Trigger Songs: Slipknot - Goodbye

It's amazing how a random song popping up in my playlist can strike at me.  I put so much weight into the lyrics and meanings of songs.  Some can be triggers for grief, some can be triggers for happiness, some for anger, and some can be triggers for me to want to help and or explain myself to others.  I like writing about my "trigger" songs once in awhile.  

Maybe we can all recognize a moment of silence

Maybe we can finally agree on the same point of view

A long time ago we believed and we were united

So the last thing on Earth I am ready to do is say goodbye

This should be easy enough. Good song, deep meaning to me, and even if you don't like Slipknot, you have to simply read a portion of the lyrics to see why. Let me break down what it means to me, and you can draw your own opinions. I've had my moment of silence.  It was those very early days, when all I wanted to do was crawl into a dark place and mourn in the cold hollow shell of my own mind.  Let's all agree that while we need to mourn, and we need to have bad days or moments, that really, in the grand scheme of things, it's not mourning or grief that moves us forward.  Those two things are simply reminders of where we are in the process, and when they rear their ugly heads, they remind us that life itself is a test, and the grades are handed out during the test, not after.

Megan and I believed in each other.  We believed that a shitty fucking disease would not stop us from being "normal".  

So no, I'm not ready to say goodbye to Megan.  Fuck, I never will be, and I refuse to do so.  I accept that she is no longer here in the physical sense, but why the hell would I say "goodbye" as if everything she helped me to become is null and void at this point?  Goodbye is not the same as "see you later".

The song continues.  

A long time ago we discovered that nothing could stop us

This hasn't torn us apart, so nothing ever will

How can we know where we are if the sun is behind us?

But this moment will show us the rest of our lives

No one is going to save us this time

No one can know what we're feeling.

So don't even try

This is continuance of life.  It's not "moving on" or "getting over it", it's "continuance".  I don't still feel "married", but I damn sure still feel "united", and whether or not I'm united or married to someone else in the future, I will still continue being united to Megan as well.  Life does not stop for those left behind.  

What is the indicator of where you are in life when your better half is no longer here? As I said above, those moments of grief or mourning serve as such.  Those moments show you that you're fucking human, and you're allowed to be sad that a person who loved you unconditionally is dead.  You're allowed to regress and have those days where the world keeps spinning for everyone else, but stops for you.  Those moments are what shows me the next step in life.   

You have to paddle your own canoe.  It's tough love, but it's fucking true.  No one is going to be your savior and just make you forget what you had in the past.  If it is that easy to forget, then I would wonder what you truly had.  You can never be "saved" from the fact that you lost someone, unless science somehow figures out a way to stop the loss by reanimating corpses AND souls.   

Taking advice from others can be helpful, but they are not you.  Be as open and honest as you want to be about everything with everyone, respect the opinions and observations of those who've been in your shoes, but for Christ's sake, live your life on your terms.  Take little pieces of it, but don't even try to live someone else's grief or process exactly as they do because it seems "better" or "faster".

Because you'll fail.   

Live Wire

Finally!  I have successfully been adrenalized.  As of this weekend, I am officially off of the Prozac.  I went to Crossfit tonight, and got to flip these bad boys around.

The combination of the prozac wearing off, and one of my favorite things to do at the gym has got my adrenaline flowing so much that I am just plain giddy.  Here's the thing, I'm thinking about Megan a ton right now, but in such a happy, happy fucking way.  When we were doing this together, and I would get in this state, we would have such a fun night when we got home.  All of us, as a family.  Shelby and I would roughhouse, Megan would play with the dogs like a little kid making baby talk with them, we'd have music blaring, and grill some steaks and just have a knock down, drag out damn fun party.  It wasn't planned, it wasn't talked about, it just happened.  After Shelby was in bed, well, more fun usually started that shall remain unsaid, but completely understood by everyone.

It is SO weird right now to feel this way.  To wish Megan was here to enjoy all this with us (yes, we have the music going, we're playing with the dogs, roughhousing, and I gobbled up a damn fine ribeye) but also not NEEDING her here to have fun.  It's exactly what I needed right now, but I still don't understand why it's not a sad moment for me in the least.

