We are taught from a young age we have to honor & cherish our parents because they are reason we have life. Our parents provide us with critical care we could not survive without. They are our first teachers, role models, guidance counselors, and cheerleaders. Sometimes however, they are the source of our first emotional scar; laying the cornerstone of a foundation that mental illness builds a home upon.
So if we are indoctrinated we must love our parents and blood family; what happens when you can’t or have to love from afar?
You don’t love them or you love from afar.
If someone causes you so much emotional distress that it alters the way your brain is supposed to function, you let go of the rope. People will tell you how horrible it is for you to distance yourself or coddle the other person in a cocoon of excuses.
Don’t listen.
Not listening is easier said than done, especially if you are easily backed into a corner. It requires a lot hard work and even more heartache to learn how not to listen to the noise. There is this concept known as bodily autonomy which means you have the fundamental right to make your own bodily decisions (this includes heart/brain) free of coercion. You and you alone.
Today I woke expecting to happy and overjoyed, it’s my partner’s birthday. He brings so much joy to my life, it is beyond words. However, it took an ugly turn.
I let go.
I had to make the decision for myself to love my mother from a distance. It feels unfair and maybe a little cruel, but I’ve realize it is what is best for me now and ultimately best for her.
I wish I could outline the complexities of the relationship between her & me, but the reality is I can’t. Everything feels hazy and I can’t really identify a source or a clear path leading up to my decision.
I’ve tangoed in and out of relationships with both of my parents. A couple months before my dad died we were working on having a peaceful relationship. Just because you let go doesn’t mean you can’t ever pick it back up–remember you have the bodily autonomy to make those decisions.
I can’t say how long the gap will be this time around. I’ve been struggling with the decision for weeks. A few months ago I took a step back from nearly everyone because my brain was cooking over easy instead scrambled, this included my mom.
However, in March my sister called me saying our mom was in a bad place and needed our help. I was doing much better so I picked up and tried to help. Emphasis on try.
One thing you should know (or hear again if you know me personally) is how much I do not want to be a mom. I knew around age 10 I didn’t want kids. I went through a brief phrase where I thought I wanted kids, but for most of my life I knew I did not want children. And in helping my mom, that is exactly what I became a mother to my mother.
The emotional association in the role reversal was hard to swallow at first, but I was working through it. The constant struggle in having open working communication is what I can’t deal with. Even now, just tapping out it on a keyboard–my blood pressure is rising. When I agreed to start helping her again, I gave her my boundaries and my expectations. All of which she agreed to and she followed–for about 2 weeks.
In the weeks that have followed I’ve been nothing but frustrated and angry. Sometimes I feel like the only way to get her to respond is to treat her the way my dad treated her. Which is absolutely a no go. He was horrendous. I never want to treat her or any other human being the way my dad behaved with her. My solution: let go and step back.
I love my mom and acknowledge she’s had a rough go, but so have I. I’ve dealt with similar traumas as she and I am doing alright. I have my share of issues, but I claim responsibility for them and work toward overcoming them. I can’t be broken and be expected to fix someone else and I feel like that is what is being asked of me.
I hope one day we can reconcile and she figures out her path, but for now I will stay right here.
Metal fans may recognize the title as a line from a Seven Spires song, Succumb, off their new album Emerald Seas. This album has resonated with me so much, it’s all I’ve been able to play for the last couple weeks. While the album speaks of two star crossed lovers, it also speaks to profound love and profound loss.
Nine years. I don’t understand how the hell it is even possible I sit here writing this. Nine revolutions around the sun without my dear baby sister, Marissa Rose. The pain feels much more intensified this year for me. I suspect since last year I was emotionally constipated and broken, I couldn’t feel anything. I miss her all the time, that will never change regardless of my emotional state.
I recognized the imbalance approaching as I couldn’t find any cathartic relief from any other music except the new Seven Spires album. (Which is a total banger and you need go check it out.) Then last night I watched the below video and it set off a crying episode I haven’t had since before our dad died.
Grief is one of the few completely universal, yet wholly unique things to exist in our reality. It looks and feels different for everyone. The first year without my sister, I was a total mess. Probably the worst shape I had been in mentally since junior high when I struggled with suicidal ideation.
Thankfully, I had someone in my life (who is now no longer in my life–different blog) who kept me afloat and scooped me off bar parking lots when songs became too emotional during karaoke night. I know had I not had a constant source of compassion and companionship, my depression would have won.
