They say that it is good to write.
It is good to write your feelings especially if one cannot express feelings to another. It helps to open the soul, help to heal, remember the good times, and reflect on the bad. I try to write every day, but most days I delete the things that I write, since I know other’s will read and feel the sadness in my heart. The sadness is one of the only things I have and at times I do not want to share the sadness, I want to keep it inside and countdown until I can go home, lay in bed and let out the sadness so no one can hear.
I feel that I must stay strong for the people around me. I want others to see my as strong, that I can take care of myself and that I will survive. They do not need to know the truth of what really is going on in my heart and soul. Sometimes it seems like a battle. Not necessarily of good and evil but of love and guilt. I lay awake at night thinking of everything we had planned to do, how we were going to live and the memories we were going to make. I miss the late night talks with him the most of all. We would go to bed and face each other and talk of the future and what lies ahead for us. We would talk of our jobs, our goals and accomplishments. I miss those talks and I wish I could share with him the accomplishments I had already achieved while we are apart. I know he is here, watching me, but I want him closer. I feel guilty that I am the one who must live out the dreams we carved late at night, I feel guilty that I will be the one to hold our grandchildren, while telling them what a wonderful man and father he was.
I lay awake wishing he was lying next to me. Sometimes I do feel him, laying there and I do not move as not to upset the universe or molecular structure of the presence I feel. I just wish he would say something to help me heal, to help the guilt go away. The guilt of knowing he won’t be here to experience life with me as we planned. The bedtime stories he won’t be able to tell his grandchildren, the stories of his grandmother, and plans to go to Disneyland. Things we were going to experience together, travels we were going to embark on all over the world. I want him to know that I think of him each and every day, and I cry for him, each and every day.
When I would experience something while with him, it would feel like a brand new outlook on the trip. I had been to Vegas a few times and had fun, but when Brian took me, I had the time of my life and all of the night lights that I experienced that first night in Vegas with him is one night I will never forget. This feeling I felt was the reason we married in Vegas. He would annoy me at times, but playing with his lips, ears and face while he was trying to go to sleep at night made up for all of it.
I remember good times each and every day, then a haunting reminder of phones calls and last emails shared brings tears to my eyes. I wipe them away fast, so not to bring others, and go back to thinking of the good thoughts. These past few years have felt so gratifying there are no words to describe our relationship. There were so many turbulent times, yet all was forgotten, while we rediscovered ourselves and fell in love all over again. The hard work and struggle was so worth it in the end. We loved each other, and our love was stronger like no other. We worked for our relationship each and every day. It was hard, then again, when it comes easy, that’s when you stop trying.
It has been two months since he passed on. I feel like it was yesterday, and I wish I had just one more day to spend with him. I hate the fact that life goes on around me, and I am expected to keep up. Sometimes I fall flat on my face, and that’s when my friends pick me up, dust me off and point me to the correct path. That is all fine and dandy, but I am tired of people pointing me. I want to make my own path and basically run away from everything and never come back. I know how to run away from my problems, I have done it many times in life. I was told I could not do that right now. Soon, but not right now. I am holding on to those words and waiting. I spent time sitting and dwelling over him, crying, thinking and suffering. I also spent time asking all of the questions and not coming up with any answers. If I did have just one more day with him, I could lie and say I would spend it laying there with him, but in reality, that is not what he wanted to do. He was always on the go and never was the type to have a jammie day! I don’t know what he would want to do, but if I do get the chance I will ask him.
His clothes in the closet do not smell like him anymore. At the beginning I would lock myself in my room and wrap myself in his shirts, hoping to never lose the smell of him, in the morning, right before he would wipe his cologne filled hands all over the dogs face. I only have his smell in my memories now. I bought some of his cologne, so I could spray it on a pillow and smell it at night. I haven’t done that for a few days, this does not mean I have accepted it. I smell the inside of his wallet, pick the dead moths and cobwebs out of the way, and laugh at the reminder that all of his money was in his front pocket the day he passed. A weird thing to laugh at, yes I know. Those of you who knew him know what I am taking about.
The hardest part so far was going back to work. We would talk to each other multiple times during the day. I would call him on my way to work, and throughout the day we would talk via phone and email. On the way home we would talk as well. One would think that we would run out of things to talk about, but we loved talking and learned it was very important in a relationship. Driving to work, and not being able to call him, or having my phone at work remain silent throughout the day is the hardest. Who am I going to tell all of this stuff too? Well, obviously I haven’t really had much to talk about. I had my 5 year anniversary at work, and an award presented to me. The first person I wanted to call was him, but when I picked up the phone I remembered he wasn’t there to call. Yes, I know he was there but that is really no consolation.
