This Time Last Year

After seeing a friend post a picture using an app called "Timehop," I decided to download it. The app syncs with your phone's photo gallery, Instagram, and Facebook accounts to show you pictures that were taken on each date years prior.

Every morning I've been opening the app with both anticipation and dread. The pictures that it's found from seven, five, or three years ago have been making me laugh. It's given me the opportunity to relive high school graduation parties, college, studying abroad, and everything in between. But the pictures from one year ago have been the most interesting for me to see. As the days get closer to May 28th I am constantly reminded that it's almost been an entire year since Blake has been in our lives.

More so than ever before, I find myself starting sentences in my mind with "This time last year..." as I recall so many lasts:

This time last year Blake and I went to the Monterrey Bay Aquarium and had one of the best days of my entire life.

This time last year I dropped him off at the San Jose Airport for the last time.

This time last year I took off two days of work so I could spend an entire week with Blake for Memorial Day Weekend.

This time last year...

This time last year...

Although the nostalgia has been somewhat upsetting, I've been surprised by how okay I feel. It's almost scary how detached I am from the memories of this time last year that the app places on my screen. I look at the pictures with love and fondness, but it feels kind of like I'm looking at people I knew a long time ago. The couple looks vaguely familiar, as if they were my close friends from another lifetime.

As the days of reminiscing have gone on, I've started to believe that this feeling of loving detachment comes from the fact that this time last year, I was a different person. Maybe the reason why the couple looks like people I knew in another lifetime is because it really was another lifetime. Maybe life as I knew it has finally started to come to a close and a new life has started to begin.

It's new and scary and a bit uncomfortable, but I finally feel like I'm ready. 

When Someone Else Dies

It all started this weekend when one of my best friend's grandmothers passed away. She wrote a status letting everyone know what happened and headed home to be with her family in San Diego. Since Blake passed away, I have made a point of immediately "liking" any status about mourning. I feel so much empathy for people who reach out in this way, so I figure that I can support them by at least acknowledging that I've seen what they wrote. However, when I saw my best friend's status, I didn't call or text. I didn't even "like" it.

I spent the rest of my weekend with the news of her grandmother in the back of my mind, but never made the step to actually reach out. I distracted myself with girl's night Friday and a date on Saturday, but it wasn't until Sunday night that I crafted a text. I rattled off the usual "I'm so sorry for your loss" and "I'm here to talk if you want," and even made an excuse for myself by acknowledging that I should've said something earlier, but I knew she was busy with family. I could feel her anger and disappointment through her response. Two days had already passed, she was only a few miles away, and that was the best I could do? I really had no excuse for myself, so I apologized again and left her alone.

It wasn't until last night, when talking to another friend who's grandfather is dying, that I realized what happened. As he was explaining how hard things have been, I immediately went to telling him what a blessing it is to be faced with someone's mortality, but still have time with him. He said he felt the opposite, as it is increasingly hard on everyone to have things be drawn out and difficult for so long. But then I pushed back and told him how lucky he was to be able to say goodbye, to say everything he wants to say before it's too late. I'd give anything to have had that gift.

He didn't want to be having this conversation and asked if we could stop talking about it. I was in tears texting him when it all clicked. Instead of being an impartial participant in the conversation like I should have been, I was projecting my feelings about Blake's death onto his situation with his grandpa. I'd taken something tragic going on with him and made it about me.

My mind raced back to the moment a few days ago when I saw my best friend's status. When I read it, I remember feeling that sharp pain in my heart that can only be understood by someone who's experienced a devastating loss. Without even realizing it, I shut my laptop and distracted myself because her pain started reminding me of my own.

As soon as I made the connection last night, I wrote out everything in an effort to explain my behavior to her. I was scared. Terrified. Since she is the first person close to me who's lost someone since Blake died, the idea of hearing her in mourning must have freaked me out. I guess I had been doing so well that I was afraid to be back in that place again: thinking about death and funerals and all of the pain that goes with just having lost someone you love. I finally realized after talking to my friend coping with his grandpa in the hospital that I wasn't ready to talk to her right when I heard her news. I had to mentally prepare myself because I was scared. I didn't know if I could be there for her without thinking only about Blake and my own pain.

I wish I could've been there for her like she wanted and expected me to, but I wasn't. There's no going back and fixing it now, so all I can do is understand the lesson I've learned in all of this. From this point forward, any other death I hear about, experience through a friend, or experience with my own loved ones will remind me of Blake. It's not because I'm selfish or self-centered, it's just natural. But knowing this means I need to understand that even though it's inevitable, it can be separated. Yes, I can think about him and my own pain and how it relates, but I have to remember that every death is unique for every person involved.

To be a friend you need to put aside your own suffering and focus on whatever the other person is feeling. Maybe I'm not strong enough yet or enough time hasn't passed, but this is obviously something I need to work on. Because after all, when someone else dies it's not about me or Blake, it's about them and their loved one.

The Sparkle

A message from a friend this morning:
"I noticed in the pictures you've taken recently your eyes seem to have more life in them. Like there's more of a sparkle and happiness that they didn't seem to have for so long."

