Trauma in a Box

 

[Box o' Trauma: source]

One of the things my therapist has suggested is to envision a box in which to contain my trauma when I can't look at it. This came pretty naturally because I usually bottle up my trauma. That's how I survive. I put my childhood trauma (neglect, physical, emotional, environmental, etc.) in the same box with the trauma that came from losing a child, 17+ miscarriages, nearly losing Alli in the womb to the Kell antibody, dealing with the emotional terrorism that came with the attempted framing for negligent homicide by the state, and all the other things I've suffered. It's a lot, and it would be easy to be overwhelmed. That box saved me long before I ever created an image of it in my mind. I don't like to think about boxes because that leads me to the obvious box, the little white coffin into which my waxen-faced angel was placed just over 15 years ago. But I'm thankful for this invisible box. But there's more to healing that keeping the trauma in a box. 

                                      

[Unpacking the box--one leads to another: source]

The hard part is pulling out that trauma and taking a hard look. I mentioned this last blog, the one from a couple of months ago. Unpacking it can be painful, sometimes, resulting in tears. It involves looking at how my trauma affects others and vice versa. The therapist gives me strategies to try to avoid sharing my trauma in unhealthy ways, namely, by breathing through it and grounding myself in physical senses. It's hard to remember to do it in the moment. It's a work in progress. She's also referred us to a family therapist to try to work on all of this together. I guess we'll see how that works. 

[Jack-in-the-box, when the contents of the box can jump out at any time: source]

And you'd think I could just unpack the pain once and be done, but it's still there. I still lost my babies. I still dealt with abuse by the state. I still have years, decades, of unresolved trauma at the hands of family, neighbors, governmental figures, and more. And I will never get an apology. I have to find a way to come to terms with my pain for my sake, to forgive and let go not for anyone else's benefit but to release the poison I don't need in my heart. The goal is to be able to be able to look at her pictures without the pain, to be able to cherish the memories without the anger at the people who have intentionally attempted to steal the things from me that were most precious. It's hard to discern how close I am to that goal. 

[How the box sometimes feels, but without the fun; source] 

Just after we lost Alli and started attending loss groups, the experts in charge laid out the five stages of grief, and I took comfort that the pain would be gone once I got to that last stage. I'd learned about stages of childhood development, and they were (more or less) orderly(ish) and predictable(ish). Then, through hard experience and reading further, I learned there is no scientific basis for those stages. They were created by Kubler-Ross to help people deal with their own impending deaths and had no basis in studies. There is no actual formula for pain. I could go through numbness, angst, anger, peace, etc. and countless other emotions all at once, one at a time, or in triggers that could shoot off unpredictably. Even a rollercoaster is too pat and planned for the experience of grief. Grief is an untamed bronco that could go any which way at any given time. Even that is misleading because there's a way off a bronco. Once a person is on the grief train, it's always part of life to varying degrees. Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but that, too, is a lie. I have acquired a scab that can fall off at any time. As long as I keep the trauma in the box, I can generally exist day to day. But can I do more than exist? Who knows? I'm not there yet.  

[The Box's true identity: source]

The box is lurking in my heart and mind. It's always there. It sometimes chokes me and makes it seem impossible to sense the sun or see a way forward. Sometimes, it feels like I can keep the pain in the box with no problem and continue to live my life. Sometimes, I exist in the box, in a world where everything is pain. I feel broken, kept together by a hodgepodge of chicken wire and duct tape that can fall apart at any time. Sometimes, peace of mind feels temporary, an illusion. But I know I can find lasting peace in knowing I can hold her again one day, in knowing she's still there. I just can't see her. That helps, but not all the time. One day, I'm hoping and praying for that peace to last and feel more substantial. In the meantime, I will live for those moments of peace given me from on high and pray for more. 

Angelversary Trauma Delayed

[Newborn Alli]

I have been so busy lately that blogging has not been a thing. I'm going to try to get back to it. A week ago today was the anniversary of her death. She would be 15. Every year for Alli Day, we try to be anywhere but home. Having an adventure keeps my brain on anything but my pain. A couple of years ago, when we went to Montana for a ghost town, I didn't even realize it was the day until the next day.

