Moments

Moments. Life is full of them...actually, life is a collection of them. Some are mesmerizing, others are fantastic, fun, amazing, incredible...and then there are those that break your heart into so many pieces, it's unbelievable that you'll ever be whole again. Oh, moments - at times, you threaten our existence...and in the very next, you give us a reason to live.

The conversation I had this evening with my sister and my Tina started days ago in my head, when I read this quote: "Loving ourselves through the process of owning our story is the bravest thing we'll ever do (Brené Brown, Ph.D)." I realized that rather than owning my life story, I have run from it...and because of that, I have failed to be the very thing I thought defined me as a person: brave.

I thought I was brave because I had essentially shrugged off the horrific pieces of my life puzzle and essentially pretended they never happened. I tease my sister, because once to cheer me (yes, cheer me), she said, "You know, Josie, people have killed themselves over A LOT less." The truth of the statement did make me laugh, and therefore, did its job (Tess and I share my mother's intensely morbid sense of humor). That being said, please understand than neither Tess nor I intend to minimize the pain and suffering of those who have ended their own lives...we have both battled the powerful and relentless demons of self-loathing - and luckily, we were able to fend them off.

Bravery. It's not pretending the bad moments didn't happen; it's acknowledging them - being honest about them and recognizing the impacts and changes they have brought into your life - the grit and tenacity they have given you - the fight you have because you didn't give in or break down (permanently); the appreciation you have for the great moments because they look and feel so much better in comparison to those you thought would forever steal your happiness. I wouldn't trade my life in for anything - so why have I chosen to leave so much of it out of my life story? Why am I comfortable to admit to the tough stuff only in passing or with brief, cryptic statements (whether written or verbal) I am quick to brush off, minimize or joke about? Because...

Life has been hard. That is very difficult for me to admit without trying to quickly shove it under a pile of smiles and "no big deal" shrugs. My life has been hard. Yep, my initial response is to diminish that statement with, "Everyone's life is hard...you are not special, Josie." However, since this post is about owning my life story, I best stop that practice. My life has been hard. Argh! That statement - without any justification - exposes me to a lot of judgments from others (and I generally try to avoid the judgments of others). It's torturous to just let that phrase sit there - so unashamed, exposed and vulnerable. I want to cover it up...I want to hide it. I don't want you to know that I'm not perfect. I realize the ridiculousness of that statement - and, logically, I realize the only person I have been fooling is myself.

It's not because I don't trust you...it's because of my own insecurities and my long-held belief that if people really knew me, they wouldn't like me - or worse, wouldn't love me. This has nothing to do with you...no offense. This is my issue. This is my own deep-seeded fear at its most intense point - this is the fear that shapes my behaviors and my reactions to nearly every second of my life; it's the fear of not being good enough: the debilitating fear of rejection. Since moving to Colorado, I have made a conscious effort to do something every day that counters this fear...and in those moments, I feel both petrified and empowered. It's an odd combination, I realize. I keep thinking with small bouts of self-induced exposure therapy, someday I'll just be empowered. I'll let you know how that goes.

Onto the question I assume you're asking if you've made it this far...what's the root of all this fear? That's an intense question. I'll do my best in answering it - but it will, in true Josie-style, still be somewhat veiled and vague. While I can now own the fact that my life was hard, the difficult moments that string themselves together to form the ribbon of my memories are perhaps too traumatizing and private for a public blog. Public. Yikes. The reality is sinking in and I'm wondering how embarrassed I'll feel about this in the morning (er, later today)...I guess I can count this as my conscious effort to overcome fear for the day - perhaps I can count this one for few days.  

I let the first twenty-two-and-a-half years of my life convince me I was unlovable, unworthy, "a goddamn, dumb, worthless, f*cking kid," a possession to be used, an inconvenience to be abandoned, and a punching bag - both literally and figuratively. At fourteen, in a moment no one should ever have to experience, I was told, "You can say 'No" all you want, but it won't do you any good," so I spent ten years not standing up for myself - and trying to be everything to everybody all the time, nearly killed me. The constant feeling of failure that accompanied such an enormous task further reinforced my feelings of worthlessness. I just wanted life to be over.

