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.

Christmas at the Cemetery

The cemetery was packed today. When I went to go visit Blake's grave to give him a Christmas present, I saw more people than I've ever seen there. Since I've always been a huge fan of people watching, this was really fascinating to me. I ended up observing for a couple hours.

A few rows behind and to the right of Blake's plot there is a grave of a little girl. Every time I've visited, I always noticed her's because it's decorated elaborately for every occasion. She's had balloons, toys, pinwheels, and this time, a Christmas theme of tinsel, Santa, and fake snow. Today she had about 12 visitors. There were adults, teenagers, and even a couple of babies. Since the group was in my line of sight, I ended up watching them almost the whole time I was there. It was interesting to me that all throughout, not a single person cried. In fact, it was exactly the opposite. The family laughed, joked, embraced each other, and added to the pile of decorations overflowing from her plot.

In stark contrast, there was a woman who briefly stopped by to visit her mother. She came alone and without a smile. I watched her walk up to the headstone, tour around it, and kneel down. She feverishly plucked the stray blades of grass around the perimeter. We made eye contact, she bowed her head, and returned to her car. The wheels screeched as she sped away just minutes after she came.

And then there was me. When I wasn't busy observing everyone else, I had bouts of endless tears. I realized that I haven't been crying very much lately. I guess all of the emotion stored up was finally released as I sat by Blake's grave. I cried and cried and cried, like I was the person who invented it.

I sat there with an achy feeling. I started thinking about us during Christmas time last year and remembering how much Blake loved this holiday. I let my mind drift to a scene of what this week could've looked like for us. I wanted to capture that image in a snow globe, shake it, and let sparkles dance around it. But I wasn't joyous like the little girl's family; I wasn't uneasy like the woman either. I was somewhere at the intersection of the two, trying to figure out how to express both my love and sadness. Honestly, all I wanted to do was lie down on the dirt and rest my head next to his picture. A spiritual connection wasn't enough; my body hurt with the urge to physically be with him.

So I put on lipstick and kissed the back of some receipts I found floating around in my purse. Even though I wasn't actually kissing Blake, the sensation of forming my lips into a pucker felt strangely calming. My lips were made to do that, so I think that's why they've felt a little lost and useless these past seven months. They were born to scrunch their soft skin and communicate the love contained within them. Even if it was silly, it was a comfort to finally put my lips to use.

I realized today that every time I visit the cemetery, I'm looking for something different. The first time I went on his birthday, I wanted to feel united with his loved ones. I needed to feel like we will all get through this together with each other's love and support. On our anniversary, I sat there with the need for connection. I wanted to feel his presence to confirm that we were still part of each other. And I guess today, I needed to give love. I needed to show myself that I still have the capacity to kiss. To prove to myself that I'm not irreparably broken.

Everyone I observed at the cemetery today came for a reason. I believe that the cemetery was so crowded because Christmas time reminds everyone of loved ones and togetherness. Some of us, like the little girl's family, came to honor their loved one by celebrating the lives they're lucky to still be living together. Others, like the daughter, came to quickly, solemnly, and earnestly pay their respects. And people like me came in search of something: an emotional release, a connection, or maybe a sign. Although these motives represented by the family, woman, and me may seem different, we are all the same. No matter how we chose to express it, our actions were all rooted in love.

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.

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.

New Beginnings (A Poem)

There's something about a sunrise
like staring deep into your eyes
remembering them open wide
telling me "Baby, look! The Sun!"

Holding me is pale pink,
orange, yellow, all I think
is the colors make my heart sink
back to the hammock, in your arms.

The sky becomes a light blue
recalling sunrises with you
Are you here for this one too?
The warmth tells me "Yes."

After all the painting is done
many colors fade to just one
highlighting the beauty of the Sun:
a symbol of the new.

Loving Blake Through Loving Myself

When I was thinking about last night, that same enormous smile took over my face. For some reason, my body felt the urge to express this happiness physically. Without even realizing what I was doing, I wrapped my arms across my chest, grabbed onto my shoulders, and squeezed. I held myself tightly, eyes closed, smile pure, and felt the same kind of tingles that kissed my skin when I experienced Blake's presence.

I had an epiphany.

