Perfect

They sit in his man cave, the room that has been his for over 11 years.  Beer and bud flow smoothly between them and the music plays as they look at each other, but words are nil, until she speaks up.

“Goddamn it, what is this place?  Look at it!”

She mentions the clutter, calls it out piece by piece.

“I see 5 pair of boots here.  What is up with the broken radio controlled truck? Do you really need that broken down scooter?  It’s been here for 5 years!  Why do you have 11 curvy rum bottles?  What do you plan to do with the 3 broken blenders?  Do you really need 6 tackle boxes?

He doesn’t say a word.

Well, the first days are the hardest days.

She looks around again.  Takes it all in.

“Do you know that, at one swift glance, I see 3 very expensive hats in here? 8 outrageously priced fishing poles?  2 space heaters? $2000 worth of framing equipment that hasn’t been used in years?  An untouched table saw?”

Again, he says nothing.

What I want to know, is are you kind?

“Those paint cans have been here since we bought this house 11 years ago.  WHY are they still here?”

She looks up and sees the crates he has suspended from the ceiling.  She has no idea what in the world he has stored up there.

“Baby, honestly, you have 3 strobe lights in here.  We’ve never used them once.  I thought I told you to recycle those pots and pans?  Do you REALLY need 8 radio speakers?

You know all the rules by now and the fire from the ice.  Will you come with me?  Won’t you come with me? 

“The air cannon I get, baby, I really do.  But do you honestly need to keep all the parts you discarded after you built it?  WHY ARE YOUR DIRTY SOCKS STILL ON THE FLOOR?”

He’s silent, letting her rant away.

“I know, darling, that WD-40 is the answer to everything that duct tape is not, but do you really need 12 cans?   Why are there 11 plastic shot cups?  And did you REALLY dig those bottles of my nail polish out of the trash to paint your fishing lures?  REALLY?”

Their motto is, “Don’t tread on me.” 

“I see your drafting kit.  Those pens are 20+ years old.  Yes, I know they still work.  Yes, I know they matter, but can’t you put them in a drawer?  And what about the oil filters and bottles of antifreeze and the 3 weedeaters and SERIOUSLY???  You honestly NEED 3 boxes of steel wool?”

Again, he utters not a word.

Come with me or go alone…

“Sweetheart, I love you.  I respect that you have a need for everything, but truly? We live in tornado alley.  That work bench could kill an entire city.  42 open containers of nuts, bolts, screws, and nails, NOT TO MENTION the 5 open faced tool boxes and the 200lb steel Craftsman box.   Baby, this is a death trap!”

She looks at him.  She pleads with him.  She begs him to give her an answer.

Not a word does she hear.

Ain’t no time to hate.  Barely time to wait. 

She looks at him and she softens.  The love for him overwhelms her and suddenly things disappear.  She stands before him and slowly reaches out to touch him.

First is the box that holds the steel bottle of cheap vodka and water, the last thing to touch his lips.  And his phone, the last contact he had with her, now crushed, burned and ruined.

She kisses them both.

Whoa, what I want to know, is where does the time go?

She reaches down and puts her hands into him.  This part of him, in the second box, is in paint cans.  The remains of his clothes, the steel toes of his boots, the pockets of his insulated jeans.  Once upon a time, she used to put her hands in these same pockets to playfully grab his ass.

I can hear your voice. Oh, what I want to know, how does the song go?

She moves her hands down further.  There is his wallet. Three hundred and 2 ruined dollars.  Burned credit cards.  A singed fishing license.  A picture of her, burned so that only her eyes show.  His license to drive, leather seared onto the edges.  A stocking cap.  A pack of smokes.  A lighter.  2 quarters. 3 grocery store receipts.  An ashy paycheck.

“Oh, my love,” she says, ” I don’t give a shit about the clutter.  I love you endlessly, regardless of anything else.  As long as we’re together, we’re okay.”

Come on along or go alone, he’s come to take his children home.

And she slowly stands and takes off her clothes and opens the last box. She removes the heavy black parcel and opens it up once again.  And then, as the song ends, she zips up the body bag to her shoulders to lay with him one more time.

Come hear Uncle John’s band by the river side.  Got some things to talk about here beside the rising tide. 

The waves wash over her and carry her to a new shore. She loves him more than ever. She gets up.  Puts him back in his boxes, his new home, and turns the light off, leaving the clutter untouched.

It’s perfect.

Ball and Chain

6 months ago, Brian left home and never came back.  6 months.  How is that even possible?  I can’t wrap my brain around it.

I used to listen to this song all the time and joke about how he was my ball and chain and I was his.  While we never truly felt like that (we loved each other tremendously,) we were a real married couple.  We argued, we disagreed, we got frustrated with each other, and, admittedly, sometimes we intentionally pushed each other’s buttons.  That said, I don’t think either of us ever dragged each other down.

As time has passed and it’s been half of a year since Brian left his body, I’m starting to see this song differently.  My amazingly wonderful husband finally ditched his ball and chain.  I’m still weighted down here on this earth, weighted down by insignificant things like dinner, bills, taxes, misunderstandings, illness, but Brian… Brian is completely and totally free.  He doesn’t have to take any more pain.  Someone took away his ball and chain and, while I’d do anything to have him back, I am finding moments of pure joy in knowing how completely free my beloved is now.