I miss Marissa in ways transcending words. It is impossible to articulate. The acute pain of the longing though subsided around year 3 or 4. It stopped hurting to miss her. Until now. The pain has returned and I understand that is normal, the problem I have is the pain can be debilitating. And to people who’ve never experienced a traumatic loss, the debilitation makes no sense.
Fortunately, I was able to work from home this year. My employer recognized I could be functionable, but needed my space away from people. No one wants to watch some one write web code with Niagara Falls on their face. I’ve tried to work around people on this day and it does not work out for anyone. My emotions aren’t in check and my mood hinders morale.
If you know me personally and have known me a long time, you know hiding my emotions is not a strong suit. Zero out of 10 on that skillset. During Cryaggedon last night, I went to outside to talk to Nick about dinner and he saw the tears raging all over my face. He asked what was wrong and my response was “I’m (hiccup) fine. It’s nothing.” Even with it smearing a face full of make up I still tried to hide and was obviously unsuccessful.
I think about the kind of person Marissa would be, especially since most of her friends are now graduating college or getting married. I missed out on a first love, first kiss, and first heartache. I won’t get to be that wiser older sister she can confide in because some stupid boy broke her heart. I won’t be able to say “Screw him, let’s go get our nails done.”
The above photo is my mom’s favorite of us three girls. This was the night of my twenty second birthday, seven months before the accident. This night ended up being disastrous for me, but I am glad I spent time with them before the mayhem.
When Marissa was born, everyone was immediately in love with her. Including dear, ol’ Dad (for more on that read the previous post). I saw how special she was at a very young age and one of my greatest fears was something would happen to her. Not because of Dad, no. She was the one person who was shielded from his abuse. He never laid a hand on her and he never yelled at her. She did witness the terror, so she still would have had the trauma from that. But he never directed any of his awfulness at her. I guess the fear now was more like a premonition? I’ve never thought into it that much and have only said it out loud once or twice since she’s died. The fear eventually subsided and left my conscious thoughts, but immediately sprung up the day she died before I knew all the details of the accident.
The day she died was a beautiful Saturday in May. It was warm, but not hot and a little breezy. I was making food (grilled barbeque chicken with mashed potatoes and corn) and getting ready to watch a movie (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire). I looked at my phone, it was 4:15 PM and thought about calling her. We usually talked a couple times a week and I thought about calling her. I sat down with my plate, grabbed my phone and flipped it open (yes, I had a flip phone in 2011- it was damn stylish!) and almost dialed her. I stopped and said no I am going to eat first. This is 4:30ish. I finish and get ready to call her and my phone rings and this is when the world stops.
It’s my cousin Krystal calling to tell me there was an accident and I needed to call my mom. So I hang up and call Mom. Mom is fucking distraught and cannot form a functioning sentence. I hang up with her I call Krystal back no answer. So I call my friend Heather and ask for her help because I am starting to not be able to function. She somehow gets information. She tells me Dad and Marissa had been in an accident and to go my aunt and uncle’s house. No one had to say anything else. I knew at this point, someone was dead. Remember my biggest fear from a few paragraphs ago? Swift kicked me in the gut and I about fell over my balcony railing from having the wind knocked out of me. I drive over, both Krystal and her sister are already there. I demand to know what in the ever loving fuck is going on. Everyone is crying no one is speaking. I am told to call my mom, again. I call her. All she did was cry and say one thing: Marissa. No sentence, no words. Just her name and hysterical crying. I dropped my phone (pretty sure I threw it at a tree) and tried to run out into traffic. My uncle grabbed me and just held on to me while I sobbed. My aunt, Krystal and me piled into a car and drove up to the hospital where my family was at. So some background, I was living an hour away from my hometown and my other sister was an hour and a half away in another town at college. We get to the hospital and my mom was on the floor in the waiting room. A family friend who happens to be an ER doctor for another hospital was with her (thank you Dr. Bob!), so at least she wasn’t alone. I stopped crying long enough to ask where Marissa was. Mom hadn’t seen her and Dad was still being treated. I looked at Mom and said “let’s go.” I couldn’t get her to move, she just kept shaking her head saying no. Dr. Bob helped me convince Mom to go back and see Marissa. She agreed and I managed to fireman carry Mom off of the ground and hobble her back to the room where the hospital had Marissa. Had I not known she was dead, I would have sworn she was sleeping. She wasn’t mangled or messed up. There were only a couple of very small indicators. One her mouth was slightly open and her tongue was kind of sticking out (very true Marissa fashion, if you ask me) and the saliva had dried out around her tongue, crusting over. The second was a little bit of blood on her