 

[Hiking: Source]

This time, we decided to head to a major hike up Mt. Timpanogos. One of the kids tripped a couple of days before, so we decided the strain of that hike would be too much. Instead, we stayed at a bed and breakfast and drove up the Uintas. Our end goal was a fossil museum in Wyoming and a shorter hike in that same vicinity. We spent the day busy and didn't arrive home until late. I thought in a distant way of Alli but didn't feel the pain. 

[3-way tummy time-a pic from Alli's baby book]

The next day, we went through Alli's baby book. I felt the standard emptiness, a few tears, but I didn't break down. Until I talked to my therapist. It's been good to talk through my pain with an outside set of ears. We've been working on trying to separate the joy we had from holding her for four months from the trauma of DCSF attempting to frame us for homicide. Usually, I can mentally close the door at the end of a session. This time, especially with how recent the anniversary was, I collapsed into an agonized puddle and felt gutted the rest of the day. It was also the day I had to do grading, a thing I changed classes to avoid. Grading eats me alive if I let it, leaving me very little time for time with my kids or anything else. The two events left me traumatized and wrung out. I survived, but it was hard. 

[mourning: source]

I know it's good to let myself feel it sometimes. It's good to push through the pain to find healing. But it was rough. It's not something I'm eager to experience again, but I'm sure it was therapeutic. Somehow. I'm just glad that day only comes once a year. 

Approaching Her Birthday

[Alli's birthday comes again; source]

 Alli would have been 15 next month. She could have been studying to get her learner's permit. She could have been thinking of a crush, hoping for a date. She would have been a fully-formed human looking forward to adulthood. Instead, she's our angel, the first of many. All of the others didn't even make it to birth. She's still fully formed; we just can't see her. We lost her at just shy of four months. For almost 15 years, we have been members of the Empty Arms Club. It's a disconcertingly large club. It's always nice to be understood by fellow members, but I don't wish it on anyone. The dues are too high. I'm thankful to understand how to show empathy and understanding. I know that's one good thing that has come out of the worst time of my life. I just wish I could say that fifteen years have brought true healing. 

[The state of my shattered heart; source]

I truly don't know what healing looks like. I took a course on trauma writing, so I know writing can help. I've read about the five stages of grief, but I've also heard there is no reliable research to back them up. I can pass through most days without feeling the agony of loss, but I'm not sure if this is what's called healing. This is what fifteen years have granted me. When I really face the pain, it almost feels like no time has passed, and I'm in agony again. After watching me break down, my psychiatric healthcare nurse friend recently pointed out I could still use therapy for real healing. She also said the combination of a childhood of abuse, the loss of 18+ babies including Alli, dealing with the fallout of losing Alli--including DCSF attempting to frame us for negligent homicide--and all the other things I've suffered have left me with depression and PTSD. Yeah, pretty sure I'm just surviving instead of actually healing. But therapy costs money. It's never fit in the budget. Maybe one day. But I've always been the most fully functional of all of us. Everyone else's therapy always felt like a higher priority. 

[Research; source]

I did some research early on to find out what real healing is supposed to look like. I read books of child loss for the faithful, but none of them quite encompassed the kind of loss wherein a thought of the child also drummed up months of trauma at the hands of the state nor years of futile striving for a rainbow baby that would never come. I've heard you can tell you've healed when you can reflect on the joys and forget the pain when you look at the person's picture. I'm nowhere near that. Alli's pictures are still hard for me to look at and can even be a trigger. I usually do a pretty good job of not thinking of the gaping, bleeding hole in my chest. However, slight references to child loss or even babies have set me off more than usual recently. Maybe it is because the anniversary is coming up. The anniversaries and birthdays are always the worst days of the year. Maybe it's lack of sleep or an excess of stress. Little things also remind me of my late dad, who died a year ago this month, and my brother, who died the month before my baby did. But worst of all is when something reminds me of my baby.