Fly free, MoonRunner.  No more ball and chain for you.

The End

If you have 17 minutes, it’s worth your time to watch that.

Brian finally came home yesterday.  Around 9:30am, I got a call from the lead investigator that he was ready to release the final two pieces of evidence to me.  I had been waiting for 5.5 months for the remains of his phone and the water bottle he was drinking from the night he died.  A friend of mine drove me to meet the investigator at 11:30 and, in a matter of a few short minutes, it was the end.  Two signatures and a handshake.  The end.

The metal water bottle is still 1/2 way full with the last thing he drank while still alive.  I was very tempted to open it up and drink from it, just to have one more moment of contact with his lips. And, frankly, it was a very tense moment and I really could have used the drink.  I didn’t do it.

I am rather conflicted in my feelings about this.  On one hand, I’m grateful that the state no longer has possession of anything of Brian’s.  For those of you who knew him, you know how much he would have hated having his personal belongings in the hands of any law enforcement. I’m also glad that this means that I won’t have to continually be anxious when my phone rings, I won’t have to worry about the police showing up at my door anymore, I won’t have to wonder what happened to his things.  On the other hand, this also means that they are done hunting, done searching, done investigating and I still have more questions than answers.  I will never have the answers.  I guess that’s just the way life is.  Apparently, death can be that way, too.

While none of this has been easy, it’s traumatic to have no answers.  It’s agonizing that I didn’t get to see him, I don’t know what he looked like.  I don’t know what his last words were.  I don’t know what happened to cause my husband’s death.  I know HOW he died, but I don’t know why or what started it.  I hoped and hoped and hoped that there would be answers and maybe someday there will be, but right now it’s not looking like it.  I wanted the investigators and the crime lab techs and the medical examiners to keep digging, keep searching, keep hunting until they found answers.  I guess I don’t know what I wanted them to find.  It’s another catch-22.  Knowing someone hurt him would be horrific, but knowing it was an accident leaves me no one to blame and no hope for justice.

In the end, no one wins.

Sluts, Shaming, Strength, and Survival: In which I piss off everyone I know

It’s been quite some time since I’ve written and, once again, I am astonished at how quickly things can change.  Sometimes it’s perspectives that change, sometimes it’s the amount of one’s courage that changes, sometimes it’s life circumstances.  It makes no difference, it can all happen and it can all happen in an instant.

One of my favorite books is If Buddha Got Stuck.   Admittedly, I haven’t read it for a number of years, but I remember how much it impacted me the first few times I read it.  More than anything, the book taught me how to recognize when I was stuck and, friends, I am here to tell you that I had been stuck since the day the cops came to tell me that Brian died.  Stuck waist deep in muck with no branch or rope to pull me out, no friendly hand to guide me, and no clear eyes to see any of those things had they been there.

About a month before he died, I purchased tickets for us to go to Chicago and attend MoonRunners Festival that took place April 27.  After he died, I didn’t quite know what to do with those tickets, but the awesome guys over at MoonRunners heard of my story (they actually ran my first Brian piece) and encouraged me to come anyway.  I rounded up a couple of girlfriends and we trekked our way from different areas of the US and met up in Chicago for the festival and, how do I go about saying this?  It was probably in the top 3 weekends of my entire life.  I had fun, I met people, I felt alive again.  And, yes, I took some chances that worked out rather favorably for me, but not everyone understood those chances or my need to take them or my elation in the results.

No one knows anyone but themselves.  Sadly, there are a lot of folks who don’t even know that.  Even more sadly, there are many folks who think they know you and what is best for you enough to place judgement or criticism on what you do, regardless of how comfortable you are with your own ideas and actions.  Call it projection, call it self defense, call it whatever you want.  It all boils down to distrust and disrespect and putting your nose where it doesn’t belong.

Earlier today, I was scrolling through Facebook and saw a post by a fairly well known yoga teacher that mentioned something about someone’s arms being long enough to do a certain asana or transition.  This is not anything new.  There are some people who just have skeletal formations that will prevent them forever from doing certain things.  That is not what triggered me.  What triggered me was the tag line this teacher used to promote her YouTube video: “Click here to see if you fit!”  This pissed me off to no end.  Yes, I realize that it seems hypocritical that I am judging another person by their words.  I get that. That is why I am not naming names or linking to blogs nor am I even saying that this teacher is wrong for having used those words.  I’m just talking about what it triggered for me.  There is NOTHING in the world anyone can do to grow their arm bones an extra 3 inches.  Nothing.  Telling a person with shorter arms that they don’t “fit” is, frankly, body shaming.  It’s the same bullshit I hear all the time about how yogis should be thin and bendy and muscular and strong.  Yes, it’s true, many of us are all of those things, but let me state right here and now: there are just as many yogis out there who are NOT thin and bendy and muscular and all that spandex-hyped bullshit, and those yogis are just as qualified and authentic as those of us who can roll through splits and do pushups all day.

Why do we have to fucking judge other people so harshly? SO WHAT if your arms are too short to allow you to do a jump through?  So what if your breasts are too big to do a fully vertical Salamba Sarvangasana?  SO WHAT?  You do what you have to, nay, what you WANT to do as long as you’re okay with it and you’re not hurting yourself.

Which brings me to sluts.  (How’d you like that segue?)  