cupid’s bow, but honestly could have been from a bloody nose. I probably made that trip three or four times back to see her before she was finally taken away to go to the State Medical Examiners office. The last trip I made was when Dad’s medical team said he could see her. Now if you knew my dad, you knew he was a burly and mammoth being of a man; however, the sound that came out of him when he saw Marissa on that gurney was inhuman. I can’t describe it, but I hear right now. It was the worst blood curdling squeal a person could possibly ever make and to hear it come out of a man who looked like my Dad was unfathomable. My aunt, cousin and I stayed at the hospital for several hours. Marissa’s friends came to see us and they told me how much Marissa talked about me and how much she loved me. Marissa’s best friend though, my heart hurt the most for. She had lost her mom to cancer a couple years prior and now her best friend was gone. Jazz was the last person Marissa spent time with before she died. She got revel in being a teenager one last time. Dad had picked Marissa up from Jazz’s so they could go get Marissa some new softball gear. The night eventually got late and I needed to go home. My aunt, Krystal and I headed back. When we got back to my aunt’s, Krystal asked if I wanted to stay with her that night. The answer was absolutely yes. We went to the bar down the road from my apartment to have one drink for Marissa. One drink turned into me so drunk I had to throw up and when Krystal rolled down my window, I missed my open window and puked down the side of her door. (Sorry again.)
The next few days after that are a complete blur. We planned the funeral, I picked her casket. Mom and my grandmother got into it at the planning table. I nearly punched an elderly woman in the face. Dad wouldn’t look at me. I was back home for a week and the first time Dad looked me in the eye was the day of the funeral and he said ” I can’t look at you, you look too much like her.” And for the first time ever in my life, those words shattered my heart.
I’ve done what I could to make her proud in the years since she has been gone. I’ve tried to make better decisions and not let my life end up in the gutter. To celebrate her five year anniversary, I ran a 10K. I finished dead last, but I finished. That whole year was a year of running and progress. It was also the year I met Nick. Now most of my honoring comes in the form of a fun make up picture inspired by her two favorite colors: purple and lime green. This year is no different. I try to challenge myself every time I do these looks (today & her birthday) and push the boundaries of my skills.
She was just starting to get into more feminine habits like makeup and hair right before she died. When we were kids, she never wanted anything to do with my makeup and her idea of doing her hair was throwing it in a bun. Which worked for her because she lived in her sports uniforms. There is an old adage about how finding out how much people don’t like you, name a kid. Well also pick out a burial outfit for a kid and you’ll also find out. Mom decided to bury Marissa in her traveling basketball uniform and asked her teammates to come to the visitation in their uniforms. People did not think that was right and thought she should have been in something else. That girl LOVED sports more than anything. Her love for sports is the only reason I am at peace with the results of the accident. Had she survived, it was likely she would not have played sports again and that would have stripped the joy out of her life. And a Marissa without joy would have been worse than a world without a Marissa at all.
To my angel, I miss you beyond words. This acute pain is unbearable, but survivable. I will figure out how to keep on making you proud. Wherever you may be. I hope you are reunited with Dad and you have helped him find peace. “I pray our stars align, so I might hold you one more time.” – ‘Succumb’ Seven Spires”I’ll bury you among the stars that litter the skies of my heart. Next to the moon you placed in it’s folds. So loving and so long ago.” -‘Bury You’ Seven Spires
To my friends and family, thank you for your love and support throughout this journey. Walking it for 7 years with only her gone was hard enough, but now I am having to relearn how to handle grief since her and Dad are now both gone. Your patience and understanding is something I will never take for granted.
One final special thank you. To Seven Spires. You didn’t write Emerald Seas for me. But it feels like you looked into my heart and said all the things I’ve wanted to say for years. I could not possibly begin to thank you for the wonderful treasure I’ve found in your album. Thank you for your hard work and the beautiful result.
“I have fought my fight, I have run my race.” – ‘Breathe’ by Eluveite
Today is my late father’s birthday, the second one since his untimely, but not entirely unexpected passing in January 2019. Strangely enough, I’ve been relatively quiet about him, our relationship, or how I’ve been since his death. I figured today was an appropriate enough day to commemorate his memory and share my experiences since.
I started a new job a little over a month ago, my third job change since he died. A colleague and I were exchanging life stories and in the middle of mine, I paused and realized if I hadn’t traveled the path, I don’t know if I could accept one person/family experiencing that much tragedy and heartache. I don’t necessarily want to unpack 20+ years of emotional baggage in one post and I don’t know if you want to read it, especially now amidst pandemic protocol.
