Some Days Are Like These Days

My emotions have been all over the place this summer, jumping from one extreme to the next sometimes. I have found when I am alone that I become the most vulnerable to sadness.

In Arizona with Pawnee's family, things were busy and loud with four kids running around, errands to do, and being occupied with fun outings. We had a great time every day. Yet, still, grief would find me - pouncing on me the instant I was alone upstairs. The hurt pierced more deeply and frequently than it had over the last few weeks in Utah. I figured the cause to be leaving the safety and routine I had constructed since Ty's funeral. Work and friends and exercise... In a matter of days it was gone. It was like my emotions were scrambling for safety, unable to stabilize themselves without my consistent schedule. I also had pictured this summer so very differently...

Dan and I spent most evenings together in his hotel in Phoenix, while I returned during the day to hang out with Pawnee. On a Sunday night, Dan was going to return to the hotel without me. As I listened to music and folded laundry upstairs, I broke down as I watched the beautiful pictures rotate on the digital frame Dan bought me for Mother's Day.  As I heard Dan come up the stairs with my two nieces, I wiped the tears away and tried to act natural. Dan wasn't fooled for a second. He always knows. He stopped the girls from their excited jabber about "killing Uncle Dan in Halo" and said, "Girls, can you give your Aunt Ere a hug? She misses her baby right now." Understanding swept across their young faces and they immediately wrapped their arms around me and held me while I sobbed again. Then Dan asked them if they would sleep with me in the queen bed while he was away. Rachel and Maile jumped up and down with excitement and I smiled appreciatively at Dan and hugged him extra tightly. By the time Dan left for the hotel, I was in bed reading a book to my nieces, propped up beside me, with Christian curled up on the floor with his own blankets and pillows. I was grateful not to be alone that night, surrounding by the cutest, most perceptively loving kids I know.

This past Monday was the first day we were back in Las Vegas. We had such a great time on the rafting trip (post and pictures to come!) and I was feeling really good - so good that I excitedly said good-bye to Dan on his first day at work, and opted out of Carrie's invitation to hang out with a friend of hers, so I could do laundry and get settled. I was completely alone in the house, and unprepared for what was to come. It came almost out of nowhere. Within a couple hours, I found myself bawling in bed like it was Day 1 all over again. I felt out of control, broken and helpless as ever. I couldn't understand why it wasn't stopping, why this feeling wasn't going away like it usually does once I let it out. This time, I was sure it would not end.

I eventually found myself sprawled out on the quilt, unwilling to move any part of my body. My eyes just looked at the framed picture of my son, the same picture that rests on his headstone. A numbness I haven't felt since the first couple days after Ty's death paralyzed me. I could not - would not - move. Just shallowly breathed without any real caring, although I could feel warm tears continually sliding down my face so I knew I was still crying.

At some point, thoughts persisted in my mind. I seemed to argue back.

Get up. Get up!
I can't.
Yes you can. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get up and just start moving. Go do your laundry.

I refused.

After some time of this useless battle, the next thoughts were:

Grab your journal. You need to write.

I still resisted. I simply could not muster up the energy to do so. But after some time, I forced myself off the bed...slowly grabbed my journal from the closet, and fell back onto the bed again with pen in hand. Grudgingly, I began to write:

"...I'm trapped in my head. Grief is winning today. It's absorbing all my energy... I hate today. I think I feel purposeless. Dan's at work. I'm alone. I have no motherly duties to enjoy. I have no teenagers to work with anymore. I miss my routine in Utah. Routine is safe and consistent. It keeps me moving - not still enough to think too long, to feel too much..."

Journaling accomplished, the next thought was to read my patriarchal blessing, which just so happened to be in my journal. So I did. There is a paragraph in there about "healing" and how it pertains to me, which reminded me of a heart-felt letter a friend had emailed me the night before. The numbness was still a part of me, but I did not resist the promptings anymore. I re-read the letter, all the way to the end where she suggested three articles from the Ensign, one of which was entitled, "Lessons on Healing" (Elaine Marshall, April 2004).

As I forced myself to read, a renewed source of comfort and energy returned to me. The change in me was almost instantaneous, filling me with a sweet relief. Within minutes, I was completely fine. I was over it. I jumped off the bed and accomplished my remaining goals for the day, unable to believe that depressive state had even come over me. I felt like it had not even happened.

It's interesting to look back on the chain of promptings that lead me to my peace. I had lost it, and in the moment, thought this time I would never find it again. However, filling my mind with spiritual matters is what saved me in the end, once again. I am ever so grateful for friends who follow promptings to share their thoughts with me. I could not do it without you.