While I was ranting a bit on FB about Body Shaming, I decided to throw in the fact that I am feverishly disgusted with Slut Shaming, too. Someone asked, “What is Slut Shaming?”  I could write pages about it, but this little YouTube clip sums it up quite nicely.

RIGHT?!?

One of my dearest friends is a tiny bit older than me.  She is a beautiful single woman who has raised her two children to adulthood and likes to go out and have a good time.  She pays her bills, takes care of her family, holds down several jobs, is clean and clear and wonderful in every possible way and she has no intention of getting into a relationship.  At all.  She has a good time being herself and going after who and what she wants.  She’s a blast and I adore her!   She also loved Brian with all of her heart.  She knew how amazing he was and how deeply we loved each other and how pure our love was.  She also told me, before I went to Chicago, “Boo, you go out there and get you as much of what you want as you want to get.” Interestingly enough, my therapist told me the same thing, although he used words like Living, Experience, Boundaries, Exploration, Celebration, etc.  Even more interestingly, my parents told me the same thing.

What did or did not happen in Chicago is my business (that didn’t happen,) but I will tell you this: it was a very awakening experience.  I went out and introduced myself to people I had never met.  I felt no fear nor any shame nor any desire to be anything I am not. I simply felt free to be me for the first time since Brian died. I had a blast! I met artists and promoters and purveyors and just generally awesome people.  I had conversations with people of whom I still don’t know their name.  We talked.  We laughed.  We shared stories.  We had drinks.  We took pictures.

 

 

 

I have no idea who these guys are, but they were fun and up for a photo op.

So what does this have to do with sluts and shaming and strength and survival?  Well, I’m not sure I can connect all the dots for you, but I will tell you this: I would cut off both my legs and one arm to spend every day kissing my husband for the rest of my life, but he is never ever coming home.  I will never kiss him again.  Ever.  He is dead and I am still here.  I will also tell you that I have always been a highly affectionate person: I kiss and hug ALL my friends, each and every time I see them.  I’ve been that way since I was a teenager.  I am physically affectionate, but that doesn’t mean that I’m looking to date (I’m not,) or for a relationship (I’m not,) or that I have moved on from Brian (I never ever will.)  That said, I still struggle every day with the “what would so and so think” of how I am moving FORWARD (NOT moving on.)  I worry and I stress tremendously that our friends and our family members will think that I’m dishonoring Brian, when in actuality, I’d rather die than dishonor him.  Might I kiss someone?  Yes, why not?  I always have! Brian loved that about me.  And, let’s just throw this out there since we’re being honest, he loved it when I kissed my girlfriends (girl friends, folks.  Don’t read anything into this.)  We were always on the same page – we were each other’s everything and neither of us ever did anything other than give a friend a friendly peck in 14 years.  Ever. But I know that if I were the one who died and he were the one sitting here alone, I’d want him to not feel so isolated.  I’d want him to have fun, I’d want him to feel alive, and I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wants that for me right now.

Enter shame.

There will never be another soul that will take my husband’s place.  I have no desire to have a relationship with anyone, nor am I in any place to have “relations” with anyone (although, believe me, I’ve turned down many offers.  Guys are strange.) Yet, I get a feeling from many people that I shouldn’t be living.  That I should be staying at home and not having fun and not meeting people and god forbid, not kissing anyone.  No one has said those exact words to me, but I am feeling it. Maybe that’s ME projecting, but that says even more about how pervasive this whole “shaming” business is!

I’m realizing that no one has a right to say what is right or wrong for anyone else.  I have been guilty of doing that for so much of my life, I see now.  There is a difference between stepping up and saying, “You’re drinking / drugging / partying too much,” and saying, “You’re living too much.”  I have to decide how I feel comfortable living and so do you.  No more shaming!

It takes incredible strength to stand up for who you are.  It takes immeasurable strength to be able to do that in the face of adversity, be it on the mat, back stage, or in a coffee house.  Let us all be kind with one another and realize we’re all on a journey.  Some of us have a rockier, darker road to travel than others.  Sometimes boulders come crashing down on our path in the dark, but we’re all just trying to find our way home.  Let us be open.  Let us be honest.  Let us stop shaming.  Let us be strong.  Together.

 

I Want My Mojo Back

Just as an aside, if you don’t know Scott H. Biram, you should.  He’s got an incredible story.

Last week was a rough week.  It was my birthday week and that has traditionally been a huge celebration for me.  Brian always made sure that it was a big deal (because I love my birthday,) and this year it didn’t even seem right to have a birthday at all.  I got my hair done, had a wonderful birthday brunch, wrote a few things, met with some old friends, and I met some new friends, too.  While it was all wonderful and I’m so grateful for the love, something was painfully evident to me: I have lost my mojo.  It’s long gone.  I’m not sure I’ll ever get it back, although I hope to hell that I do because this life without  rots.

For the majority of my life, I have known exactly who I am, where I stood, what to say, what not to say, how to be me, how to handle situations, how to stand tall.  That’s not the case anymore.  So many things are going on inside of me that I don’t really feel comfortable talking about, primarily because I’m feeling the need to have very strong boundaries right now, but also because I just don’t have the fucking words.  I feel like I’m an awkward freshman in high school all over again when, honestly, I never felt that terribly awkward as a  freshman in high school.  Yes, of course I was awkward, but I didn’t feel like it (she says to the readers who knew her then.)