Since Blake's body isn't here, there is no way for me to physically show my love and gratitude for him. Before I could hug him, kiss him, and carry out acts of kindness for him, but now I can't. This left me with pent up emotion and energy that's been bursting out of me in unpredictable ways. Sometimes it's through obsessive investigation, other times self-loathing and despair. I guess I never realized that all of these varied behaviors stemmed from only one thing: love without a clear recipient.

I had no idea how to productively channel all of this excess energy. What do you do when you're so filled with appreciation for someone and have no way to communicate it directly to them? I realized that the spontaneous self-hug was my subconscious providing me with a physical representation of the answer I sought. But why was hugging myself the solution?

I've come to the conclusion that the best way to honor Blake is through loving myself. Earlier this month I acknowledged how taking care of my needs has been put completely on the back burner since Blake passed away. Although I've always known that I need to start making myself a priority, I never had the motivation to. I was missing the why. It was easy to push aside taking care of myself because I didn't understand how self care played into any of this. But self-love has everything to do with this. If I truly believe that Blake is a part of me, the best way to love him is through loving myself.

All of this is encapsulated in another brilliant quote by my new favorite person, Rumi:
"I see my beauty in you. I become a mirror that cannot close it's eyes."
To me, this means that in the reflection of my ability to love Blake so deeply I see the beauty of my own heart. I see that I am filled with so much more love than I ever imagined. And because I am capable of that kind of love, I am truly deserving of that strength of love as well. I owe it to myself to love myself as deeply and as unconditionally as I love Blake.

It's Ok to Move Forward

Today I feel lighter.
There is a lightness in my body and mind that I haven't felt since before Blake passed away.

The medium called me again this morning to check up on me after our intense conversation the other night. He told me immediately that I sounded different. When he brought that to my attention I realized he was right. I did feel really different.

He said he was blown away by my connection with Blake. Initially he had some idea of the depth of it, but after talking with both of us he came to understand that our bond was greater than he realized. Probably greater than we even realized. It felt amazing to hear him validate what I already knew somewhere imbedded in the fibers of my being: what we had was special, what we still have is special.

What the medium acknowledged is something that I have had a hard time getting other people to understand. Moving on for me doesn't mean belittling my relationship with Blake, making it seem like we had less of a connection than we did, or making him out to be an unworthy person. In fact, it's quite the opposite. I recognize what a true love and soul mate he was to me, but the circumstances of where he was in life cut our time together short. Because he was unable to learn the lessons he needed to in this lifetime, a life together became impossible.

So my lightness comes not from a diminishing belief in the love that we share, but more of a comfortable detachment from Blake. This means that for the first time I can separate myself from him and our love to see the bigger picture. Although I believe Blake is one of my soul mates, because of his choices he is no longer meant for me in this lifetime. Desperately holding onto him will only end up holding me back from enjoying the rest of my time here without him.

The medium told me that as a gift, Blake said it is going to be his mission to connect me with a soul mate who can be all of the things he wasn't able to be for me. At first this scared me. Does admitting there is someone better for me conflict with saying Blake is a soul mate to me? Will moving on mean that I love Blake less? I can finally answer both of these questions with a firm "No." When that time eventually comes (which, admittedly, probably still won't be for a while) and I can see this new person as a gift from Blake, I know that it will be ok accept it and that I deserve it. Moving on won't mean loving Blake less, it will mean finally loving myself more.

Ruining My Own Birthday

It started this morning as the messages from well-meaning friends rolled in telling me "Happy birthday. I hope it's the best!" and "Happy birthday, I hope you're doing great!" and the worst "Happy birthday, I hope all of your wishes come true!" I thought to myself that clearly it's not going to be "the best." It's very obvious that I'm not "doing great!" And how could all of my wishes come true when no wish can bring Blake back? Did people somehow think that just because it's my birthday that my life would magically get better? If anything, today being my birthday put more pressure on me to feel happy when I. Just. Don't.

I started getting mad at everyone. How dare they wish me happy birthday like it could actually be a happy birthday. I'm not sure what I'd rather them write to me though. Maybe I didn't want them to write anything at all. I just wanted this day to disappear. I just wanted to disappear.

After I allowed myself to fume for a while, I started seeing things from a different perspective. Of all the million other things these people had to do today, they decided to take the time to write or call me. When they didn't have to, they made the effort to let me know I was on their mind. I realized it didn't matter what they said, it was the act itself that was special. So from that moment on, I made the decision to respond to each and every message with gratitude and appreciation.