Last night I walked in the basement and turned on the light. The lights did not come on. I turned the switch off and then back on, while looking at both of the lights thinking how crazy it was to have them both go off at the same time. I walked back upstairs and cleaned for a while then going back to the basement I turned the light switch that was upstairs instead of the downstairs, and it came on. I was shocked to say the least. I went downstairs and tried that switch and it worked. I am thinking since the basement was Brian’s favorite place to relax and watch tv that he was trying to just pop in and say hello. I asked him to send me a message. When he was alive we would talk about death and how he wasn’t allowed to die before me, because I truly felt that I couldn’t live without him in my life. I told him that he had to haunt me and come and say hello, and I said that I would haunt him all of the time. I wonder all the time now, what is in store for me. I wonder when my clock will stop ticking and when it will be time for me to go. I wonder if I will ever see him again in another life and if he will recognize me when my soul departs from this earth. I hold on to the thought that I will indeed see him again and be a part of his soul once more. Some days this thought is the only thing that gets me out of bed and moving for the day.
I can’t really think of the future right now. Like I said, I feel stagnant while everyone else is pushing forward.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
Get a Tattoo or Stand in a Beehive, You Choose
I started by telling everyone I was going to get a tattoo for my fortieth birthday. Deep down I wanted one but the idea of someone sticking needles in my skin over and over scared the living crap out of me.
I had seen many nice designs and wanted something that represented my son and my husband. I finally decided with friends help that it was going to be a bee, like the honey nut cheerios bee. The B would represent the initial of their first name.
I remember when my husband and I were dating we finally made the huge step of moving in together, the similarity of their names would confuse us all. After weeks of chaos and the men ignoring me when I would call them, we finally decided to call my son Little B and my husband Big B. When I was mad and ready to yell out my son's name, I would always blurt out the name of my husband, which would make them both wonder who I was really calling and usually upsetting my son, with him saying that I do not remember his name, and my husband telling me I was easily confused. This went on for years and still continued after being married for 10 years, but then I would also include the name of the dog as well as the cat when yelling for one of the boys.
The nickname though ensued for the both of them until my son starting edging out my husband in height and weight. Little B was soon standing over Big B and Little B wanted more than ever to hold the Big B title. Instead of letting them fight to the death for the renaming convention I figured it was time to take a minute and actually remember the correct name and using proper enunciation when calling one of them. And that never happened. Thankfully it only happened when I was angry and not while the husband and I were enjoying alone time.
This was where the B originated from.
The Bee was funny in itself, since I was deathly afraid of bees. Mind you, I was not allergic to them, but they scared the life out of me and brought tears to the people around me because they would be laughing at me so hard watching me trying to get away from the bee.
I would see the bee and of course the bee would then see me, veer off course sensing my fear and start towards me, it would turn and make a 'bee' line straight for me. I would shriek and then my body would do contortions that are not for the faint of heart. I could have easily surpassed a yoga master when trying to get away from the bee without moving my feet. I would sway and dip and move my waist, as well as my neck and do this little dance, all the while no one would help me get this bee away from me because they were too busy laughing and could not move.
During this time, the bee never touched me, it was like we were having foreplay, the bee would do his dance, trying to imitate what I was doing, while I was trying my best to dodge his stinger. When my feet finally figured out what the hell I was trying to get away from they would finally obey and I would go running, arms flaying while the bee followed me.
When my son was little I would also having him freaking out at my reaction and running down the street arms flaying screaming for his life. There was a period in his life that I thought he might have a little flavor in his step, but once he started hanging out with men and in sports all of those ideas were squashed.
I still freak out to this day and when I see a bee, wasp, hornet, wood bee, anything that moves faster than I do. I let out this soundless scream that everyone can hear and I wind up freaking out those closest to me. I do not do this on purpose, but I know I pissed off my best friend once by doing this, because when she hears that noise she knows to stop, drop and roll and at times, it isn't pleasant to see a 40 year old rolling around thrashing and flaying on the ground. I also make this same noise when my husband would get too close to the car in front of us, which almost ruined all of our road trips. Now I just bury my head in a book and do not look up.
Anyways, I figured I would put a tattoo on my bucket list since I do not want to stand in an area around swarming bees. I love the honey, but do not want to take any part in helping them make the honey. So I voted for tattoo.
Still, with wanting a tattoo and getting the actual tattoo was a chore. I would always bring this up with friends when I was drinking and tried to get others to join me, I would convince them to do it with me, while they were drinking and I know that they remembered something because I would never get a call the next day confirming what we discussed the night before.
I never did get a tattoo for my birthday. I was too scared.
I wound up getting the tattoo a few days after my husbands funeral. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. My son, stepdaughter and I went to get memorial tattoos on our body. My son already had a tattoo as well as my stepdaughter, so I was the tattoo virgin. We walked in the shop, and I immediately saw all of the different designs on the wall. I tell the kids that I wanted to go first so I wouldn't see anyone in pain and chicken out. With the help of one of the people that worked there, we discussed what I wanted and she put it in motion, something really simple and sweet. We choose the wrist, so I could see it and that was it. Stepdaughter and the son picked theirs out and we had to lie so
Ashley needed parental consent in order to get hers since she was not 18, but hey I was the awesome Stepmother of all time and we all were a little bit crazy during those days, so we showed Ashley's military id and I signed for her. I think I would have bungee jumped if I thought it would make me feel better.