Now I’m all assholes and elbows over here, tripping on myself and being a fool.

Brian didn’t make me who I was, he was just the mirror who showed me who I was.  I don’t have that anymore.  I feel strange in certain social situations, especially when I’m with new people.  I make so many damned mistakes!  I know that I’m going to make mistakes, I expect to make mistakes because it’s how we learn and grow, but knowing and expecting it doesn’t provide any more grace when it happens.

Stumble, trip, fall.

A friend of mine tells me that the year after a loss as great as mine is the “Lost Year.”  It’s almost a year that doesn’t seem to count because I’m still trying to figure out how to find my footing on this wildly spinning rock hurtling through space, although in reality, it’s probably this year that counts the most.  I think she’s right and it’s giving me vertigo.

What do I say?  How do I act?  Who am I now?  Who do I want to become? I just want to be me and I don’t know who that is anymore.

I want my mojo back.

Maybe I’ll find it in Chicago.

Anarchy: my most requested playlist to date.

I am always being told that there are no rules for this grief thing, that everyone does it their own way, in their own time, that whatever I’m going through is okay.  I agree with them.  It’s total anarchy over here.  I’m sure that some of the choices I have made – or are contemplating making – cause folks to think I’ve lost my damn mind.  I want to ask those people the following question: did I ever truly have it?

It’s no secret that I’m not your typical yogin.  I like steak, I like to have a cocktail, I like motorcycles, tattoos, bearded men, bar room brawls, I can cuss like a sailor and make inappropriate jokes. I’m also the kind of yoga teacher that cares more about what an asana feels like rather than what it looks like.  What feels better for me might not be what feels better for you.  As long as you’re not going to hurt yourself (it’s my job to prevent you from doing that,) get in touch with your inner self and do what feels right.  Break the rules.  Rule yourself! Anarchy.

All of this came to a head a couple of weeks ago when I realized that there is no way I will please everyone all the time and there are times that I will please no one, so I might as well do what pleases me. I can’t care about what anyone else thinks as I’m grieving my husband.  As long as it feels right to me, it’s the right thing to do.  That might look like staying in bed all day.  That might look like going out and meeting new friends.  That might look like getting a new tattoo.  That might look like riding down the highway on the back of someone’s Harley.  That might look like any number of things, and here’s the thing: I get to make my own rules.  The process is sort of Anarchy.

I’ve been watching Sons of Anarchy a lot recently.  There’s some release in watching people act out the feelings I have deep inside that I can’t safely act upon.  It’s cathartic.  Whether that means watching people express feelings without fear of repercussion, loving fearlessly, or getting revenge for someone hurting your loved one, seeing it is better, for me, than acting upon it.  The other great thing about SoA is that it has an amazing soundtrack.  When everything started coming together, I made a playlist that was almost 100% of songs from SoA. The only exception is one song from Shooter Jennings and one from Frankie Miller.  As it turned out, folks responded like gang busters to this playlist and, since I’ve been asked several times to share it, I am going to post it.

Fortunate Son — Bob Thiele, Jr. & Lyle Workman

He Got Away – Noah Gundersen and The Forest Rangers

John the Revelator – Curtis Stigers and The Forest Rangers

This Life (Instrumental) – Domink Hauser

Someday Never Comes – Billy Valentine and The Forest Rangers

Travelin’ Band – Curtis Stigers and The Forest Rangers

Girl From the North Country – The Lions

Gimme Shelter – Paul Brady and The Forest Rangers

15 Million Light Years Away – Shooter Jennings

Sympathy for the Devil – Jane’s Addiction

Higher Ground – Franky Perez and The Forest Rangers

Jealous Guy – Frankie Miller

Bird on a Wire – Katy Sagal and The Forest Rangers

What a Wonderful World – Allison Mosshart and The Forest Rangers

Forever Young – Audra Young and The Forest Rangers

Total Running Time: 1:00.23

Lawlessness never sounded so good!

This Life

 

As you can imagine, the last four months have consumed my entire being with thoughts on life and death.  What matters?  What is important?  What can we let go?  What should we grasp more tightly?  It’s all a crapshoot.  There’s no rhyme nor reason to it and none of it comes with a guarantee.  Here today, gone tomorrow.  Blink of an eye.  Just like that.  And a thousand other bullshit trite sayings that I’m so sick of hearing.  Sad thing is, as unoriginal as they are, they are all true.  We just never know.

We gotta live this life.

Buddhists say that Life is Dukkha.  Essentially meaning life is shit.  It just is.  It’s our attachment to it NOT being shit that causes us heartache and suffering.  I hear that, I truly do, but I expected to live this life with Brian and that was cut short.  Dukkha, indeed.  It’s so easy for me to get caught up in the end, be buried by the grief and suffering of it all.  It’s so easy to swim in the pain and let it crash over my head until I breathe the salty waters of grief deep into my lungs and I mummify myself into a shriveled soul.  Wouldn’t hurt me a bit, but it would destroy my sons.

They gotta live this life.

My parents married in 1967 and I was born 9 years later, the youngest of 3 children.  While life wasn’t always great, it was fairly good for a long time.  Until it wasn’t.  My siblings had left the nest and I was the last child remaining, born a full 5 years after my next closest sibling, when the shit hit not only the fan, but the motor, the housing, the wiring, and the whole thing went up in a blaze of the farthest thing from glory that you can imagine and left us all charred and gasping for breath.  Spring of 1993, the year of our own small version of Hiroshima.   Regardless of how old you are, being a first hand witness to that kind of destruction changes who you are.