I let this consume me for the entirety of today. I became very obsessed with making sure that everyone knew how much it meant to me to get their message and how grateful I was to have them in my life. I spent so much time doing this that I forgot that the day was supposed to be about enjoying myself. But I didn't want to enjoy myself. I used gluing myself to the computer as a way to avoid all of that.

My dad happened to be in town for business, so he took me out to dinner for my first and only meal of the day. I shoveled burrito into my mouth as I cried to him about how much I hated this day and wanted it to end. I had a class at seven I was supposed to go to, but decided I couldn't let my classmates see me like this. They would want a happy, smiley birthday girl... the kind of birthday girl that I just wasn't able to be for them today.

I missed the cake that they bought to surprise me with. It was pink and perfect and most importantly, purchased with so much thought and love. They sent me a picture of the cake, a video of them singing happy birthday to me, and reassuring messages that they understood why I wasn't there. I cried more. Why couldn't I just be normal and let myself have a happy birthday?

I don't think there has ever been a lonelier 24 hours in my whole life. The worst part is they didn't have to be that way, I made them that way. It's nobody's fault but mine that I chose to be distastefully detached from my own birthday. I have never been more relieved for a day to be over. Thank God for October 11th.

The Blue Heart

Somewhere in my darkest moments of searching for strength, I rediscovered the word resilience. For me, resilience meant acknowledging the weight in my heart and committing to fight each day by carrying it with respect. This pledge of resilience was sparked by a quote that I found: "Courage does not always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, 'I will try again tomorrow.'" I posted a picture of it on my Instagram with a caption that read "Resilience" followed by a blue heart and a bear.

The bear was a pretty straightforward choice because Bear was a name that I called Blake. The blue heart was chosen mainly because I remembered Blake telling me that his best friends from high school used to call him Blue. I'm pretty sure he got this nickname simply because he liked to wear a lot of blue clothing (high school boys are so creative). I also chose a blue heart because it didn't feel right to use a cheerful pink heart when mine felt so sad. I chose blue because it reflected the sadness of loss. And from that point forward, all of my Instagrams about Blake included the little blue heart emoji.

(Fast forward to a couple months later) As I shared in the post about Blake's birthday, I had a really hard time figuring out what to say to him as I sat at his grave. For several minutes I stared at the assortment of sand, shells, and sea glass that Blake's mom had offered me to give to him as a present. While zoning out, one of the dark blue pieces of sea glass caught my eye. I picked it up and noticed that it was almost heart shaped. I squeezed it tightly in the palm of my hand, brought it up to my heart, and sent a message to Blake. Finding the heart gave me the inspiration I needed to connect with him. 

After I finished, I looked over the piece of blue sea glass again and realized that it was almost the exact same size and shape as the heart already engraved on Blake's headstone. When Blake's mom and Nana came back over, I told them the story and showed how it matched up perfectly. Blake's mom thought that this must be a sign and encouraged me to get super glue to affix the sea glass to his headstone. Now the blue heart is a permanent part of it.

As I was reflecting on this meaningful moment after I got home from Blake's birthday weekend, I decided that I wanted to get a piece of jewelry with what had now become a very significant blue heart. Not only was the blue heart something I had been using all along in the captions of my pictures of Blake, but now a blue heart in the form of sea glass had popped out at me and helped me find the strength to deliver Blake a birthday message at his grave. On top of all of that, while I was searching for jewelry with blue stones, I discovered that the blue sapphire is the birthstone of September, the month Blake was born in. It was all too serendipitous and perfect.

The blue heart necklace I ordered arrived in the mail yesterday. When I wear it, I will think about the different blue hearts that have become part of my life thanks to Blake. I will think of Blake's best friends, who gave him the nickname Blue that inspired the little blue heart emoji in all of my pictures. I will think of his family, who generously allowed the blue heart shaped sea glass to become part of his headstone in the same way they have lovingly taken me in. And I will undoubtably think of the loss of my true love, Blake, whom I will carry with me forever inside of my own blue heart. 

But most importantly, when I wear this blue heart I will think about resilience, the word I vowed to live by when my connection with the blue heart first began. The blue heart will remind me that courage doesn't always roar. Resilience is not about bouncing back immediately with smiles and positivity. Sometimes bravery is a quieter determination, slow, but with consistent resolve to always try again tomorrow. 