[Source of Healing; source]

 I also know healing, true healing, comes from the Lord. I've sought that, and I feel like searching the scriptures and prayer have helped a lot. I've sought to understand what brings peace and what brings joy, and it all comes back to a relationship with the Lord. That is a work in process. Maybe one day, all of this will come together to truly heal my soul. In the meantime, I will continue to trudge through life, ignoring the gaping hole in my life and heart, hoping for a healing that may not come until I hold Alli in my arms again. 

What May Seem Trivial

[Painting out the Heart; source]

Recently, I was invited to an art exercise to work through traumas and dramas of the birthing process. I was reluctant. I felt like it was a waste of time. When I got there, the meditation-style pencil meanderings leading to random sketching and then coloring seemed kind of silly and trivial. Several of those in the class drew lovely art, brightly colored and vivid, only meaning something to the person who painted. It was supposed to be all about the delivery process and healing therefrom. At first, the aimlessness of the process of the art seemed silly, trivial. We were to select colors in reaction to each of the negative emotions in a list. It all stayed on the outside of my head and heart. 

[Dark Days of Death; source]

Then, one of the songs, Evanescence's "My Immortal," cracked me wide open because it's one of the two songs that automatically send me into a pain spiral. That song and Josh Groban's "A Breath Away" automatically drag me back to the dark days after my four-month-old baby rolled into a pillow and suffocated. Back to the days a DCSF agent and her sheriff crony trashed our house and tried to frame us for negligent homicide. Back to the days of terror and pain, when the two children I had were threatened by those who purported to protect them. Back to the days of miscarriage after miscarriage when hopes for a rainbow baby faded into darkness. When Christmas songs about babies and birth and angels ended in tears. Back to the days when anyone joking about or lightly sharing their ultrasounds triggered thoughts of pain and yet more loss. 

[A portrait of pain.]

That's when my art process that day went from trivial to dark, stark, and painful. I meant it to be lovely, displayable. Instead, black bubbles were shot through with seeping blood red, infectious greens, and tragic blues. There was no light or joy in this painting. When they passed around a color chart to help us translate, I didn't need that much help to realize it was a tribute to 14-year-old unhealed pain. A few of us shared our pain. The other two families who shared had pain much fresher, pains of loss but also the joys of holding babies that brought trials. My heart bled for them. It was good to talk out my pain. My friend who dragged me there insisted I still very much need therapy. It hadn't been quite so obvious to me as it became that day. Usually, I'm fine. I can trudge through my life and be the strong one for everyone else. But it's clear that it's more of a cover for pain that is still very real and present. 

[Reflections on Death: Source]

 I teach a class online. I don't create the curriculum. One of the assignments seems trivial to most. It's to write your own obituary. It doesn't seem like a big deal to the vast majority of students But to her, in her culture, in the place she's in, with her past traumas, it stirred up her heart and became an impassible boundary. She advocated for herself and told me what a hardship this was. And I could only empathize. I've been there, in a place where people throw around images, words, songs, and such without thought, these things can act as a trigger, can feel like a gut punch to those of us who have been through trauma. I hear that because after a year of death after death, my husband's father's, my brother's, and my baby's, funerals became unbearable torture. Things that seem like little to nothing to most can knock the wind out one's sails.

[Holding the candle for someone else; source]

What, to most, seems trivial can end up being a trigger to memories of the trauma beneath what seems like a healthy, happy surface. The best thing we can do is be understanding when others need to work through their trauma. To avoid judging when someone else's mourning process looks different than ours. To listen to others when they need to share about their pain. And above all, to avoid trivializing others' pain. 

Someone Else's Angelversary

[We miss you, Gillaire.]

Three years ago, toward the end of October, my friend died of COVID. I'm fairly certain I blogged about it then. The other day, I realized we were coming upon her angelversary. My heart bled for her other friends and family, those who love and remember her fondly. She was so young, a little younger than I am now. She had always seemed so strong and resilient. She went through so much, including the loss of both of her beloved parents, legal trouble, housing situations, and so much more. It seemed like she would always be around. 