Brian’s parents married in 1972.  While I’m sure that there were a few good years, the majority of their 39 year marriage was a mirror of the relationship my parents had, although much more subtle, underground, and prolonged.  My husband spent many years watching their slow demise and experiencing his own torture.  They divorced about 2 years ago. One enormous bomb or the prolonged exposure to radiation results in the same destruction and pain.  His long term exposure changed who he was, just like my different exposure changed who I am.

We had to live this life.

A little less than 20 years ago, when the debris had almost stopped falling from the sky, I asked my mother to give me her wedding rings.  She looked at me as though I were crazy.  I explained to her that I wanted them, not for the gold or the diamond, but because I needed some tangible proof that I came from a place of love.  It was so very ugly at the end.  She looked at me and said, “Someday.”  Let me say this here and now: neither of my parents intended for it to be that way, but they, like me, are human and sometimes things don’t go the way they plan.  They never meant to hurt me or anyone else, but … what can you do?

You live this life.

About a year or so ago, Brian’s mother, my MIL, came to him and told him that she was going to be breaking down the jewelry that my FIL had given to her during their years together.  She would be dividing the stones up equally between Brian and his brother.  She said, “You need to know that these things came from a place of love.  There was great love here. You came from great love. These things should be a part of another great love – the loves you have with your wives.”

I identified Brian’s body by his wedding band.  Somehow, even though his zippers had melted into grotesques, his wedding ring survived.  I’ve had it on the index finger of my right hand since November 27th, 2012.

Last month, my mother-in-law and I met with Brian’s personal jeweler and had one of her diamonds turned into an “engagement ring” for me.  It had been Brian’s plan all along.  I now wear my wedding band and the engagement ring that symbolizes the love he had for me, as well as the love he came from, on my left hand.

Last night, my mother looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, “You are the keeper now,” and gave me her wedding rings.  I wear them on my right hand.

Evidence of love in this life.

We all came from a place of love.  We all came from love.  We all came because of love.  We all are love.  And, while I might not choose to teach my kids how to square dance or how to say the Lord’s Prayer, I will teach them, like Brian taught them, that they come from love, that they are made of love, that they are love, and that our love for each other never dies.

We live this love.

We live this life.

Yes, my hands look like 90 year old gardener hands. I’ve been too busy watching Sons of Anarchy to moisturize. Don’t judge me!

 

Soul Searching, Shopping, and Shit-Kickers

It’s been 4 months now since Brian died.  Last night, around 9pm (the exact time the cops showed up to tell me Brian was dead on a Sunday night in November,) my dogs went apeshit crazy.  They started jumping and growling and barking at the window and the front door.  The smallest of my dogs weighs 87 lbs, so you can imagine the chaos.  I immediately started to panic.  9pm on every Sunday is the worst time of my week because that was the time my whole world crashed and burned.  heh.  Anyway, so last night the dogs were having a blitz attack at the window and I tentatively peeked out the window to find a person in the dark walking toward my house with a flashlight.  I’m not going to lie: I had a full on panic attack and pissed my pants right there in the living room.  The logical part of me didn’t kick in, the part that knows that no one can possibly hurt me ever again the way I was hurt that night.  All I knew was that it was Sunday, it was 9pm, and someone was walking to my house in the dark.  As it turns out, it was just someone looking for their dog who had run off, but for a moment I was back in the endless dark.

While it was a very traumatic experience for me (one that I hope I don’t have to repeat,) it made me realize something: I have come a long way, baby.  It used to be that I was constantly in that place of darkness and terror every second of every day.  It used to be that ANYONE coming to my house made me want to grab my shotgun and set the dogs loose.  It used to be that I used to want to lay down and die all the time.  Now it’s just some of the time.  Big stuff.

My kids were gone all weekend.  I had a lot of time alone in the house.  That used to cause me to panic, but not this past weekend.  I found that I was okay.  I felt Brian more clearly.  I was able to rest and be and just  … be okay.  Not great, mind you, but okay.  I admit that I spent some of my time this past weekend, as I do many days, escaping into a mental fantasy world where I travel with a band, staying up late and living a wild and free life.  I used to visit that fantasy land to get away from the doldrums of being a primarily SAHM (I’m telling you, I can only handle so much of Sponge Bob and Bionicles and tighty whities) but now I escape to it because when the music hits, you feel no pain.  In that fantasy world, it is okay to shut down, to rock on, to be outrageous.  It’s okay to imagine crazy, wild irresponsibility, it’s okay to “get stoned in the morning, get drunk in the afternoon.”  It’s okay to imagine, it’s okay to fantasize, but it’s not the way I’m living.  It’s not real life.  Escape is temporary.  If I’m going to survive, I have to be real (most of the time.)

Brian is never coming home.  Brian will never walk through that door.  I will never feel his touch in the same way on my skin, I will never experience his laughter in the same way, and I will never again stride up to the stage at a concert and know he’s behind me watching me work my super power.  4 months in and reality is hitting and hitting hard.  That fantasy life, the life that was REAL life for 14 years, is over as I know it and I am still here.

I am still here.