I looked at the picture I posted from yesterday that she was referring to. After finishing my last final, a friend and I had an impromptu leaf fight/photo shoot outside of the building. It was ridiculous, but special. I saw all of the crispy, fall leaves (it's December, but hey, I live in California) coating the ground and I had an overwhelming urge to play in them. So I did.

My life has been a lot like that recently. I get a pull in my heart to do something, so I do it. Whether that means throwing a bunch of leaves with a friend, chasing a sunset to the beach, or giving myself permission to stay in bed all day long to read. I do all of these things without second guessing. I figure that if my heart wants something, it's for a reason. Maybe I don't know why, but I figure that's not the point. The why comes later; the importance lies in the now.

I believe living this way is the reason the sparkle has started to return to my eyes. Trying to understand how I got to this point, I reread one of the poems I wrote back in August called "Recent Photographs." In it, I talked about the light in my eyes that had dulled. No matter who I was with or what we were doing, my eyes appeared somewhat lifeless. But when I wrote that poem, I knew that that shimmer hadn't died out; there was still hope. I didn't know when this hope would start resurfacing in my gaze, but I believed it was in there. And now, I think it finally has started to emerge.

This transition started with me finally "Facing Mirrors". I don't feel ugly anymore, like I did for the first six months, but I'm not quite at the stage of feeling beautiful again. Blake really made me feel beautiful, every single moment of every single day. It's amazing how a person can do that for you. And it's incredibly hard not knowing how to get that confidence back. I look back on the pictures of a girl so obviously in love with the man next to her and I revel at my beauty. I looked so wonderful... I want to look wonderful again someday.

And I will, beginning with the sparkle. A sparkle in my eyes that shows my love for the world and the experiences I'm lucky to be a part of. Seeing every moment of every day as an opportunity to learn, grow, and take it all in. To read incredible books, chase sunsets, and play with leaves. I will be beautiful again, once I realize that I have been beautiful all along.

Facing Mirrors

I went through the majority of the past six months avoiding mirrors. Seeing my eyes felt too intimate. If I ever looked, I'd have to search inside of them. And when I did, I saw sadness, fear, but most upsetting of all, I saw a stranger. I didn't know this girl and honestly, I didn't like her.

I very rarely wore makeup. But when I did, I silently cursed at my reflection the whole time I was applying it. I had always prided myself on having great skin, but the face in front of me had blemishes all over. Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the lack of sleep. But most likely, it was because I stopped caring about myself. I gave up on this new person I had become.

As a birthday present, my best friend bought me the book "The Bridges of Madison County". When I was in New York over Thanksgiving, I read it and highlighted some of the lines that spoke to me. One part that immediately caught my attention was when Francesca was looking at an old photograph that her lost love, Robert, had taken of her:

"She looked at the picture again, studied it. I did look good, she thought, smiling to herself at the mild self-admiration. 'I never looked that good before or after. It was him.'"

I've done the same, countless times. My smile never looked bigger, or brighter, or more genuine than in my pictures with Blake. I look at those old photographs and I see the Briana I was, the Briana I wish so desperately that I could be again. But I can't. I can never be her because she died with Blake. It's frustrating to realize that now that he's gone, I will never be the same again. I've mulled it over a million times and it never gets easier to wrap my mind around. I realized that maybe I didn't want to face myself in the mirror because I didn't know who I was without Blake.

But since coming back from New York, I caught myself looking in the mirror for the first time. As I brushed my teeth this morning, my eyes lingered on their reflection staring back at them. I wasn't ready to search them yet, so I scanned the rest of my face first. I immediately noticed that my skin had finally cleared up. I smiled. My nose was still slightly crooked, my teeth still "she definitely had braces" straight. My face was oval, just like my sister's, my cheekbones high, like my mom's. My face wasn't perfect, but it looked familiar. I liked what I saw. With a deep breath, I worked my way up to my eyes. When I fixed my stare, I poured myself into them, searching for a glimpse of the girl I used to be. But I was right, she wasn't there anymore.

What I did find, however, was something new. I had to strain my neck to get a closer look, barely an inch from the mirror to make sure. There it was. Almost completely hidden by the lower lashes of my left eye was a tiny, new freckle.

Freckles have always been important to me. I only have about ten, so I know exactly where all of them are. One of my favorite memories with Blake, which I shared in our video, was the night we discovered that he had a freckle in the exact same spot as me on his shoulder. He called them our "Twin Freckles" because they connected us and made us one. Maybe this new freckle, under my eye (I), symbolized a new journey focused on just me. To show me I'm different, but still beautiful.

This morning, the addition of the 11th freckle reminded that I am a new person. Although that feels scary and makes me want to run and hide from myself sometimes, it's the truth. I'm not sure if being a new person is good or bad, but it's reality. A reality that's mine and can't be avoided. I need to nurture this new person and learn to love her just as much as I loved the Briana from the photographs with Blake. Who knows, maybe I can grow to love her even more.

Losing Blake's Things

Five minutes away from the Long Island airport, I realized that I left him. I had done a mental check of all the usual things I tend to forget, (make up bag, check; charger, check; shoes I wore last night and kicked under the bed when I took them off, check) but he was so obvious that I forgot the extra security clearance. As I sat in the car, past the point of being able to go back, I stared into my bag in disbelief. I left Blake Bear at my grandma's house. Cue the flood of tears.