But then, in the Summer of 2005...I let myself be loved. At that point, it was either trust in love or die. I was sitting in the middle of my apartment with my pain running down my arms in bloody streams (I had started cutting the summer before 9th grade), when he found me and made it his life's purpose to save me from myself. I fought him - disbelieved him, pushed him away; I don't know why he didn't leave. He never did. It would be me who would leave...8 years later. Of all the moments of my life, that one was absolutely the most difficult. He understood that I had to go and even encouraged me to find a different happiness - fulfill my life dream of living in Denver, find my person, start a family, etc.   

That's how I got here...that's how I started my Denver adventure. That's how I got to this moment - staring at my computer screen - petrified and empowered. Reflecting on a life that has been hard - but wonderful, exciting and gratifying; nearly impossible to live at times but impossible to leave. I have so much to be thankful for: so many amazing friends, the stability that comes from growing closer to my extended family, and the satisfaction that comes from doing good in the world every day. Confidence doesn't always come easily - but it comes when I need it the most; I can say "No" when I don't want to do something and I genuinely believe that I have great things to offer the world. The feelings of inadequacy that plagued me in my youth rear their ugly head once in a while, but they are short-lived and non-consuming.

I have a lot to look forward to - both in the immediate and distant future. I just need to make sure I don't look too far ahead and miss all the present moments that deserve my attention and appreciation: moments to live for; moments to love. What are your moments made of? 

Five Years

Dear Mom,

Five years. It seems like yesterday. I had President's Day off from school and I went to see you at the nursing home; February 16th, 2009. I brought you your belated Valentine's gift - a card, the entire Harry Potter series (so you could reread it), Blistex and Green Apple Jolly Ranchers. I wore a light blue shirt, make-up and straightened my hair that day - I had a feeling it might be the last time I saw you, and I wanted you to think I was pretty.

You were small and calm in that big bed. Calm. For once. Not angry. Not fighting. Not sassy. You could even hear better than you had been able to for over ten years. That's when I knew I was right...you were not long for this world. You spoke of talking to relatives long-passed, your Grandma Josie, Marcia, and Patty...I sat on your bed, held your hand, listened to your stories and watched your expressions - cementing each one in my brain. You were happy that day. I hadn't seen you happy since 1991. I felt a closeness to you that I hadn't felt in years.

You begged me to take your birds. I didn't really have room in my apartment or my budget for six birds, but I loved you (I still do), so I promised I'd pick them up in Fairmont and take them home the next day. There were only five left by the time I made it there - David had already killed Sunshine. I held onto a lot of guilt about that for awhile. Paco sends his love. He's the only one left now - but he has a good friend, Toby, to keep him company.

I was supposed to see you again that Friday, but I had a slight fever and the nurses encouraged me to stay home and not bring whatever it was I was carrying into the nursing home. I texted you a lot that weekend (it was our best form of communication, given your hearing difficulties) and told you that I'd see you on Wednesday for your care meeting. Loie and I would both be coming down and we'd be bringing you brownies with cream cheese frosting. Though the battery has been dead for years now, I still have the phone that carries that last message from you, "See u then. Love u."

You didn't make it to Wednesday. You died Monday evening - February 23rd. I got my hair cut after school, went and picked out fleece fabric to make Tess a tie-blanket (I still haven't made that damn blanket), worked out and then went home and took a shower. The nursing home, Loie and Dad all called while I was in the shower. I had nine missed calls by the time I got out...and the phone was ringing again.

It was Loie. Not realizing I hadn't gotten any of the messages on my phone, nor had I heard Dad knocking on my door, she immediately began with, "The funeral home is going to transport the body tonight..." My response paused her mid-sentence - a normal person may have asked it in question form, but I just simply stated, "She died. She's gone." It was followed by, "Oh honey, I thought you knew..." and she said some other stuff, but my brain was swimming, not in sadness, not in confusion, but in relief. You were gone. Finally. What a horrible thing to say, I know, but your suffering was over. You were at peace, and after more than ten years of you being sick, so was I.