[How I met Gillaire.]

Just under two decades ago, I went into my master's program and was embraced with open arms to a group of friends, including the man who would become my husband. At the heart of that group of friends was Gillaire. She was a firecracker, full of zest for life and love. She loved everyone around her. Other people came and went from that group, but Gillaire was always a constant. 

[Cali and Gillaire, a matched set.]

Then, that group of friends moved onto other locations. We stayed in touch as much as we could. Gillaire even came to live with us a couple of times when she wasn't able to find somewhere else. She made our times together fun. That second time she stayed with us, she brought with her a dog for whom she lived. During that time, we worked together on a picture book, "Cali the Silly Frenchie Goes for a Walk." The stunning photography in it was hers. She loved photography, and this book showcased that. As her angelversary crept up on us, I redid that book so as to showcase her photography better. For a few days, you can see a copy for free if you click that link. We had also planned to put together more Cali books but never did. With the permission of her sister, I also put together a set of three books, including the one above, all about Cali, Cali the Silly Frenchie Collection. That, too, is free for now. Afterward, any proceeds will be offered to her sister. 

[Remembering Gillaire.]

I made a point to get a copy of it to both her sister and her beloved roommate. I was most of all thinking of them as I put these together, as well as of all the people who loved her. It seemed like the only thing I could do to pay tribute to my friend who was so steady and so loyal to everyone who loved her, plus this blog. There were so many. So many who feel her loss even these three years later. Shen she left us, she left a hole in all of our lives. I know she's back with her parents. I know she'll hold Cali again. In the meantime, Cali happily stays with that beloved roommate and seems happy. I'm so thankful I got to have Gillaire in my life. If you know her, feel free to comment here to remember her. 

Mourning for Something besides Death

[Sisters and Friends; source]

My sister and I used to be good friends. We went through so much together. I was kind of a mother figure when I was a teenager since my parents mostly left the seven of us to raise each other. I helped her get back into church when she was feeling lost as an older teen. We became good friends when we were roommates in a house full of young women. 

[My Niece; source]

I was in the room for the birth of her firstborn. She came to stay with me when one of my kids was born. Her daughter became my daughter's best friend, and they would look forward to visits when they would come here, or we would go to Wyoming. 

[Bending over Backward to Help Family; source]

Then, they moved to the area. We bought a trailer for them to live in while we worked to find land for them to build a house. We visited each other frequently and watched each others' kids. We'd have holidays together. We were close, or I thought. 

[When a Gift Becomes a Nightmare; source]

Then, we built them a house to buy from us. That's when things went downhill, from a friendship to a usership. And that was the beginning of the end. After a dramatic and traumatic last year or so, we don't even talk anymore. My child has lost a friend. I have lost one of my best friends, a steady friend from the time I was seven. Plus, I was close to all three of her kids. Now, they have been trained to want nothing to do with me. I alluded to this last year. At the time, I talked about how she nuked her family, called in the officials, and that things had just begun. Now, those things are pretty much over, and it's more or less torn our clan apart. And it still hurts. 

[Mourning; source]

Any loss can be hard. Whether or not it involves death, it can still lead to legitimate mourning. A loss like this sticks with you, changes you, changes your conception of self. Sometimes, people find it liberating to simply hear that their loss is a kind of grief. That they can mourn for their loss. Anyone who has had a major loss should be respected and not dismissed. It can be the loss of a friend, a family member, a home, even a set of expectations. It's a loss that rocks your world and makes you rethink everything. It makes everything harder. For instance, I like to help people, but it's hard to want to do so when helping can result in loss. Every time someone comes to me to ask for help, this loss comes to mind and makes me hesitate. And this loss reminds me of losses from the past. 

[Seeking Peace; source]

Loss of whatever sort is hard. But there is peace. We can find peace in other people, in friendship, in therapy, in meditation. I have frequently sought peace in faith, through prayer and scripture study. I know true peace comes from the Lord. Just let yourself grieve a loss like this. Don't force yourself or anyone else into a certain definition or time limit. Just give yourself and others time and space to work through their loss. I'd love to hear your stories of loss below. 