The picture I sent to Blake on May 28th at 12:57 AM
to show him I was sleeping with the bear he bought me.
This was unknowingly sent right after he passed away

I've mentioned Blake Bear before, but never his vital place in my life. He was my last gift from Blake, which alone would make him special enough. But not only did I sleep with him the whole last week I was with Blake, he has been my constant companion ever since since then. Although I don't hide him in my purse and take him with me during the day anymore, holding him is the only way I can convince myself to fall asleep. I clutch him close to my heart and wake up the exact same way.

In the past 193 days, I have only slept without Blake Bear twice. The first time was at the end of August, when I accidentally fell asleep on my best friend's couch after my first truly happy night out. And the second was in September, when I decided to spend the night at a hotel with my parents instead of driving back to my house. When I realized tonight would have to be the third and tomorrow potentially the fourth, I had a breakdown.

I evaluated the situation in my mind as rationally as I could. I was a 25 year old woman crying over a teddy bear. And if that didn't seem silly enough, I also reminded myself that this stuffed animal wasn't even lost. I knew exactly where it was and could have someone mail it to me in the next day or two. I went over these facts again and again in my mind, trying to reason myself out of my panic. There was actually nothing to be upset over. I made it through nights without it before, I can do it again.

As I started to calm down, I realized a deeper message in all of this. The most concerning thing wasn't that I worked myself up over an object, but that I even gave an object that much power over me in the first place. I understand that the sentimental value attached to material things holds significant weight for me and many people, but does it need to?  Are our "things" essential representations of our memories and love? If I woke up tomorrow and all of the jewelry, clothing, cards, cologne, and pictures that I surround myself with to feel closer to Blake disappeared, would I still feel connected to him? After getting over the initial shock of loss, I'm positive I would answer "Absolutely."

In my purest moments of connection with Blake, it's just him and me and the feeling I get deep in my heart. Although it's always nice to smell the scent of his cologne, hear his laugh in our videos, or hug the Blake Bear he gave me, I don't need any of those things. What I feel in my heart is enough to let me know he's still with me, regardless of any object I have to remember him by. He isn't in them, he's in me. When I think about it this way, the trauma of grief seems unnecessary. This way of thinking reveals that nothing is ever really lost. Since true attachment is tied to the heart, we carry our love ones wherever we go. There is no such thing as separation when there is love.

I already know that tonight without Blake Bear will be hard. There's a possibility that I may not be able to sleep at all. But I will not think for one second that just because I don't have the bear, I've lost my connection to Blake. Although my material representations of him and our love aid in our connection, they are not the connection themselves. Eventually, I hope to get to the point where I'm beyond the need for physical reminders and can rely on just the signals I get from within. But for now, I'll continue to remind myself that Blake is not separated from me just because the bear is. And I'll wait patiently for the package to arrive.

Thanksgiving / Six Months

The sunlight shocked open my eyelids and pushed me to face the morning. Seven AM wasn't my friend. Perhaps because Four AM and I had grown to know each other so intimately. Four AM was comforting to me in all of his dark and quiet anxiousness. In that time of night, the silent hum of unspoken fears wrapped around me, curious and complicated, moody, but mine. But Seven, she and I had become strangers. Her pesky perkiness was too draining to even acknowledge. "Leave me alone!" I begged, trying to reclaim the darkness of shut eyelids. "Find someone else to force your rise and shine upon. I'm not interested."

But this morning was different. The light had a mission and Seven was unrelenting. As my consciousness took over, snapped into alert, I remembered the significance of this particular dawn. Not only was it Thanksgiving, but also the six month mark of Blake's death. The weight of that realization tugged at my heart, causing me to collapse into the sunlight and embrace my old friend Seven. Today would be too lonely if I isolated myself. "Ok Seven, you win."

These two events coinciding didn't feel like a coincidence. The universe had transpired to lay out this juxtaposition so clearly that it would be impossible to ignore. The national day of thanks and the day that marks half a year without My Love. One with a theme of gratitude, the other: grief. I started asking myself, "How can I respect both feelings without falling too deeply into one or the other? How can mixing the two create a more meaningful day?"

The answer was actually simple: focus on love. The absence of it, the presence of it, the yearning for it, and the hope that it still exists. Love in all of its forms. Love that can be seen and love that can only be felt. Love was both my greatest gift and the deepest hole in my heart. Today, I would focus on love.

My annoying but inspiring friend Seven AM helped me realize that this Thanksgiving, I'm not actually balancing opposite emotions.  On the surface that's what grief and gratitude seem to be, but in actuality, that couldn't be farther from the truth. Because the foundations of both are the exact same thing: love. It's easy to trace gratitude back love, but I had to stretch my mind to come to the conclusion that grief couldn't exist without love either. Love makes gratitude and grief intrinsically linked. The separation of the two only came from my refusal to wake up.

Now, I'm wide awake with my friend Nine AM. He has all the analytical insight of Four, but with the blissful optimism of Seven. At this time of morning, the light is shining bright, but it no longer has to battle against the harsh contrast of nighttime. The sun is welcome to disrupt my sleep because now I want to be awake, enjoying every minute of this day. A day that reminds me of both the past and the present, but more importantly, the love that weaves the two together.

Today, I'm coming from a place of Nine.