Focusing on Me

Every year I start my birthday countdown over a month in advance. I mark off each day with anticipation, thinking about what I'll do, who I'll spend it with, and how much cheesecake I'm going to consume. But this time I was blindsided. When I saw that the date today is October 1st I realized my birthday is less than ten days away and I didn't even care. If fact, I was dreading it.

I thought back to only two weeks ago when it was Blake's birthday. I started planning three months ahead for my drive out to Arizona for that weekend. I wanted everything about that day to be perfect for him. The flowers, the gifts, the cemetery visits, everything. Even though I knew I couldn't spend Blake's birthday with him, I thought incessantly about how I could feel as connected to him as possible during that time.

Looking back on the amount of energy I put into Blake's birthday makes me feel strange about the attitude I have towards my own. But this stark contrast isn't only about birthdays. Actually, it's not about birthdays at all. The opposite reaction to my birthday only stands as a reflection of a bigger problem: in letting myself be consumed by mourning Blake, I have pushed my own needs aside.

Since Blake died, I feel incompetent at taking proper care of myself. Most days I'm just grateful that I got my body out of bed, so what that body looks like doesn't seem as consequential. This means wearing glasses every day, no make up, and ragged hair piled messily on the top of my head. But this apathy isn't limited to just the superficial care. I also find myself choosing to ignore basic practices that keep me healthy. Eating well, sleeping, exercising, and time with friends are all casualties added to the list of things that no longer command my attention. It's nearly impossible to focus on myself when my mind is working at full capacity ruminating about Blake.

So as crass as this may sound, I need to remember that I am the one who is still alive, not him. I am the one who still has the ability to learn, go on adventures, meet new friends, and have birthdays that serve as more than just a day of remembrance of the life I once had with the people I once shared it with.

Gradually I need to shift my focus back on to me, my health, and my future. Although it's going to take time to learn to prioritize my personal needs over my preoccupation with Blake, I am going to take the first step by starting with my birthday. I will take back the happiness associated with one of my favorite days of the year and reclaim it for myself. Because I am alive, and that is reason enough to celebrate. My birthday this year will be all about appreciating my life, the people who are a part of it, and creating new memories with them.

And cheesecake, lots and lots of cheesecake.

"How Are You?"

After “Hi,” most conversations start with “How are you?” When I was taught manners and social etiquette, it was engrained in me that this was the normal follow up when greeting someone. But I’ve noticed that “How are you?” is generally an empty question. It’s brushed off with a simple “Good, you?” “Good” and then the actual conversation begins. In my experience, an answer besides “ok” or “fine” or “good” interrupts this rushed formality and is seen as almost a hindrance to the progression of the interaction. So “How are you?” has become less about wondering how exactly someone is doing and more about being polite.

As anyone going through grief or a trauma knows, “How are you?” switches from a harmless social formality to a daunting inquisition. From the moment the question is posed, a battle starts in my mind. Should I actually tell them how I am? Do they really want to know? No. I know they don’t, I’ve been down this road before. I can’t possibly burden them with the truth anymore. They’ll start to cry, or worse, they’ll know how crazy I am. No, I can’t possibly tell them. So by default I always settle this internal conflict by answering, “I’m ok, you?”

I’m not bringing this up because I wish “How are you?” was really an invitation for me to pour my heart out to anyone who greets me this way. Honestly, it would probably be uncomfortable for both of us and a waste of time. Not everyone wants or needs to know exactly how I am all the time, even if they ask. What I’ve realized, however, is that in a world where asking “How are you?” is nothing more than a formality, it’s important to have a few friends who’s “How are yous” aren’t just the precursor to a conversation, they ARE the conversation.

Although this blog has been a space for me to share things that I wouldn’t necessarily admit out loud, it isn’t a substitute for the support gained through human interaction. The most helpful thing for me has been finding people who won’t be scared by my responses to “How are you?” Friends and family who can be the sounding board for my darkest thoughts and deepest fears and still look at me the same way afterward. People who understand that sometimes how I am is all I need to talk about until I’ve gotten to the very bottom of these feelings and released them completely. These are the people who ask "How are you?" and actually mean it.

As long as I have those few, invaluable people in my life, answering "I'm ok, you?" to everyone else isn't a lie.