What not to Say to a Griever

 

[Don't stick your foot in it. Source]

It's easy to stick your foot in it with someone who is a fresh mourner, someone who just lost a loved one. Fresh grief is raw and painful. It may be numb as well. It can have any number of effects, many of them unpredictable and uncontrollable. It is what it is, and it is not easy to deal with. But there are certain things I'd recommend those who want to reach out to a griever not do. One is to ignore the grief, pretend no loss has happened or to treat the griever like the plague. A lot of people do either of these because grief is uncomfortable for all parties. The main thing to remember is that if you're there for the person, not for you. It should not be about you. That means you can express empathy but never say you understand. Everyone's grief is different. I can't even pretend to understand my husband's grief, and he's there with me all the time with the same losses. 

[Just don't: Source]

There are things one should just never say, though you may have the best of intentions doing so. Anything that starts with, "You think you have it bad" is a bad idea. Comparing any aspect of your pain with any aspect of theirs demeans and minimizes what they're feeling. Please, I beg of you, just don't. Anything after, "Well, at least . . " is almost as bad. I don't care if you're saying, "At least you'll see her again in heaven" or "At least you know you have an angel watching over you." It may all be true, but in saying this, you're telling them they don't have a right to feel pain. Their arms are empty NOW. It hurts NOW. Telling someone how they should feel or that they have no legitimate right to feel like they do now or in the future only hurts them more. Furthermore, Never put a timeline or expectation on grief. Wondering why they're not over it already can do just that. Mostly, these feel like an unconscious desire to silence.

[Questions that hurt. Source]

 

"How are you?" feels like an obvious and instinctive thing to say, but it practically demands the scripted answer, "I'm fine." This once again makes you the one getting comforted. If they say they're fine, you can feel better about them and not worry about them anymore. Even if they say it, what they might mean is, "I'm dying inside, but I don't trust you enough to tell you about it." They may appreciate the thought, but you can't bank on it. Just be there for them. If they trust you enough to tell you how they feel, there's a good chance they will do so. They just need you to reach out and be there. 

[Just be there; source]

If they're a hugger, a hug a shoulder touch, or any other contact can often help. But not everyone wants to be touched. Not everyone wants or needs any one thing. However, most people want to know you're there, that you're open to whatever they need from you, and that you are there for them, not for you. Empathy is a lovely thing, as long as you're not focusing on your losses but simply showing that you have some comprehension of what it is to grieve. Praying for people can help. Sometimes, they may actually feel the comfort that comes from your prayers. Above all, just be there for them. Communicate that you care, that you're open to what they need from you. Every griever is different and has different needs. 

Tell me in the comments how you offer comfort to a fellow griever or someone who you have seen in pain. 

Reminders of Mortality

 

[Cancer-source]

A woman I know, Tami Wickham, died of cancer, leaving behind her daughter and husband. I've seen her around for most of the last 13 years, including before I moved to my current home. I was never close with her, so I mourn for others, not for me. She found out about the cancer one month and was gone the next. I was working during the funeral, so I didn't make it. But I wanted to, if only to support others. I don't like funerals because of too many of my family's at once. It has become a trigger. But I would have gone if I could have. 

[Mourning-source]

Meanwhile, I visited a friend who was deeply mourning this lady. She felt the loss deeply because she truly knows the family. It feels like I've missed an opportunity by not trying hard to reach out, even when I knew death was coming. This friend of mine wept for the family who lost their loved one and also for the loss of her friend. Today, I have been surrounded by mourners. It makes me sad, but I still feel untouched. The fact that I don't feel it makes me realize I truly missed out on a real friend. 

[Loss-source]

Things like this remind me that today is all we have. We hope there will be a tomorrow, but there may not be for us and everyone we know and love. It's a cliche, but it's still true that tomorrow is not promised. Life seems so much more fragile when you've gotten beyond the fiction of "It couldn't happen to me." Loss can happen to any of us at any time. 