I went to the back room, and the man started doing my tattoo on my wrist. I was waiting for the hurting to start but he was too busy watching his television and making me squirm a bit before he started. I turned my head so I couldn't see what was happening, and I felt the pain the entire time. I then knew that all of what happened these past few weeks was not a dream and that I was already awake and alone. I cried, no longer numb.
After the tattoo healed it looks nice and simple. I knew I would not be ashamed as a grandmother, telling the kids that the name on my wrist is the love of my life and no one can ever replace the love and friendship that he gave to me every day.
I got my tattoo and am already thinking of my next one.
I had seen many nice designs and wanted something that represented my son and my husband. I finally decided with friends help that it was going to be a bee, like the honey nut cheerios bee. The B would represent the initial of their first name.
I remember when my husband and I were dating we finally made the huge step of moving in together, the similarity of their names would confuse us all. After weeks of chaos and the men ignoring me when I would call them, we finally decided to call my son Little B and my husband Big B. When I was mad and ready to yell out my son's name, I would always blurt out the name of my husband, which would make them both wonder who I was really calling and usually upsetting my son, with him saying that I do not remember his name, and my husband telling me I was easily confused. This went on for years and still continued after being married for 10 years, but then I would also include the name of the dog as well as the cat when yelling for one of the boys.
The nickname though ensued for the both of them until my son starting edging out my husband in height and weight. Little B was soon standing over Big B and Little B wanted more than ever to hold the Big B title. Instead of letting them fight to the death for the renaming convention I figured it was time to take a minute and actually remember the correct name and using proper enunciation when calling one of them. And that never happened. Thankfully it only happened when I was angry and not while the husband and I were enjoying alone time.
This was where the B originated from.
The Bee was funny in itself, since I was deathly afraid of bees. Mind you, I was not allergic to them, but they scared the life out of me and brought tears to the people around me because they would be laughing at me so hard watching me trying to get away from the bee.
I would see the bee and of course the bee would then see me, veer off course sensing my fear and start towards me, it would turn and make a 'bee' line straight for me. I would shriek and then my body would do contortions that are not for the faint of heart. I could have easily surpassed a yoga master when trying to get away from the bee without moving my feet. I would sway and dip and move my waist, as well as my neck and do this little dance, all the while no one would help me get this bee away from me because they were too busy laughing and could not move.
During this time, the bee never touched me, it was like we were having foreplay, the bee would do his dance, trying to imitate what I was doing, while I was trying my best to dodge his stinger. When my feet finally figured out what the hell I was trying to get away from they would finally obey and I would go running, arms flaying while the bee followed me.
When my son was little I would also having him freaking out at my reaction and running down the street arms flaying screaming for his life. There was a period in his life that I thought he might have a little flavor in his step, but once he started hanging out with men and in sports all of those ideas were squashed.
I still freak out to this day and when I see a bee, wasp, hornet, wood bee, anything that moves faster than I do. I let out this soundless scream that everyone can hear and I wind up freaking out those closest to me. I do not do this on purpose, but I know I pissed off my best friend once by doing this, because when she hears that noise she knows to stop, drop and roll and at times, it isn't pleasant to see a 40 year old rolling around thrashing and flaying on the ground. I also make this same noise when my husband would get too close to the car in front of us, which almost ruined all of our road trips. Now I just bury my head in a book and do not look up.
Anyways, I figured I would put a tattoo on my bucket list since I do not want to stand in an area around swarming bees. I love the honey, but do not want to take any part in helping them make the honey. So I voted for tattoo.
Still, with wanting a tattoo and getting the actual tattoo was a chore. I would always bring this up with friends when I was drinking and tried to get others to join me, I would convince them to do it with me, while they were drinking and I know that they remembered something because I would never get a call the next day confirming what we discussed the night before.
I never did get a tattoo for my birthday. I was too scared.
I wound up getting the tattoo a few days after my husbands funeral. This was not the way it was supposed to happen. My son, stepdaughter and I went to get memorial tattoos on our body. My son already had a tattoo as well as my stepdaughter, so I was the tattoo virgin. We walked in the shop, and I immediately saw all of the different designs on the wall. I tell the kids that I wanted to go first so I wouldn't see anyone in pain and chicken out. With the help of one of the people that worked there, we discussed what I wanted and she put it in motion, something really simple and sweet. We choose the wrist, so I could see it and that was it. Stepdaughter and the son picked theirs out and we had to lie so
Ashley needed parental consent in order to get hers since she was not 18, but hey I was the awesome Stepmother of all time and we all were a little bit crazy during those days, so we showed Ashley's military id and I signed for her. I think I would have bungee jumped if I thought it would make me feel better.
I went to the back room, and the man started doing my tattoo on my wrist. I was waiting for the hurting to start but he was too busy watching his television and making me squirm a bit before he started. I turned my head so I couldn't see what was happening, and I felt the pain the entire time. I then knew that all of what happened these past few weeks was not a dream and that I was already awake and alone. I cried, no longer numb.
After the tattoo healed it looks nice and simple. I knew I would not be ashamed as a grandmother, telling the kids that the name on my wrist is the love of my life and no one can ever replace the love and friendship that he gave to me every day.
I got my tattoo and am already thinking of my next one.
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