I filed our taxes last week.  While doing taxes is hard every year, this year was hardest because I had to put down on a federal form that Brian died in 2012.  Ugh.  We have always managed our taxes in a way that allows us to get a big refund each year (there are perks to living paycheck to paycheck,) and just like Ma and Pa did for Laura and Mary in Little House on the Prairie, we use this refund to get new clothes and shoes for the entire family.  The same will happen this year.  Elvis knows we all need new clothes.  My friend took me shopping a few days ago and mentioned that I could be “43 weeks pregnant with twins” and still fit into Brian’s overalls I have been wearing like a second skin.  My own clothes are too big.  His clothes are too big (if you knew him, you know that’s saying a LOT.)  I need new clothes.  We went shopping and, because Brian taught me to manage money well (read: I’m tighter than bark on a tree,) I hit the clearance racks.  Who pays full price?  Anyway, something BIG happened to me at those racks:  I realized that I really don’t give a shit about what anyone thinks anymore.  Really.  I mean, I do, but it’s out of curiosity, not out of concern.  I walked out of that store with 3 semi-backless tops and not one, but TWO pair of snakeskin print skin-tight pants. HUZZAH! I wore those snakeskin pants to a dinner party recently and they were the topic of many comments by one particular guest, but WHO CARES?  They are comfortable and they make my ass look great.  All snakeskin print, all the time, I say! And, really, they were $8 and they fit.

$8.  HA.  That reminds me of Brian.  I was forever telling him exactly how much I spent on every little thing I brought into the house.  He hated it.  ”Sarah, I know you’re not going to go hog wild!  I know you’re responsible with money.  WHY DO YOU FEEL YOU HAVE TO JUSTIFY EVERY PURCHASE?  STOP IT!  I’m not your father, babe.  You have the okay from me, but fuck it all, YOU DO NOT NEED MY OKAY!”  It’s true.  Every red cent I spent was documented and reported, not because he wanted or needed me to, but because I felt like I should.  I remember him telling me one day,  ”Baby, we’re doing okay.  You don’t have to buy store brand tampons.  It’s really okay to get the good stuff.”  Top shelf booze, bottom of the barrel hygiene! Oh Brian, how I miss your clarity!

I’ve been tackling Mount St. Laundry today.  Load after load after load. Putting it away is the hardest part for me.  I wear my clothes and Brian’s clothes equally.  I used to give him shit for the milk crates of socks and shirts he had on his side of the bed.  ”Why don’t you put that stuff away?”  He always responded, “because I don’t have room!”  Truthfully, if he had gotten rid of all the stuff he had but never wore, he’d have plenty of room for his stuff, but he never did and, now, I can’t either.  For the last 4 months, I have been putting his stuff back in the milk crates.  Today, for the first time, I started putting some of his things in my drawers and in my section of the closet.  Seems simple, feels HUGE.

Brian would wear his clothes until they literally fell off his body.  His t-shirts and jeans are riddled with holes, but he wore them until they were in tatters. “Sarah, the holes are made by my keys and my pocket knife.  New jeans are going to get the same holes, so why bother?”  Ah, the man mind!  Brian never bought himself new clothes.  He would spend his money on 3 items of apparel: socks, underwear, and boots.  I can appreciate that now.  I wear his socks and his underwear all the time.  Think that’s strange?  Let me tell you, mens boxer briefs are a lot warmer in the snow than my usual yoga thongs.  Anyway, he would buy himself new boots once or twice a year and he never skimped on them.  After years of trying, he found a pair of Wolverine work boots that were perfect for him and he routinely went back to buy that same pair over and over and over again.  There are currently 4 pair in the “garage.”  I long so desperately to wear them, but his feet were twice the size of mine.

I LOVE shoes.  My feet haven’t changed size since 5th grade, so I don’t outgrow anything and I dress funkily enough that I’m not concerned about what’s “in” (as evidenced by the snakeskin print pants.)   At one point, as a senior in high school, I had 98 pair of shoes. I have since scaled back, but do have a closet full. As a yoga teacher, I don’t need work shoes.  My work clothes budget doesn’t include footwear.  I am like Brian: I don’t spend much on myself, but when it’s something I’m going to be wearing for hours at a time (say, at a concert festival,) what I buy needs to be high quality and I have to love them.  Enter the Shit-Kickers.  I love boots. OH, how I love boots.  My shopping friend and I were talking about boots and how many pair we have and I said, “I think I have 7 pair.”  I wildly underestimated, DeeDee.  I just did the count.  I currently have 13 pair of boots.   Some tall, some short, some work boots, some dress boots, some snow boots, mostly cowboy boots (aka shit-kickers.)  What I DO NOT have, however, is a pair of badass black boots.  For my 36th birthday last year, Brian gave me a gorgeous pair of brown cowboy boots with turquoise stitched hearts on them.  They are amazing!  My birthday is coming up in a few weeks and, being the good Little House girl that I am, I realized I needed a pair of boots for this season.  I found the PERFECT pair and they are my one big splurge on myself for an entire year.  They arrive in a couple of weeks.  They’re Stetsons, which I think would make Brian smile: he was almost never without his identifying Stetson hat.

Clothes.  Laundry.  Boots.  Buying these things and doing these things says something incredible to me: I am moving forward.  I am planning for a life beyond right this moment.  I am going to make it.  While I might not consciously be aware of it at all times, the wheels are turning below the surface and I am starting to live.