Making a Place at the Table for Grief on Thanksgiving

When I was asked by one of Blake's friends to write about grief during the holidays for Buzzfeed, I felt really honored. First of all, I was so glad they were putting something together about such an important topic. I had been thinking about how this holiday season would be especially difficult, so writing gave me the opportunity to dig deeper into those feelings. I felt like this article could be a great platform to both read other people's insights and strategies as well as share my own.

It came out today, I read it, and unfortunately, I was disappointed. 

I really don't know how articles like these work, but I was surprised to see that my words were changed around and some were omitted. I figured that the author would use what I wrote as is, unless he checked with me first. But the most upsetting part wasn't a correction or deletion, it was an addition. After the sentence where I explained my boyfriend Blake died, he tacked on "from a heroin overdose" to the end.

When I wrote my piece, I purposely left out the cause of Blake's death. It's not because I'm embarrassed or ashamed (his family and I have never tried to keep it a secret) it just didn't seem to fit the premise of the article. I never mind if his overdose or addiction are mentioned as a way to teach people, but in this context it just seemed like a gratuitous insertion for shock value. I was under the impression that the article's focus was how to be thankful during Thanksgiving in spite of grief, not drudge up the circumstances of the deaths. 

After I allowed myself to vent to my mom and Blake's friend for a little while, I realized that focusing so completely on one tiny aspect of the article stopped me from seeing the bigger picture. Yes, some of the things I wrote were changed. Yes, something was added that I felt strayed from the point. But not only did I get across my gratitude for the friends and family Blake brought me, there were also 12 other beautiful stories shared. As I read them, I started crying. Although everyone went through a significant loss, each person found a way to make the holiday special by honoring their loved ones' memories.

I ended up sharing the article on my Facebook (which was something I originally decided against because I was mad). I realized that regardless of my individual contribution, I am so grateful to be a part of a really important piece with a comforting message. I wanted anyone who has lost a relative, parent, child, sibling, friend, or significant other, to read these stories as a way to inspire and help them get through the holiday season. 

Here is the article:
http://www.buzzfeed.com/saeedjones/making-a-place-at-the-table-for-grief-on-thanksgiving

Confessions of a Hypocrite

I have a confession: I am a hypocrite. But luckily for me, I believe that being a hypocrite is only a temporary condition that can be changed in an instant. This is my instant.

In all of the learning I've done though my grief, especially in the past month, the greatest lesson I've learned is about the interconnectedness of the universe. To me, this means that despite any apparent differences, we are all the same. When I see the world this way, it's impossible not to look at everyone with love and compassion. If you are a reflection of me, and I of you, any hurt or blame I cast only paints a dark picture of my own heart.

As I've said before, it's only human nature to make assumptions and judge. I believe our brains processes information this way in order to make sense of it. But it's what I do with those assumptions and judgements that defines me. I can act on them, creating negativity, or I can explore them honestly by turning inward. What about ME makes me think that about you? How have my PERSONAL experiences lead me to this thought? It's much easier to go through life focusing on what's wrong with other people instead of taking the time to see what can be changed within myself.

So as I've confessed, I am a hypocrite. Even after learning these lessons and believing that I've been living by these principles, I still have this ugly need to put certain people down. I've continually made villains out of you and a few people from Blake's life by judging your actions and making assumptions about your character. I find myself getting worked up, sharing this piece of "evidence" or that "fact," trying to somehow show that you are responsible for my pain. I confide in people that if Blake had never met you or if you acted differently, Blake would either still be alive or his death would be easier for me to cope with.  

I realize that to some extent, it's natural for me to do this. However, that doesn't make it right. After a particularly long conversation criticizing you last night, I feel guilt in my heart. It felt uncomfortably good to say some pretty horrible things about you. Although these things feel true to me, it really concerns me that sharing these thoughts made me feel better. How does putting you down make me feel good about myself? The answer: it doesn't.

The temporary satisfaction I felt last night from venting turned into a bad taste in my mouth this morning. Even though I shared this all privately, I wondered how I would feel if you heard everything I said. When I immediately shuttered at the thought of that, I knew what I did was wrong. What seemed like a harmless and cathartic way to release stress, actually hurt the image of who I want to be.

So this is my instant to refocus on the lesson of interconnectedness. If your pain is also my own, I can't inflict more onto you with a good conscience. There's already too much negativity in this world for me to add more on purpose. What does it say about me that I wasted hours spewing hate? Tearing you down? Laughing at your expense? If who I am is a reflection of how I treat you, I really wish that I would have shown you love and understanding instead.

This love and understanding can be expressed though actions, but starts with my thoughts. Although I've been nothing but nice in person, my thoughts show a much darker side of how I really feel about you. If I want to stop being a hypocrite, how I think needs to change. So I'm writing this post as both my apology for the judgements I've made and my commitment to ending the negative thoughts I've devoted to you.

The truth is the things you've said and done have really hurt me. I'm not pretending that I can forget what I believe to be acts of cruelty, but I will not let it color how I see you as a person. We are all struggling with grief, which causes us to act in ways that don't always make sense. I am going to make an effort from now on to start correcting my thoughts to reflect the pure heart I want to have. Although you may not always act in kindness, you are a good person. You are part of me and part of Blake, so I will love you just the same. 