He had very dark secrets he was pretty good at concealing from me, until he no longer wasn’t. I remember being in fourth grade and slowly realizing the charade Dad tried to entertain was just that a charade. Around this same time, I learned what a drug addict was and what drug dependency looked like. He eventually realized I had caught on to his story and he had lost a hook, line, and sinker. This would be ground zero for the rest of our relationship.
It wouldn’t take much friction between us to spark a fire. Our fights were ugly and violent and I as aged, they got worse. And like most fires, they would spread; spread to other’s in the house. Particularly, my mom. She never deserved any of what she was dealt. Any of it. Even with some of the poor choices she made, nothing could justify what she endured. As I type this out, I’ve hit delete about six times because thinking about what she lived through breaks my spirit.
At this point, you’re probably asking why there was no intervention. I wish I had an answer. People knew what was going on in our house, people knew about Dad’s nefarious activities. But nothing happened. Even when he was arrested when I was in junior high, he didn’t serve any jail time, he was just sentenced to rehab. Wish it had worked, but it didn’t. Rehab might have been a great solution had we been able to change our surroundings after he left. We lived in a very rural county in Iowa and drugs were a problem–still are–and with a limited amount of population, he never got out of the social circles that led him down such a destructive path in the first place. Had we moved away from the farm and lived somewhere more urban where we didn’t know people, he might have had a chance. Doubtful, but it is a nice dream.
I realize I’ve painted this monstrous picture of Dad and it’s slightly unfair and not the entire reality. People who knew him before the drugs ruined his brain recount how he was the nicest man you could know and do just about anything he could for a stranger. Many of the kids I went to school with had parents who went to school with my dad and they would tell stories about how Dad was the kind of guy who would beat up bullies, especially boys who picked on girls.
He loved championing the underdog. He used to be a real scrappy dude. It’s quality I think about and smile. Everyone loves an underdog and despite Dad’s really shitty characteristics, he seemed to charm everyone. He would enrapture them with stories of things he witnessed and lived through. Occasionally, it would border on tall tale or at least feel like a tall tale, but portions of his life were things out of tall tales; just mine looks like a tragic novel.Once I moved out of the house, the physical violence between us ceased and the emotional violence raged. We would try to have small civil conversations but they always ended with him screaming atrocities at me and me in a pile of tears. We had brief moments of peace and bonding, but they never lasted.
The only photo I have with Dad as an adult. During a rare period of peace.
Our last phone call will be a moment I treasure the rest of my life. Again, it feels like a plot device. I was having an extremely bad day (a bad fight with a former friend that person could be a whole other blog post) and out of the blue on my lunch–Dad called. He NEVER called me, ever. Furthermore, he APOLOGIZED with sincerity. For the first time in 30 years (at the time) I heard the man sincerely apologize. He told me he was proud of me in spite of everything between us. He told me he loved me and for the first time I could recall he gave me true fatherly advice about the situation I was dealing with. Our conversation ended pleasantly and I was hopeful about the future.
A couple weeks after that phone call he texted me. Hell, I didn’t know he even knew HOW to text. He had wished me a happy birthday and reminded me once again, his high school football team was nicknamed the Dirty 30. His football stories always put a smile on face, even when things nasty between us.
My favorite story was how a player from the rival team had done something dirty after there was a flag on the play and game play was stopped. So in true Dad form, turned around a punted the player in the forehead, knocking him out for the rest of the game. Thekicker was later on as adults the guy Dad had kicked had come up to our town’s Firemen’s Valentine’s Day Dance to talk to Dad. I was probably 7-10 years old. I am not exactly sure. For those unfamiliar with Firemen’s Valentine’s Day Dances, it was a dance hosted by our local volunteer fire department. I am pretty sure it was to raise money for the department. I am not 100% because by the time I was old enough to attend, I moved away from my hometown.
Those texts and phone call are the last communication I would have with my Dad. Life unfortunately got very busy for me as I was dealing with a lot of stress from the job I had at the time. There had only been three people on staff and one had been terminated; leaving me and my manager to run the place. December 2018 each of us had only had 4 days off the entire month. I had zero energy for anything or anyone.
Prospects for 2019 looked promising despite my pure exhaustion. Nick & I had a wonderful year full of so many incredible moments: Europe for the first time, I met one of my heroes, Europe again, and many more. We were excited because more adventures were in store and they were, just not the adventures we expected.