Even faith isn't an impenetrable shield. It means we trust God to guide us and help us in our lives, no matter what happens to us. He's not a light switch that stops the darkness from hitting us. It means we know He'll be there for us in the storm, not that there will be no storm. He's an umbrella that shields our hearts from the worst of the pain and comforts us when things are at their darkest. I'm thankful to have faith and hope in eternity. But I also know pain is part of life. And sometimes, it's part of the plan for us, part of what we need to help us grow into the person we need to be. I know it was part of mine. And I've grown a lot through the process, for which I'm grateful. 

How has loss touched your life? I'd love to hear from you. 

Quiet Spaces

[Finding Peace: source]

 Quiet spaces can be a blessing or a curse when you're in mourning. They can give you a chance to reflect on your loved ones, including the ones you're mourning. They can give you a chance to dwell on your blessings and joys. Sometimes, they can be your survival when the noises around you are loud with voices that aren't helpful, with questions or phrases that hurt you more than help you like when people are trying to tell you how to mourn or asking why you aren't over it yet. Or even asking how you are when the speaker doesn't want to hear the real answer. Quiet spaces can allow you to reflect, to meditate, to find peace.

[Alone in the Darkness: source]

But also, that reflection can also lead you to very dark places. People in pain can get self-destructive or filled with a maelstrom of painful feelings. Quiet spaces or even loud ones can feel painful when all you have are the curves of your emotional roller coaster taking you in and out of anger, pain, loss. Triggers are very real, thoughts, sounds, items, anything that triggers another loop on that roller coaster of grief. And when you're sitting in your quiet spaces, those loops can be overwhelming. With no one to hug you to help you hold your pieces in, no one to listen to your pain, these quiet spaces can be hard. If the person you lost is the only person who was there to listen to your pain, like a significant other or close friend or sibling or parent, these quiet spaces can echo particularly loudly. 

[Balancing Silences and Comforting Voices.]

When I was in the depth of mourning, I found it helpful to seek out quiet spaces but also to find a break from those quiet spaces. I sought those voices that supported me, the ones I could trust. I sought the voices, including the spiritual and internal ones, that brought me peace. I'd pray our read scriptures that brought peace inside my heart. That isn't a solution for everyone. Sometimes, finding a mourning support, counseling, or other group can provide that comfort. I found I needed a balance between quiet spaces and comforting voices. Ponder where you have quiet spaces when you need them and where you can find voices to help you survive the pain when those silences become too loud or agonizing. 

Flew by Fast

[The calendar: source]

This is the first time I didn't realize it WAS the angelversary. We planned a three-day trip as I said last blog to keep us busy and not thinking about the significance of the day. It worked better than I ever imagined. I hadn't been looking at either date or calendar and was quite positive the day was on Friday. I steeled myself for that day, ready to suffer it in silence. 

[Dino Museum: source]

Then, after the busiest day of the trip I found out the date. We'd filled the day with sleeping in a cabin that was also a bed and breakfast, a trip to a museum with Leonardo Da Vinci and dinosaur exhibits, wandering the tiny town of Virginia City, an exhibit in memory of the Vigilantes of Montana, who brought justice to murderous outlaws, including a sheriff, and then dinner and back to the cabin with a hot tub to hang out with our boy. It was in the hot tub at the end of the day that I found out that I'd already passed through the angelversary. 

[From her baby book.]

Usually, I spend days watching the date come. Then, we go on a trip, which I spend wincing as I ignore with little success what day it is. At some point in the day, we share pictures of our baby, and I break down. These are the consistent events that happen every time. I forgot the baby book, and I was in so much shock that I'd gotten the date wrong that I didn't have time to react. In some ways, it feels like I betrayed her that I missed these traditions. 