To Blake, On Our Anniversary

Blake,
It's weird being in my parents house again. The first couple of times I came home after your death, I refused to step foot here. Without hesitation, I agreed to sleep in the bedroom in your parent's house where you passed away, but was too scared to even see this place, the house where we spent your last week together. But being here has finally started to feel ok. In fact, now that I think about it, this house is actually the perfect place for me to be on our anniversary...

Where I'm laying right now is where I stayed up all night texting with you for the first time. I remember thinking, why is Blake Norvell even texting me? Maybe it's because he feels bad for making me drive him home? Maybe he's just bored? As much as I played it off like I was only mildly interested in you at first, I was so excited that night. I was right here, in this bed, with butterflies in my stomach every time a new text came in.

And there's also the last week we spent here, your very last week on earth. I know it wasn't our most
adventure-filled trip, but it was actually nice playing house here with you while my parents were gone. We got groceries, watched movies, took care of my dog, floated in the pool, and most importantly, got to wake up and fall asleep with each other every day. That's still the hardest part, you know. I still haven't gotten used to reaching over and feeling nothing but empty space.

One year. We talked about our one year anniversary all the time for some reason. I don't know why it always seemed so significant, but we even had the presents picked out that we were going to buy each other for this day. Why did we do that? That's actually really weird haha. But milestones were important to you and that made them important to me too. Which is why I want to make sure that today is filled with as much love as I can cram into it.

I watched our videos for the past hour or so. Every single one. I know I gave you a hard time when you would insist on taking them, but now all I want to do is thank you. If I could go back in time and agree to them enthusiastically, I would. But then again, I have a feeling that at least part of the reason why you liked them so much was because of my playful resistance.

There is so much I want to write to you. My favorite things about birthdays, anniversaries, and celebrations in general, are always the cards. There's nothing quite like stringing together the perfect words to communicate to someone exactly how you feel. Most of the time the gift becomes insignificant in comparison if the emotion in the card is just right. For this reason, I want to write you the perfect note and send it up to heaven for you.

Blake, you mean more to me than you'll ever know. Not only did you teach me about true love during your life, but in your death, you also taught me about forgiveness, acceptance, spirituality, and having patience with myself. I never thought in a million years that something as tragic as losing you would somehow turn into a blessing. But it really has. I wish with all of my heart that you didn't die, but if you had to go, I feel unbelievably lucky that you left me with such incredible parting gifts.

I'm sorry this letter has bounced around from topic to topic in a not so cohesive way, but that really matches how my brain is working right now. I'm thinking of everything all at once, trying to soak it all in. I hope today is a happy day, even though I know sadness will permeate every minute of it. But I think that's ok. I'm learning that happiness isn't the absence of sadness, it's using your sadness properly. Every day, and especially today, I'm using my sadness to feel closer to you, to myself, and the world.

I love you, William Blake. Happy anniversary.

Love Forever,
Briana

The Unfinished Scrapbook

For our half year anniversary, I decided to make Blake a scrapbook as one of his presents. Not to brag, but it was turning out pretty spectacularly. Even though the gift was supposed to be a surprise, I couldn't handle keeping it a secret from Blake. I would send him picture updates any time I finished a page that I was particularly proud of (which was all of them, haha).

The last weekend we were together was when we celebrated our six months. I was going to give Blake the scrapbook then, but we decided that I should wait until I added the pictures from that trip. I was disappointed that I wouldn't get to give him his present on our actual anniversary, but knew it would be worth the wait if it meant adding even more memories to it.

The morning immediately following that trip was when I found out Blake overdosed and passed away. I hadn't even adjusted to being back in California when I heard the news. I couldn't believe I had just slept with him the night before, kissed him only a few hours ago, and already started counting down the days until we could see each other again. How could the man, whom I just spent every minute of the last week and planned to spend every year in the future with, be gone? I'm never going to see him again? Touch him? Kiss him? Hold him? This couldn't be real...

I vividly remember that even in the haze of confusion, my mind went to that scrapbook. All of my supplies were still on my bed. The unfinished book stared at me. It seemed painfully symbolic of the unwritten pages of our love story that were now never going to be completed.

I brought the scrapbook with me to Blake's funeral. In it, I had written a heartfelt note that he never got the chance to read. As I read it aloud to his friends and family as part of my speech, I was hoping that someway, somehow, Blake was able to hear my message too. I knew he would have smiled so big and given me a million kisses after he read it when I finally gave him his present. I felt extremely deprived of that moment. I wanted it more than anything.

There have been countless times that I've endeavored to complete the scrapbook since that day. I even went as far as printing out the pictures from our last week together and putting them inside the pages. But every time I tried to get myself to actually make them, I couldn't. Something about it actually being finished upset me. Maybe on some level I thought that if the scrapbook was never complete, it meant that our story wasn't over either.

Now the unfinished scrapbook just sits on my bookshelf collecting dust. Lately I've been thinking that it might be a good project for me to work on during our one year anniversary coming up this Saturday, but I'm not completely sure I can commit to that. Something in my body is preventing me from giving finishing it a real thought. I know eventually I'll be able to work on it, but for now the wound still seems too fresh.