Happy Birthday, My Love

As I woke up this morning I couldn't help but think about how different this day would have been. Instead of visiting Blake's grave, I would've planned a birthday party with him. This day would have reminded me of how lucky I was to be dating Blake instead of just highlighting his absence and the hole it's left in my heart.

Blake's mom, grandmother, and I made our first visit of the day early in the morning. As we pulled up to his plot, a flood of memories from his funeral rushed through my brain. I remember it vividly as if it happened three and a half days ago, not three and a half months. I thought about the huge school bus of his friends, the embrace of his family, and the rose I was given to leave over his heart. What a draining and unforgettable day. 

When we got to his grave, one of Blake's best friends was already there visiting him. Before he left, he helped us dig a trench around Blake's headstone so that I could sprinkle his gift in it. I brought him sand, shells, and sea glass. Blake loved the beach, especially the beaches of San Diego. We always planned that I would move there for graduate school and then he would move there to meet me as soon as he could. San Diego was always our dream so I've struggled with the unfairness of how I am able to live it and he can't. These gifts became my way of bringing the beach to him and letting him be a part of that life.

After talking with Blake's mom about the beautiful symbolism of the gift, we decided that I should bring bits of the beach from down my street to give him every time I come to visit. This would remind both of us that I have the privilege and honor of living our dream for both him and me. 

Blake's mom and grandmother left me for a while so that I could have time alone with Blake and they could go visit his grandfather. I laid a towel down and sat staring at his picture. I felt the over 100 degree heat, the slight and oh-so-necessary breeze, and a great deal of "so now what?"

I heard Blake's voice in my head urging me to say something, anything! "Hello, it's my birthday why aren't you telling me how much you love me and how great I am?" But I couldn't. I just sat there, frozen, wondering why this was so awkward for me. I looked at the trees, the sky, the other headstones next to his. Who were his neighbors? Were they nice? Is he friends with them? His voice again, "Hello! Focus on ME!" 

I looked down at the sand, shells, and blue glass I gave to him. I sat there blankly staring at it for what seemed like hours. Then suddenly, one of the dark blue pieces caught my eye. I picked it up and noticed that it was almost heart shaped. I rubbed it between my fingers and started to close my eyes. I squeezed it tightly in the palm of my hand and brought it up to my heart. 

I'm not even sure what I said to Blake in my mind, but I instantly knew it was the right thing to say. I felt calm and at peace as I took a second look at the glass. It was a weird kind of heart shape that reminded me of the chubby, circular heart on his headstone. I decided to rest the glass on top of it to see how it matched up. It was the perfect size. 

When Blake's mom and grandmother came back I told them about the heart shaped glass. His mom immediately said that I needed to find some super glue so the blue heart could become a permanent part of his headstone. At that moment, hearing her say that filled my heart so completely with love that I felt like I could burst. What an honor. I have always felt accepted by his family, but this was on another level. Here was this gorgeous, expensive headstone and she thought enough of me to encourage me to stick a random piece of glass on it. I don't think I can ever express how much that gesture meant to me. 

I went back two more times today, once with three more of Blake's best friends and again with his whole family. Neither time was about seeing and talking to Blake again, but rather to be around the people who loved him. The love they were emitting made me feel good. Experiencing their love for him made me feel like everything was going to be ok, we would get through this together.

Tonight ended with a family dinner at Blake's sister's house. The people were perfect, the food was delicious, but I was silently a mess. I looked at these wonderful people and thought, with complete amazement, about the lengths they went to to make me feel included and cared for. These strangers had become my family and it was all because of Blake. But the most essential link to our relationship wasn't with us tonight. He was supposed to be sitting right next to me squeezing my hand excitedly because his family and I got along so well. The way I fit in seamlessly almost made me feel worse. To have developed such a strong bond with them that he would never witness was a reality too sad to believe.

Blake's birthday was hard, but we got through it. I felt such a range of emotions throughout the day, but the one constant was the love I felt from his friends and family. Never once did I feel alone on a day that could've otherwise emphasized my loneliness.  I realize more and more every day how truly lucky I am to love and be loved by so many wonderful people. And it's days like today that make me feel even more blessed to have the new friends and family Blake brought into my life. Although this love will never replace Blake's, it helps sooth that hole in my heart.

