that grieving mamas and daddy's walk though every minute of every day.
I know that it looks from the outside like we're not always sad. Of course not. I'd have thrown myself off the nearest bridge by now if I could't figure out how to find some joy. Trust me, I find it. I just wish it was the joy of before. The one unfettered by the pain of death, fear, trauma, nightmares, loneliness and broken dreams in my incomplete family. My "unfull" heart.
Grieving was easier when we were allowed to be a disaster.
The harder grieving comes when we are learning one painful step at a time that most of those we love don't have the patience, the empathy or the commitment to not take our awkward social status and crappy communication personally.
We're still, 3 years later, climbing uphill in an ice storm in our underwear. Every situation that was Marine Corps related has brought trial, stress and heartache for my incredible Marine husband. My health has been a constant challenge and source of tremendous frustration that most don't understand and have little patience for. Our children continue to fight tense, spiritual battles that are grounded deeply in what they saw/expreienced that awful day, how they have been learning to live with it, folding in what the world tells them is acceptable now and trying to find their place in a fractured family that doesn't know what the right way to grieve/mend/grow is.
I've realized recently that I may have hurt some people as I navigate this shitty ass path I trudge every day.
I've also realized I'm not always a great friend/aunt/sister/daughter/cousin/niece/mom or wife.
But I am doing the very best I can. That may not look like what you need it to look like, but I promise, I'm trying.
And truthfully, its not about you. Your kids aren't dead. Mine are. Sadly, this crap really is about me, as much as I desperately don't want it to be.
I've spent copious amounts of hours and time praying, worrying, discussing and hoping that the precious souls whose hearts were shattered when Mercy and Sam left us have found some measure of healing. I don't forget them, not one of them. I'm blessed beyond measure for all the love we knew before the accident and after. Our children were and are loved, for that I am thankful and joy-filled.
Perhaps I failed in the graceful grieving I should have been doing after.
Should I have been sending thank you notes?
Should I blow up Facebook with constant posts and thank you?
Should I pretend we are more ok than we are to make all those who stepped into the gap feel better? So that we can be a redemption story?
Should I blast all over social media and news outlets how forgiving I am and how it's all ok now?
Would that make everyone feel better and allow me to just live the way I need to when I wake up every single morning to 2 empty beds, 2 empty chairs, and 5 broken hearts? When I wake up every morning not knowing what condition my PTSD/nightmare wracked child will be in today?
If you want the old Tiffany, you're going to be sorely disappointed. If you want what's left of her and how she hoped God will redeem her, then please don't give up.
But please don't take it personally that I forgot to call, forget stuff I said, forgot your birthday or missed our lunch date. I forget a lot and I'm working on it, but it may take a while.