What Not Writing Means

On my drive back from Homecoming weekend at USC, I realized that I haven't written a post in four days. Although this may not seem like a big deal, it's the longest I've gone without writing since I started my blog at the end of June. As I drove, I began thinking about what this four day gap meant. I ping ponged between believing it was a good sign and a bad one:

Maybe I was finally embracing normal life?

Maybe I wasn't respecting my grief? 

Maybe I was just busy?

Maybe I was just bottling things up?

Back and forth,

back and forth. 

I was doing it again: over analyzing my way into a corner. Instead of trying to pick apart everything I did or didn't do, said or didn't say, I finally switched my focus onto how I felt. How did these last four days without writing feel for me?

Calm.

During my drive home I was so focused on what not writing said about me and my grieving process that I blocked myself from a very simple answer. Maybe I didn't write because I didn't need to. Once I identified that I felt calm this whole weekend, it made perfect sense to me why I didn't feel the need to write any blog entries. 

In the future, I know there will be days when I'll need to write. On those difficult days I might detach, continuously creating poems and prose inside of my head. But today reminded me that there will also be days when I'm so caught up with life that I'll only have time to share private moments inside of my heart with Blake. Neither type of day is better. Neither means I'm any less respectful to Blake or less respectful to myself and moving forward.

At this point, I know I'm the best judge of what I need and what I don't. The more I trust in my ability to cope with Blake's death, the more confidence I'll have in the decisions I make for myself. If I can build that internal confidence and trust, I'm going to be ok. I don't know when or how, but I'm positive that I will be.

Bed

There's a whole world outside of my apartment, things to do if I open the door to my room, books to read and clothes to organize just a foot from where I lie, but instead I'm trapped in my bed. My entire life becomes the dimensions of my queen sized mattress. Everything beyond it is just a reality out of focus. I know it's there, I can almost see it, but it's all just a little too blurred. Too confusing. Too much.

I like my bed. It's not fancy or unique, but it's mine. And when I'm in my bed, the only choice I have to make is whether I want to be asleep or awake. Sometimes I don't even have to make that choice. When I'm in my bed I can just lie there and let my body make that decision for me.

At times I feel like I'm missing out. It could be as simple as sitting up and putting my feet onto the carpet. With just a little effort I could stand, walk around, and explore the space within my bedroom walls. If I tried a bit harder, I could exit into the rest of my apartment. I could shower, visit the fridge, watch TV, or maybe even talk with my roommate. And if I really wanted to, I could unlock the front door and leave. Just open it and walk right through. Who knows what I could find out there if I did that!

But the majority of the time, I prefer my bed. This is mostly because when I'm in my bed I know exactly what to expect. I know it'll be just me, my thoughts, and my laptop. There won't be any pressure to care about what's going on around me, to do anything I don't want to do, or to feel any certain way. In my bed I can hide.

I know I'm just isolating, separating, disconnecting, and avoiding. All of the -ings that only serve to postpone the inevitable. The unavoidable reality that there is a world just a foot from where I lie, beyond the door to my room, and outside of my apartment. A world that I belong to and love, but am not ready to fully embrace yet.

I toy with the idea of joining the world again and sometimes convince myself that I'm already there. But every so often I fall so deeply back into my bed that I get stuck. And while I'm here my point of view is that for me, reality is just a bit out of focus. I know it's there, I can almost see it, but it's all just a little too blurred. Too confusing. Too much. So for today, I choose my bed.

Protectors and Assailants

When I go out, I start sorting guys into two groups: protectors and assailants. I quickly label everyone in my head in order to navigate my way through the night. Although this strategy keeps me present for a while, it always ends the same way. Slowly and then all at once, I shut off completely. And when I get to this point nothing anyone says can bring me back.

The assailants in a bar are easy to spot. They look at me, my skin crawls, and I know. When they talk to me I feel nothing and everything all at the same time. I've tried to describe this panicked feeling before, but the exact words to explain it are still elusive. I fight to hold conversations with assailants as long as I possibly can, but eventually their every word, every movement pushes my heart to a cliff. As I near the edge, the alarms sound in my head and I have to excuse myself to find my nearest protector.

Protectors are guys I know well and have a level of trust in. Their close proximity to me is never a threat, but not always a comfort either. As they see me start to unravel, they hold me like a fragile piece of porcelain. Cradling me too cautiously, encasing me so I don't shatter. They create a barrier between us and the rest of the world so that no one can touch me. Although I'm grateful for this at first, inevitably I panic again. Not in the heart stopping way that the assailants incite, but instead this panic squeezes my lungs. I lose my ability to breathe, suffocating under the weight of their fierce protection.

And then I'm alone.

Not physically, as my protector won't leave my side, but mentally I've rowed myself to an island of my own making. I sit there as the ocean laps at my oars, trying to coax me back in. But I can't. I won't. I refuse. I've made my choice to disconnect and now I'm lost to the world.

As I shut myself off from this confusing crowd of protectors and assailants, I search inside myself for you. You reassure me that things won't always be like this; I need to be patient. That someday, I'll be ready to stop labeling guys as either protectors or assailants. Little by little, I'll start viewing them as they actually are. Not just there to attack or defend me, but as real people who are searching for connections in the same way I am.