Just don’t show up at my house unannounced after dark, because if my dogs don’t get you, my boots sure as shit will.

 

 

Seasons Change

It’s the first day of Spring, although you wouldn’t know it here.  It’s freaking cold and windy, but at least the sun is out.  As is the moon.  I love days where I can see both mid-day.

I haven’t written in a long time.  So much has been going on and I just didn’t know how to find the words.  Brian died late in the Fall.  It is now Spring.  I have made it through an entire season.  Unimaginable.  While the world goes through it’s seasons, I have been turning my own.  It has been almost 4 months (impossible,) and while people say that things get better with time, it’s almost harder now than ever.  Much of the shock has worn off.  Now it’s just daily life and the understanding that daily life sucks ass without Brian.  This is the time of year that was the best for us.  Things come alive and we started to run like wild children in the wind.  OH how we played! Now the playground seems all rusted and full of sharp edges and my legs have forgotten how or where to go.

I don’t even know what Spring looks like without him by my side.  So much needs to be done.  Last week I chopped off a 100lb tree limb that broke off during the snow and ice storm a month ago.  I pounded stakes through the fence and into the ground to deter Zeus from escaping.  I have fixed plumbing and electrical issues and have pulled weeds and checked gutters and made arrangements for car maintenance.  I have almost caught up with the laundry for the first time since Brian died.  I have changed the sheets, I have spent time in the sun, I have grilled steaks.  And all of it, ALL of it, is empty because there is someone missing.

Photo by Anastasia Pottinger Photography

I have also done really hard things, important things.  I have now gotten almost all of Brian’s property back from the state.  I have gone through almost all of it.  I got his wallet and his driver license this past Monday, his 39th birthday.  I have taken his mother to the place where he died.  Sunday, I will take his brother.  I have taken our children.  I have taken myself.

Some days are much harder than others.  There are days when I barely do anything at all except watch countless episodes of Law & Order: SVU on Netflix all day.  People ask me why I do this.  I do it because, for 42 minutes at a time, I can escape and live in a world where police aren’t incompetent, where investigations are taken seriously, where there is always a big strong guy to get the truth out of the bad dudes (I will stop watching when I hit the season where Stabler leaves.)  I watch it because it doesn’t always turn out pretty, the good guys don’t always win, and I watch it because I relate so much to the victims in these stories.  No, I am not suffering the trauma of sexual abuse, but I do feel like I have been violated by this entire event and process and I want Benson and Stabler to put the whole damn thing back together again.  And I want to see Christopher Meloni take his shirt off.  Come on, I’m still human!

There are also days when I get myself up, dust myself off, and get shit done.  TCB Sarah comes out and kicks ass.  Those days are highly productive, but I’m not foolish enough to see them as days of healing.  I see them for exactly what they are: days of escaping and coping in a different way.  Go go go, run run run, do do do.

It doesn’t matter.  I still go to bed alone every night, regardless of my daily actions.

When Brian and I got married, we were Ramen Noodle poor.  We didn’t have two dimes to rub together, but we had an abundance of love.  We were the richest people in the world.  Our rings cost less than $175 combined.  About a year ago, Brian told me that he wanted to get me a diamond solitaire, an actual engagement ring.  I believed he was going to give it to me for Christmas or for our anniversary.  He was going to use a diamond that his mother had given him – a beautiful marquis cut stone.  He died before he could get it made.  Brian’s mother never forgot the conversations he had with her about using that stone, however, and so a few weeks ago we met with Brian’s personal jeweler and, as I sit here typing this, I am wearing the engagement ring Brian had in mind.  12 years after we married, almost 4 months after he died.  It’s stunningly beautiful, but there is a part of me that looks at it with pain in my heart because he wasn’t here to put it on my finger.

Concert season is approaching.  I bought tickets to the MoonRunners Festival on November first.  We were supposed to go together and have a weekend in Chicago.  My heart breaks to think of a concert without him.  I am blessed with the best girlfriends in the world and I will be going with 2 of them and it will be a wonderful weekend, but it will be my first show since Brian died and I will find myself looking for his hat in the crowd.  I have three more concerts lined up and then it’s more festivals.  How will I do this when I’m not even sure how the sun will rise?

I wake up every day.  I go to bed every day.  I do what is needed to be done and I carry on, but most of the time I have no idea what day it is.  I just get up and go through.  It is a new season.  The season of painful change.

Photo by Shea McJagger

Unremarkable Intimacy

Oh dear lord, this post is going to require just the right music…. wait here while I find it.   Okayyyyyyy “Workingman’s Dead” it is.  It was Brian’s favorite Grateful Dead album.  While I love most of them, “American Beauty” is my favorite.  That said, Brian was a working man.  Brian is dead.  (Jesus Christ, who the fuck is this Brian we keep talking about who is dead?  Surely not MY Brian!?!)

Moving on…

I hate the mail.  I hate it.  I just never know what will arrive.  Sometimes it is wonderful and lovely notes and occasionally contributions to theBrian Kohl Family Memorial Relief Fund, and I love those days so much because, even after 3 months, I still need loving arms around me at all times.  Other times, however, it’s bullshit that makes me want to punch out windows and bash heads through walls.  I still get obituaries in the mail (unsolicited,) last week I got an offer for Life Insurance on Brian 3 months after he died without any, and almost every day I get something from Cabella’s, Bass Pro, Harbor Freight, North American Fishing Association,  and other random flotsam and jetsam.   Yesterday, the mail brought me a Missouri Conservation magazine, a Bass Pro flier, a Menard’s ad, and a large manilla envelope from the Medical Examiner’s Office.