Bargaining Each Morning

Most mornings I wake up feeling empty, hollow, defeated. You'd think that by now these feelings wouldn't come as such a shock anymore, but every time they hit me with excruciating force. Like a stack of weights, each negative emotion is piled onto my yielding chest. You're lonely. You're desolate. You're devastated. You're lost. The force of such a load pins me down. How can I lift my body from this bed? How can I get up when I'm battling against the weight of the world?

Every morning I am faced with a choice: do I give in to these feelings or do I fight against them? I would like to boast about my bravery and say I choose to battle with honor. That I find the strength within me to grasp onto these bricks of oppressing emotions and throw them off of my chest. That it is my conscious decision to stop them from holding me back, weighing me down, crushing my spirit. But I am not built with such admirable courage. I am not that brave.

Instead, I get myself up by bargaining. I talk to these bricks. I tell them that if they allow me to get up, fulfill my daily obligations, I will let them stay in my heart. I will carry them around with me if they can shrink just enough so that I can lift my body. They oblige because they believe this is a good deal. They are aware that if I really wanted to, I could hoist them off of me. I could leave them behind entirely and face my day without their strain. But I believe that I am not that strong. This belief alone makes me susceptible to their torment.

However, I soothe myself with the reminder that at least I am trying. Instead of making deals with these heavy emotions I could just let them squish me. I could give up entirely and allow them to hold me down with such a force that leaving my bed would be impossible. But I don't. Even by lessening them enough so that I can get up shows my power. Maybe I'm not at a point where I've internalized the full potential of my courage and strength, but this is evidence that it exists.

The loneliness, desolation, devastation, and loss are weights inside of my heart. They make me question my ability to get up and face the day and whether or not it's even worth it to try. But they are only with me because I allow them to be.  I must remember that no matter how brave they are, I am braver. No matter how strong they are, I am stronger. One day I will realize this fully and these weights will cease to exist. Once I allow myself to believe in the force of my own power, they won't stand a chance. But for now, I will give them permission to stay with me. For now, but not forever.

Visiting Blake's Grave

Although each 23rd is difficult (we would've been together for another month as a couple) and each 28th floods me with memories (the date he passed away), I think September 21st marks a different, possibly harder milestone. Blake's birthday is on Saturday. He would've been turning 26.

I couldn't be more grateful that his birthday happens to fall on a weekend this year. Without having to miss any school, I am going to leave immediately after class tomorrow and drive to Arizona. I am staying at his parents house and spending the entire weekend with his family. I can't imagine being able to spend it anywhere else with anyone else.

Blake's headstone was recently put in place, just in time for his birthday. On Saturday I am going to visit him in the cemetery for the first time since his funeral. How do I feel about this? Terrified, honestly.

What do you do when you visit the grave of someone you love and miss so much it hurts? 
Do I go with other people so I have someone to hold me or by myself so we can talk in private?
Do I talk to him out loud or in my mind?
Do I avoid stepping on the dirt he is buried under out of respect or do I allow myself to collapse on top of him?
Do I look at the picture on the headstone, the grass beneath it, or at the sky?
Do I try to act strong so I don't scare the other people around me?
Do I allot myself a certain amount of time so I don't end up staying there all day?

These are the questions I can't stop myself from anxiously posing in my head. I know that whatever I do will be fine, but that doesn't prevent me from wondering anyway. I just hope more than anything I feel him with me. As long as he's there, it doesn't matter what I do.

Imagining You

When I reconstruct you in my mind I start with your feet. You somehow always managed to leave the house in your smelly, worn-out Ugg slippers. I remember on our first date to the Suns game I called you out for wearing them. You bragged that you could get away with wearing them anywhere because they looked like regular shoes. They didn't. When you misplaced them for a while, I can't say I was too worried. When you found them again you were thrilled.

Then I see your jeans. You had more jeans than anyone I know, male or female. I remember walking into your closet for the first time and seeing stacks and stacks of them. To me they all looked identical, but you had a reason why each of them was necessary and unique. Some even had ridiculous designs on their back pockets. You laughed with me about them, but you secretly still thought they were cool. You loved how nice things made you feel fancy.

I prefer to picture you in one of your shirts that I have now. Each shirt I link to a specific memory we have with you in it. This time I'm picturing you in the grey and navy blue stripped long sleeve hoodie. I don't even think we have any pictures of you wearing it because you gave it to me after I visited for the first time. You basically soaked it in your cologne so that when I left to go back to California, at least I could sleep with your scent.