So even though it feels like there's you and then there's everyone else, I'll wait. I'll keep attempting to find my way through the safety and the set backs, the challenges and the comfort, the help and the hurt. Because I know on the other side of it is a world full of love. A world that I'll belong to again if I take my time.

Don't Wipe My Tears (A Poem)

Don't wipe my tears

just let them fall

streak my cheeks

drip and crawl

From my eyes

pooling at my nose

caught on my lips

dampening my clothes

Don't wipe my tears

I like how they feel

they wash my skin

and help me heal

Wouldn't shut them off

even if I could

because with the bad

there's always good

Don't wipe my tears

they serve me well

teach me patience

help me to quell

the piece of me

with doubt and fear

and put in its place

a pride sincere

Don't wipe my tears

they're mine to own

understanding this

shows how I've grown

No longer afraid 

of what tears may say

because I make the rules

and tears are ok

Failure

I realized that when it comes to Blake's overdose, in some ways I feel like a failure.

This morning in my counseling class, we learned about Motivational Interviewing. This is a type of therapy used with addicts to change their drug use. As my classmates started asking questions about what to say and how to get the client to make positive changes, my heart sank. Although I know I never got the chance to have these conversations about addiction with Blake because he didn't let me, I still began to feel like I failed him.

I quietly cried in class, looking down while covering my face with my hand. I could have gotten away with hiding my tears if it wasn't for the betrayal of my nose. It sniffled and leaked and uncontrollably drew attention to me. I tried to silence it, but every time I wiped it, it surged back with vengeance. I felt the hot stares of my classmates, but didn't dare to look up. I didn't need to see their faces to validate the pity being sent in my direction. Instead, I got trapped in my head and sat inside myself as the lesson droned on. With every word from the professor's mouth I slipped further into my cave of inadequacy.

The difficult thing about guilt is that it can defy logic. I can logically know that Blake's death is not my fault and that there wasn't anything I did wrong, but the weight of failure still crushes me sometimes. Not all the time, but when it does I get completely flattened by it. I spiral deeper into my head posing what ifs. What if I asked better questions? What if I showed I cared more? What if I made it clearer that I'd always love him? Never judge him? Never leave? What if? What if?

What if I make the decision to forgive myself? What if I recognize that even if there were things I could've done differently, so what? Am I going to I punish myself for the rest of my life for that? Call myself a failure for all of the hypothetical things I didn't do?

We're talking about Motivational Interviewing in class. This means that I have the opportunity to learn how to work with people and help them make changes in their lives. Instead of using this as a means to criticize myself for not doing this in the past, I could be focusing on how I can utilize this strategy in the future.

I acknowledge that even though I fail sometimes, I am not a failure. The things I didn't do or could've done are insignificant in comparison to what I can do now. And what I can do now is infinite.

More Than Enough

When Blake first met my mom and dad I was SO nervous. I honestly didn't know what they would think about him. I wasn't sure if they'd like him and was afraid they wouldn't believe he was good enough for me. After introducing my parents to too many of the wrong guys, I felt extra pressure to make sure they knew he wasn't just another one of them. 

Before we went to meet them, I was extremely anxious. I started telling Blake what to say and what not to say. Talk to my dad about computers, you'll have so much in common. Tell my mom about starting your own business, she did too. Don't talk about religion. Or politics. Or anything about rehab. Blake handled my obnoxious nagging well for the first several minutes, but eventually called me out for it. He said he was excited to meet my parents because if they were like me, they would get along great. To him, it was that simple. Then he told me it was sad that I wasn't more confident in him.

Reflecting back upon our relationship, I know I had my doubts about Blake. He had all of these incredible business ideas, but lacked the discipline to really build on them. Money seemed to always slip through his fingers. And he was constantly taking risks, making mistakes, and assuming that somehow his messes would get cleaned up by someone else. But although I had my uncertainties about Blake, I also knew that I was completely in love with him. 

And this love for him has only gotten stronger. Through stories from his friends, bonding with his family, and really taking in the lessons he taught me, I have a more complete view of Blake. I see what a light he was to so many people, the widespread impact he had, and how he truly balanced me out as a partner. The more I discover about Blake through connecting with people and looking inside myself, the more my confidence in him grows. 

Lately, and especially tonight, I feel guilty because I wish Blake experienced me feeling this unshakably secure about him while he was still alive. I've been beating myself up questioning if he ever believed he was good enough for me or truly believed that I thought he was. In spite of all of my nagging, critiques, and judging, did he actually know? I wonder how many times he looked into my eyes and saw what an incredible man I viewed his as. That although I had my doubts, I never forgot how lucky I was to have found him and how much better my life was because of his love. 

I just want him to know he is enough. More than enough.

I should have told him that every day. 

The New Normal

Feeling like I'm almost a normal person again is so strange.

I've spent the past five months floundering between disconnecting from the world and struggling desperately to reintegrate, bouts of apathy towards fitting back in and concern for my lack of interest, and anything and everything in between. In the beginning, how I felt about my relationship with the world changed from minute to minute. But as time passed, these waves of emotions started to even out. First to an hourly basis and finally to a more optimistic day/difficult day pattern.

Feeling like I'm almost a normal person again comes from the smoothing out of these extreme fluctuations. Getting to this point is strange because I'm not sure if I like it.