[Before he lost her to cancer]

But the next day, on the way home, I felt like some of that meaning inserted itself. I mentioned my pain and felt the beginnings of a breakdown. But then, my brother-in-law, who we took with us to hang out with his brother, broke down over his relatively recent loss of his beloved wife to cancer. It became an opportunity to mourn with one who is still mourning, two years later. His loss is fresh and still paralyzes him, leaves him feeling empty and lost. Mine is thirteen years old and leaves me the wisdom to listen instead of insert myself into his moment to just feel. It was good to mourn together. 

[Being there for someone else. Source]

I still feel a breakdown and the baby book in the very near future. But I know I won't suffer it alone. My husband and kids will be there to mourn with me now the kids are older and able to put their arms around me. It helps buffer the pain to have someone's arms around me for my pain, and it helps for me to have arms I can offer to someone else. 

The death date sneaks up on us

[Travel: source]

In just under two weeks, we'll be leaving town, as usual, to avoid being home on my baby's angelversary. We do this every year, choosing a new place to be other than home. It gives us something to look forward to, something to celebrate. But it also distracts from the pain of remembering she would have been 13 this month. 

[Yellowstone: source]

Some years, we've gone just on quick, local road trips. Some years, it will be an overnighter. We've been to Yellowstone, Craters of the Moon, Lava Hotsprings, last year, a small, local ghost town, and so many places, anywhere that is not here, dwelling in our own heads. I highly recommend it. It gives a chance to celebrate togetherness rather than to focus on being apart. 

[Ghost Town: Source]

This year, we're going back to major ghost towns, including Virginia City, Montana, and a dinosaur museum now that both kids like dinosaurs. My husband is all about Westerns and particularly the Vigilantes of Montana, a group of men who got tired of the sheriff and others ransacking and murdering with no limits and no law stopping them, the very definition of the Wild West. The vigilantes took out the murderers themselves. It's a dark story of heroism few know, which is one reason my husband likes to go there. Research for a movie he'd like to make one day. Meanwhile, child 2.0 has developed a love for small towns, particularly ghost towns. So off we go. 

[Anywhere but Home: Source]

Last we went there, we had two littles, one of which found the big, empty buildings scary. Now, that child is the one leading the way. I'm game. Anything to be anywhere but home. It's also likely to be the only vacation of any sort we'll be able to swing this year. It's all good. I'm just happy to be far away, busy and outside my own head, so I don't have to ponder the nastiest day of the year, the reminder of a pain most people will never understand. Thankfully. 

Feeling a Kinship

 

[Celebrity; source]

I'm not one to be excited about celebrity. Yeah, I see them, know about them like anyone else. I have my favorites. But I don't spend a lot of time thinking about it. But when I hear about a celebrity losing a child or being a member of The Empty Arms Club, someone who has lost a child, I immediately feel a sense of kinship with them. It doesn't matter who they are, whether they be a massive Hollywood celebrity or a minor singer. I immediately feel empathy and a connection with them because of the loss of my baby. 

[Death, the great equilizer; source]

Loss seems to be the great equilizer. We, as humans, are so different in so may ways, with money, position in society, careers, health, gender, race, etc. But when loss hits, we all experience much of the same pain, many of the same emotions, much of the same grief. Everyone experiences loss differently and deals with mourning in an individual way. But there are definitely similarities. 

[Grief; source]

I'm not a believer in the "Five Stages of Grief" because there's nothing stage-like or predictable about how grief hits. Based on my experience, we can be hit with anger, numbness, etc. in rapid succession or even all at once at the same time. From what I understand, there's no real scientific evidence that these stages have any basis in truth. When I first heard them after I lost Alli, I held to them like a lifeline, found comfort in them because I knew once I hit that end stage, the pain would be over. But I can find peace a joy briefly then be launched back into the maelstrom. From what I've seen in others, I'm not alone. Grief is unpredictable, uncontrollable, and life-changing. no matter who you are and how you experience it. 

[Reaching out; source]

Grief builds a connection between humans. It can be very isolating, but it can also teach us to be more understanding of others' experiences if we let it. We can feel a connection with anyone else over our pain and our loss. The question is what are we going to do about it? Are we going to allow that empathy to teach us how to reach beyond ourselves to others who have lost?