Dad was admitted to the hospital on January 4th, 2019 and then 10 agonizing days later, I made the hardest decision I’ve ever made in my life. I turned off his life support. Those 10 days were some of the most emotionally jolting days of my life. I will chronicle that journey in a future post.
After he died, my brain broke. Death and grief change a person, but this was different in a way I can’t quite explain. I had been through tragic loss before, my sister’s angelversary is two weeks from today. I am no stranger to loss and to pain.
The best way I can explain it is, I stopped fully processing emotion. If you know me personally, you know that I feel everything with everything have from laughter to sadness and everything in between. No emotion is left unexpressed. I just stopped. Music stopped being enjoyable, things stopped being funny. I was definitely grieving but not in the ” I am sad” kind of grief. If I tried to feel anything, it became too much and I would start to drown in my intrusive thoughts.
The intrusive thoughts stemmed from the fact of how much there would be to resolve with him gone. Mom at the time still lived on the farm and my grandmother can’t stand my mother so we had to act fast to get Mom off the farm to avoid further problems.
Ah the farm. The location of my childhood home. A dilapidated, needed condemnation much sooner than it did trailer. Five people squished into a 3 bedroom home doesn’t really work. The place was in disrepair from lack of maintenance (or half-assed maintenance) and littered with violent handiwork. It was so bad, we were never allowed to have friends over. (Probably because their parents may have reported it, but I doubt that since no one ever said anything.)
So I knew when I went to the farm last April to help Mom move out and sort through belongings, it was going to be bad, but I cannot explain the mayhem and the madness I witnessed walking into my childhood home for the first time years. The fact my mother felt she could have stayed there blows my mind. The place was the physical manifestation of mental illness and belonged on Hoarder’s or something.
However, it wasn’t destruction or disaster of the trailer overwhelming me. No, it was the inevitable removal and demolition of the place. My childhood address and phone number would cease to exist. Thirty plus years of lives were lived in that space, someone lived and died. How could it all just be erased? I couldn’t process it.
After our trailer had been torn out and hauled away.
After our trailer had been torn out and hauled away. Additionally, I was going to have to teach my mom how to live on her own. Dad had taken care of everything for the last 30 years. So overnight, I had taken on a parental role over my mom. And when you’re someone since the age of 10 insisted you will not have children, it messes with your mind. I can confirm this entire experience has further solidified my decision to not have kids, in case you were curious.
There was a whole host of other problems I was trying to navigate in the midst of this mess. Problems I had before Dad died, but was forced to start unpacking as a result. Let’s mix in job instability, preexisting mental health issues and it’s a magic potion. One that magnifies calamity. In the process of trying to get my mother stable and my head above water, I drowned. Not physically or literally, but emotionally and mentally. I spiraled out of control. I opened a bunch of credit cards and shopped until every cent was spent.
Credit cards with a part time job and tastes like mine are just an awful combination. Did I know better? Subconsciously, but I couldn’t recognize what I was doing at the time. I also thought I was going to be getting an hours promotion at my job and didn’t. I try not to plan my life on uncertainties or at least try to have contingency plans in case shit derails (which it usually does in my life.) Instead I broke every single one of my rules because I needed something besides the mess in my mind.
There was a moment about six months ago, where I told my mom she needed to figure it out. I couldn’t do it, I had to take care of myself and the wreckage I was leaving in my wake. I felt hypocritical lecturing her on budgets and the importance of planning and here I was a fucking mess. So I stopped. I stopped checking in. I stopped talking to her. I saw her once in that six months and it was to go to a funeral. Oh the irony.
Beginning of this year I made a commitment to myself to get my head and finances under control. So far I’ve been doing pretty well. There have been deviations to my plan, but overall I am still on track where I need to be. The last major hurdle I fought with was the one year anniversary of Dad’s passing.
Nick & I go on a cruise every year called 70,000 Tons of Metal and besides our European Excursions, it is the best vacation we take all year. This year the date format had altered from previous iterations and it allowed us to take time off ahead of the sailing and not use any extra time had we not gone down early. The thing for me was the dates of our vacation correlated to the same dates I spent in the University of Iowa Hospital with Dad.
The dichotomy was strange. Should I be happy, should I be sad, what emotion am I supposed to feel right now? I really did my own thing on the boat this last time around and I am really proud of how I spent my time. It helped distract me in a way that was healthy and didn’t revolve around me swiping a card.
With my head back on a little more tightly (let’s be frank here–it’s never going to be tightened all the way down again), I have finally started communicating with my mom more and started helping her again. My plan has had a few deviations so I am still working on things, but I am in much better shape and have a light at the end of my tunnel.