I requested the final report from the M.E.  I wanted the autopsy report, the toxicology report, I wanted it all.  On December 26th, at 3pm, I spoke to the woman who cut my husband up and looked at parts of him that no other human had ever seen.  I requested the report, told her I wanted everything but pictures.  I wasn’t sure if I would read it when I got it, but I have learned how this process works and, unfortunately, I know how slow and convoluted it is.  If I didn’t request it immediately, I’d never get it.  As it was, it took more than 2 months after the request for me to get the report.  It showed up innocuously in my mailbox and, before I could think too hard about it, I closed myself off in Brian’s man-cave, Shakedown Street, and tore it open.

7 pages.  Type face, signatures, dates, case numbers.  ”Brian D. Kohl, Age 38 years”  on each and every one.

BRIAN WHO?!?!?!?

In 2000, our first son was born.  He was in what is called an “acynclitic position” and was unable to be born vaginally, so he was born via cesarean section.  Brian was right there with me the entire time.  In the years since that surgery, Brian would often remark to me that he saw a part of me that I would never ever see.  You must understand, in a c-section, the surgeon pulls the uterus completely out of the body and lays it upon the mother’s abdomen to inspect it for tears and other abnormalities.  Brian saw the whole thing.   While it sounds strange, there was an incredible intimacy in that.  He saw my womb, he saw my insides, he saw things I’ll never see… and it made us closer. I often wondered if I would ever have that experience.  Would I ever know or see more of him than he ever would?

I got my answer yesterday with one hasty tear of a manilla envelope.

I know now more than any one else will ever know.  I read the contents and immediately vomited.  It’s so hard to read the details of your soul mate, your beloved, your entire everything reduced down to measurements and weights.  It’s hard to read words like “remains of brown hair,” “singed eyebrows,” “xx% burned and sloughing skin.”   I will never share those details with anyone.  Ever.  I know how much his heart weighed and what exact color it was and whether it was dull or glossy and full.  I know everything about his liver, his lungs, his intestines, his spleen.  I know how much his brain weighed.  I know the extent of facial hair he had, I know the condition of his palms and the soles of his feet.  I know it all.  I know it all.  I know it all.

Brian was a HUGE believer of evolution (honestly, how can you not be?)   Anyway, physicians have been saying for some time that more and more people are being born without an appendix.  I believe in evolution completely, just like Brian.  Imagine the smile – the ONLY smile – that crossed my face as I read the report and learned that Brian had been born WITHOUT AN APPENDIX.  As of this writing, the statistics say that 1 in 100,000 people are born without one.  Brian was born in 1974.  As always, that amazing man was ahead of the evolutionary curve.

7 pages of text and, other than the appendix deal, there is one other thing that sticks out to me that I will discuss.  Repeatedly, organ system by organ system, the words, “unremarkable” are repeated.  ”Larger and smaller intestines are unremarkable.”  ”Soot present in nasal passages, otherwise unremarkable.” “Bone structure and health absolutely unremarkable.”   Let me tell you, there was NOTHING about Brian that was unremarkable.  I know that they have to use those words, I get it, but it made me laugh and flip the bird.  Many of you knew Brian.  Let me ask you – was anything about him unremarkable?  Yeah, I thought not.  Yet, unremarkable it is.

After the two hours of vomiting and emotional distress, some peace came to me.  I felt closer to Brian last night than I have in a long time.  I realized that, just as he saw a part of me that I never will see, I have seen parts of him that he never saw.  It felt like I was baring witness to him, like I was relieving him of the weight of carrying it all on his own.  I know.  I know, Brian, I know, and you can lessen your load now. I will carry it with you.

After several hours of trying to hold it together, I took a hot bath, told my kids goodnight, and climbed into bed myself.

I asked him to come to me last night as I fell asleep.  He has never failed to come to me when I have the clarity to ask.  He came to me in a way that he usually comes.  The dreams are very similar.  We are rushed with each other, passionate, all hands and tongues and body parts and sweat and love.  Usually it is because we’re “not supposed” to be together in that way.  Either there is a kid in the next room waiting to barge in, or we’re at a party, or we’re in public.  It’s always heated and quick and it’s always like we’re getting away with something.  And it’s always sooooo real.  I wake up with the taste of him on my tongue.  I think we are getting away with something.  I think, in those moments, we are both crossing the veil and finding a way to reach each other and make love.  Deeply personal, deeply intimate.

I woke this morning to find my exfoliating gloves in the middle of the bathtub.  I had thrown them in the sink last night when I took my bath and thought nothing of just throwing them in the tub when I got out.  I looked at them and gasped.  Another “unremarkable” intimacy.  Look at these gloves. They are UNTOUCHED – this is how they landed when I threw them into the tub.  The glove on the right is the ASL sign for “I Love You.”  The glove on the left is the hand sign the boys invented to signal Brian.  They just landed like that.

To anyone else, unremarkable.  To me, incredibly intimate.

Love never dies.