I could absolutely never forget your smile. I'd say it haunts me, but only in the very best sense of the word. When I close my eyes, I see it very clearly. After you died everyone seemed to comment about your "infectious smile." What a funny word to use, "infectious." To me it made it sound like some communicable disease. In a way though, it was. Whenever I was annoyed at you, all you had to do was turn up the corners of your incredible lips. You'd start to bare your teeth and your smile would get me. How could I look at your smile and not smile myself?

Oh God, your hair. I will forever look at that yellow Got2B hairspray and think of how meticulously you styled your hair. You loved looking good in a way I never related to. You took so much pride in your hair and getting it just right. Your friends told me that in rehab they made you wear a beanie. The staff didn't like you putting such an emphasis on your hair. It always looked good though, I'll give you that.

When I reconstruct you, I'm only able to get the most general aspects of your physical appearance. I produce a very surface level image of you in my mind. And that scares me. All I can conjure up is your clothes, hair, and smile? What about the eyes that looked through me straight to my soul? The laugh that made my whole body feel warm? A voice that instantly made me feel like I was loved, adored, and at home?

Imagining you is not an endeavor I like to start. It becomes about your slippers, jeans, shirt, and hair. It becomes about the physical aspects of you that I will never get to experience again. Although being able to picture these parts of you makes me feel a little better, they aren't the parts of you that I need.

I want to protect you as you were to me. I want to hold on to how magnetically attracted to you I was. I want to preserve every sweet compliment I remember you giving me. I want to embed the sense of belonging I felt into my heart so I will forever remember how it feels to be part of someone else.

I am going to urge myself to stop reconstructing the image of you in my mind. All it does is frustrate me. Instead, I will focus on how you made me feel. The intangibles about you that made you who you were and who you'll always be to me.

If I tap into my heart, I can remember how it feels to have your love. I can recall how it feels to give you mine. That's what I need to commit to memory. That's the image of you I'll always have with me.

Preoccupation with Death

I’m so hyper aware of mortality now that I scare myself sometimes.

When I see pictures of people I know with their friends, their families, their boyfriends, I imagine what would happen if they died. I wonder how their lives would change. I wonder how they would cope.

I think about how happy they look. They’re smiling so big, hugging so tightly, laughing so hard. I think about these moments that they’ve captured and imagine them turning into precious memories. I envision those pictures becoming the ones they weep over, show people, put in a frames next to their beds. 

Do they ever think about the fact that their loved ones might not always be there? That the pictures they shared could potentially be their last?

No, probably not.

They’re very lucky then. What a luxury it would be to not have to think about death.

I really miss the days when I viewed death as an abstract concept. Something that only concerned the elderly, the ones who had lived complete lives. It didn’t make their passing any less upsetting, but there was some comfort in knowing that their “time had come.” Death was just a final stage at the end of a full life. Unfortunately, I don't think about death like that anymore. 

It's scary to know that at any moment something could happen and a person you relied on, loved, adored, looked up to, took for granted, could no longer be there. And that's it. All you're left with is the pictures you took and the memories you shared. No chance to right wrongs or say the things left unsaid. 

I guess in a strange, twisted way it's not necessarily a terrible thing to be aware of mortality. Death is, in fact, the only certainty in life. Although there is a fine line between awareness and obsession, I think an understanding of the fragility of life is healthy.

When I see pictures of me with my friends, my family, my boyfriend, I imagine what would happen if they died. I wonder how my life would change. I wonder how I would cope.

I think about how happy we look. We’re smiling so big, hugging so tightly, laughing so hard. I think about these moments that we've captured in a picture and imagine them turning into precious memories. I envision that picture becoming the one I weep over, show people, put in a frame next to my bed. 

Do I ever think about the fact that my loved ones might not always be there? That the picture we shared could potentially be our last?

Yes, now I do.

I think I'm very lucky in a way. It's a luxury to reflect on the wonderful people in my life, why I appreciate them as people, how truly important they are to me. 

I wish my mind didn't preoccupy itself with thoughts of death, but it does. It's scary, but I'm learning to push myself to see the positives in it. Maybe I will think twice about holding grudges, be more willing to say I'm sorry, forgive, give compliments, give myself completely and whole heartedly to those I love. If I'm aware of mortality, I am aware that nothing lasts forever. What's important is not to wish for that to change, but to appreciate what you have while you still have it.