My emotional trauma and baggage still need unpacked, but for now I am content with burying my head into helping my mom and learning new skills for work.
I missed out on an opportunity to rebuild a relationship with my dad and it might be my only regret that I have. I am extremely thankful his last words to me were ‘I love you.’ I know a lot of people in my position do not always get that kind of resolution. More exceptions to the rules.
Many people are not going to be happy with how much I aired in this narrative. I don’t really care. There isn’t anything you can say to me at this point that hasn’t been said to me before. It’s fine if you’re not happy with it, I can’t say I’ve always been about the shit that’s happened–but here we are.
I’ve fought and I’ve ran. I will continue to always fight for myself and my survival. Surviving is one thing I do know how to do. I’ve learned to run head on instead of away. One day I’ll finally be able to breathe because I’ll be in a place I can call home.
Yesterday word of the helicopter accident killing nine people, including NBA superstar Kobe Bryant stunned the world. Grieving a celebrity you never met is a strange phenomenon; not one I understood until Chester Bennington’s death 2.5 years ago. It’s not easily articulated nor easily comprehended. However, I do not wish to focus on this tragedy through a celebrity lens, but rather a human one. Feelings on Kobe Bryant’s death are extremely polarizing. Many think ‘good riddance’ because of the accusations in his past. While the chances of the Bryant family seeing every single post of that nature is near impossible, it still saddens me nonetheless. Despite what he did, he was still a husband and a father.
My father was somewhat infamous in my tiny hometown because well to be frank, he wasn’t that great of a guy. He used to be, but his addiction destroyed his brain and personality. He knew how to entertain though. He could go anywhere and have an entire room of strangers hanging on every single word enthralled by the absurdity of his story. What strangers didn’t see was how quickly he angered or how one small retort could ignite hellacious rage.
My hometown is quite tiny; less than 500 people. The dirtier your laundry, the more people knew about it. Growing up with a dad like mine, in a community like mine, made things interesting. At one point I wondered why there wasn’t outside intervention to make all the insanity stop. I grew to accept things as they were since they couldn’t be changed and realized I would be less resilient now if someone had intervened.
While I do not fully comprehend the scrutiny Vanessa Bryant and her family face daily, I empathize with their situation. When someone you love has done something heinous, people question your loyalty and your love. It’s heartbreaking because it’s an impossible decision to make. It feels like you are doing a disservice to humanity for loving the person who did something monstrous. Yet, if you choose to side with humanity you are evil and cold-hearted for abandoning your loved one. Who can make that kind of choice? I sure couldn’t, believe me I tried. I used to run scenarios in my head of the circumstances surrounding Dad’s death. I was 100% wrong, not a single thing I ever conjured up happened. I’m still processing those events and he has been gone a year.
I’ve experienced two major life losses: a parent and a sibling. I was fortunate that my losses were nearly a decade apart. I cannot begin to fathom the emotional hurdles Vanessa Bryant is going to have to handle. To bury your husband and child at the same time is cruel and harsh reminder of how finite our time really is. Her & Kobe’s children are the survivors I ache for the most. The loss of a sibling/child is one the cruelest things that can happen to a person. There is no word for who you become after a sibling/child’s death, further accentuating the pain.
I hope Vanessa Bryant and her family are given space and peace. We all deserve room to process our emotions. Most of us receive it as we are not thwarted into a media spectacle when our love ones die. Their grief should not be ridiculed or questioned. Hearing such commentary only exasperates the pain and does nothing to help them heal. I hope they find solace and strength. God knows they are going to need it.
Think and feel what you may about Kobe Bryant’s death. His dirty laundry was aired because of the lifestyle he led. Just as my dad’s lifestyle aired ours.
It’s been a hot minute (month) since I’ve made any kind of post. I could ramble on with excuses, but the truth is my brain was stuck. Mental illness is no joke. It’s a hard rut to get out of and with the onset of winter weather, it will be even more difficult staying focused.
You may have noticed on some other social media sites, I’ve updated a wide variety of information and have teased more information coming soon. Soon may not be a great adjective because I am not sure how soon, soon will arrive. Let’s just say I have some ideas brewing and I am in the beginning stages of developing ideas. I want to do a better job about posting content more regularly across all platforms.
I hope you all stick with me as I figure out my brain and how to stay focused and motivated. And if you are suffering from your mental illness issues do not be afraid to speak up and reach out for help.