I didn't cry when I told Chuck you were gone. I didn't cry when I opened the door for the emotional disaster that was Dad and Karen. My first tears came when I called Tess - not because I was sad (I'd get sad months later...), but because she was so utterly devastated, my heart broke for her. She had more guilt and unresolved issues than I; don't get me wrong, I had plenty, but they were dwarfed in comparison to hers.

The guilt has dwindled a bit in the years since - mine and hers. Tess still regrets running away; I regret keeping an emotional distance from you. I had to, Mom. I was so damaged in those days, I didn't have much emotional availability for anyone...especially you. I know that sounds harsh and I'm sorry if that's hard to hear. It wasn't because I didn't love you - I did - and I would have done anything for you, but the little girl in me who stood at her bedroom window in 1995 and watched you drive away in your white Dodge Shadow, didn't trust you. She didn't believe you really loved her - in fact, she had a hard time accepting love from anyone. It took time and maturity to realize you did the best you could given your own life circumstances, and that you did indeed love me and Tess as much as you possibly could love anyone. I'm sorry I didn't realize this when you were still here...if it's any consolation, I was never angry at you. I was just hurt.

On rare occasions I think about David; Tess says she never does, but I wonder what happened to him. He called me once for money shortly after you died. I told him I didn't have any to give him and he has never called again. I wonder if he's back in jail, in prison or still dealing drugs. I wonder if he still wears sunglasses with masking tape over the inside of the lens, or if he's replaced his stabbed-out eye with a glass one. I wonder if he has a job, a new girlfriend, if he moved to Texas (Google says he lives in Brownsville) or if he still lives in Fairmont. I wonder if he's still alive. I wonder if he ever visits your grave.

Five years. They've been short years. I still hear your voice in my head. I remember the exact texture of your hair and hands, the scowl you would make when you were angry and the way you would repeatedly slap the table and laugh silently when you were really amused. I almost always think of you able-bodied now...you're rarely in a wheelchair or hospital bed in my memories. Sometimes I think I can still call you. I feel a twinge of sadness when I realize I can't. I'm slightly jealous of people who still have their moms...envious they get to share big life events with them - like milestone birthdays, weddings (haha, yes, I am still holding out hope I'll marry someone wonderful someday - despite my 8th graders telling me "Ain't nobody got time to marry an old lady with three cats." That was my Valentine's Day 'pep-talk' from them this year...kids, gotta love 'em.) and births/adoptions (I figure if the whole marrying "someone wonderful" thing doesn't work out, I'll adopt a kid or two...I think I'd be a good parent).

I think you'd be proud of me. I've grown up a lot in five years. I'm more reflective than I am reactive and I'm much more even-tempered, patient and happy. I think you'd be impressed with my independent spirit and determination - but I don't think you'd be surprised. You always knew I was more like you than I cared to admit. Tess and I laugh frequently about our "Mom" qualities (you'd be thrilled at how well we get along now)...you definitely left your mark on us. I'm glad you did. I never gave you enough credit for the positive virtues you passed on to us: accept, appreciate and celebrate everyone, pursue education, read, speak and write well, love animals, cheer on - and help - the underdog, believe in something bigger than yourself, and be brave and tenacious in the face of adversity. Thank you for instilling these qualities in me, Tess and the countless students you taught over the years. We were lucky to have you in our lives.

I miss you, Mom. Everyday. Time has eased the pain of losing you...but there will always be a void that can't be filled and a dull ache that won't go away. These remnants of loss, though invisible to the outside world, serve as a constant internal reminder of the preciousness of life. If there is a silver-lining to your death, it's that I gained a lot of perspective. I think I became a better friend, a better daughter and a better sister. It took time - I was in no shape to be very good at any of these things for quite a few months after you died - but in the years since, I have put in much effort to let those around me know they are important and loved. I wish I would've been better at it for you.

Five years, Mama. Five important, life-changing years. You may not physically be here, but you were a huge part of those five years...and will remain a huge part of any and all that are yet to come.

I love you,

Josie Marie