Part of me knows that although I may almost be a "normal" person now, I will never be the same person. This is the part of me that's fighting back. This part doesn't like that things are starting to go back to how they were, because it's scared this means that I'll forget what I've been through.

It would be too easy to embrace this budding sense of normalcy with open arms. For so long, functioning normally seemed like a far off goal only seen from a distance. Now that it's actually within my reach, I want to grab it and wrap myself in it. I want to drench myself in normalcy so that I won't have to remember what it felt like to deny it's possibility.

But I've seen too much that I can't un-see. I've felt too much that I can't un-feel. I know too much that I can't unlearn. If being a normal person again means suppressing all of these things, then I want nothing to do with normal.

Words can't explain how grateful I am to finally feel like I can become a functioning part of the world again. But in my heart I know that reaching that point won't feel genuine if I achieve it by leaving what I've been through behind me. I need to somehow find a way to take all of what I've seen, felt, and learned with me back to the real world. Figure out how to be who I've always been, but a more understanding, compassionate, and spiritual version of myself. And maybe by doing this I can start to create a new normal, for myself and for those around me.

When Your Words Don't Matter

Last night I left the bar to go home because a guy made me feel extremely uncomfortable. After acknowledging my fear of new men, I've made an effort to clearly state what I want and don't want without being rude, but firmly enough to get my point across. The reason I panicked last night was because I discovered how powerless you can feel when your words don't seem to be enough.

To make a long story short, this guy did not seem to understand that when I said, "You're making me uncomfortable, can you please stop," and "I'm not ready," I meant it with complete sincerity. This was not me inviting him to try harder and push until I changed my mind. This was not a challenge. Even after a friend of mine explained to him that my boyfriend recently died, he still came back at me with, "I could be the guy to help you forget about him."

This is not flattering to me. This is terrifying and disrespectful.

After I realized he wasn't budging on his insistence that going out with him was best thing for me, I told him I needed to leave. I got up, walked outside, and hailed a cab home. I did what I had to do to feel safe. But on the way to my apartment I was quick to start looking for ways to blame myself for what happened. Did I come off too friendly in the beginning? Was it my fault for accepting a drink from him in the first place? Should I not be in bars at all?

Although I never felt like he was going to physically violate me, undermining the weight of someone's words is almost as debilitating. What gave him the right to insist that he knew what I needed better than I did? What I say should be a factor in my interactions with others. My words matter.  When that isn't honored, it can make a person feel insignificant. If what I said didn't register with him, maybe what I want isn't important. It made me start thinking that I was wrong.

But after a lot of reflection, I decided my question to myself shouldn't be "Was he right?" but instead, "How can I build my own confidence to insure that the opinions of others don't rattle it?" I need to shift the focus away from this man (and other men) and his actions. I will never understand why people do the things they do and I definitely won't be able to alter their actions. Just as they must decide for themselves to change, so must I.

Last night I didn't leave the bar to go home because a guy made me feel uncomfortable. I left because I allowed myself to feel uncomfortable. Yes, the choices he made in his interaction with me were questionable (in my opinion), but I gave him the power to affect me. By taking what he said to heart, I granted his words the permission to get under my skin. I allowed what he thought to mean more to me than what I thought.

Although I am by no means condoning how he treated me, I need to focus on my part in the situation. Because what I do, say, and tell myself is all I have command over. I will give myself consent to leave a bar if I have to. I will allow myself to tell any guy to back away and feel good about my decision to do so. And I will promise to remind myself that if I listen to my heart, it will never lead me astray. Because I am the master of what I do and think, and my words matter.

Lost Lips

Blake and I would have to go weeks without kissing. With me in California and him in Arizona, sometimes our lips had to be hundreds of miles apart. During those periods, they would wait impatiently on our faces. Once they knew each others' touch, an existence quietly perched between nose and chin would never be enough. After they tasted sweet purpose, they changed. They knew how it felt to come alive, so they lived in anxious anticipation of their next embrace.

Especially after longer gaps between reunions, our lips met with overpowering urgency. It was as if they had been holding their breath all along and were finally able to greedily gulp in oxygen. They were completely consumed with each other. Inseparable to the point that it was hard to tell where one set ended and the other began. So when one set ended, the other couldn't begin again.

Now my lips are just lips. 
They no longer get the chance to feel and lust and love. They reluctantly hold their place between my cheeks and resent me for leaving them there. Filled with memories of when they used to dance freely, my lips fight to imagine their phantom partner. They fall silent in defeat, waiving a white flag to signal their surrender. And so they lay dormant. In defiant refusal to live a life any less than the extraordinary one they once knew.

But even though hope is faint, they still cling onto the dream that maybe one day
they will come alive again.

     

Being a Passenger

Some days are beautiful.

There are inevitable moments of stress, loneliness, and sadness, but there is a larger sense of calm. Even while enduring daily struggles, there is an underlying notion that everything is going to be ok. That you are going to be ok.

The beauty in these days isn't in their perfection, but acceptance of their imperfection. There is a release of control because you realize you aren't in control anyway. Although you have the power to change a situation by your interpretation of it, what happens and how it happens is not up to you. This is confusing, frustrating, and annoying, but it is what it is. Sometimes you are just a passenger.

Today was beautiful.