If it wasn't Monday night, I would be frantically calling people trying to get them here or to go out, not because I'm lonely, but because I'm in rare form and I want to share that with people.  If they can't get together, oh well, I'm still having fun.  This isn't me.  It really isn't.  It's a better person.  A silly, immature, giddy, but fun person.  Shelby loves it when I'm this way, because I'm the best playmate she could have.  I'm drunk on adrenaline, but not aggressive or angry.  I'm ready to conquer the world, slay the beast, and save the princess.  I feel like I could take care of (in more ways than one) multiple Megans right now without so much as breaking a sweat.

I'm happy.  Happy because for a few hours or days or however long it takes for the euphoria to wear off, I'm not just thinking about the fact that Megan isn't here, but about the fact that she WAS here, and got to experience these feelings with us.  These are the times now when I can start to see that really, she probably IS here, grinning from ear to goddamned cute little ear right along with us.

If I could bottle this stuff and sell it, I would be a millionaire.

Mr. Mom

It's fucking hard being a mom.  Really.  Fucking.  Hard.  I tended to take it for granted, regrettably, for 7 years.  Megan sapped a lot of her own strength to make Shelby what she is today.  I've gained a new found respect for all that she and other mothers do for their children.

Make no mistake, I would die for Shelby, and not in the figurative way that it sounds like.  I would literally take my own life if it meant keeping her healthy and happy.  There was only one other person that deserved that, and well, I couldn't save her, no matter how much I tried.

With that said, Shelby is sick today.  It's hard for me to be overly concerned about it when she just says "My stomach feels weird" and wants to lie down.  I mean, she looks pitiful, but god knows I've seen much, much worse than an upset stomach.

Then she runs to the bathroom and heaves for 5 minutes.  Switch.  Flipped.

I suddenly know what it felt like for Megan on days Shelby stayed home from school because of this.  It's fucking terrifying to see your "baby" being so miserable.  I watched Megan herself do this exact same thing, daily, for 30 minutes as soon as she woke up and started her coughing routine.  I held her hair and got her water to sip and did everything I could to make her feel better, but it was different.  Megan was an adult, and she had been in this routine for long before I met her, so it wasn't a shock.  It's uncommon for Shelby to be sick, so when it happens, as it does with all kids, it's a much bigger deal, and my mind starts racing with all the terminal diagnoses it could be, when really, she's just got an upset stomach.

Intellectually, I know what to do.  I go right back to the routine I had with Megan with the hair holding, water, and comfort.  What I don't have, or at least haven't developed yet, is the motherly instinct of what to tell her to make her feel better.  Mommy had been there, done that, and always came out of the morning shittyness with a smile.  She was able to make Shelby smile just the same when she was sick.

That's just the beginning.  There are so many other things that we did the "traditional" way.  I was the breadwinner, protector, wilderness guide, nightly and weekend entertainment provider, disciplinarian, and driver.  Megan was a housewife.  She did so many more things than cooking, cleaning, getting Shelby to school, kissing boo-boos, throwing birthday parties, dealing with my dumb ass, and generally being the nucleus of the family.  Therein lies the problem.  She did so much that I have no clue what all she did.  The fact that she did it while she herself was sick is one hell of a goddamned testament.
 
Now I have to take on that role, and ladies, let me tell you, you deserve a metric shit ton of respect.  I had to learn how to braid hair, RSVP to birthday parties, plan play dates, cook a dinner that she'll actually eat (she's not big on brussels sprouts, but at least she likes steak), and kiss boo-boos rather than telling her to "walk it off".   I have so much more to learn.  There's no way that Shelby is not going to be awesome, a tomboy, and drive all the boys nuts, given the circumstances, but dear lord, am I terrified of those teenage years.

Back to holding hair after her nap.

I Miss the Misery

So back in January, I was having a rough time with everything.  Who the hell wouldn't?  I didn't know what I was supposed to be feeling like though.  Monday through Saturday morning was honestly pretty OK, just a few moments here and there.  I had work to distract me, and the gym in the evenings.

Once Saturday afternoon rolled around though, it was epic.  I was just in a shitty, shitty mood, peppered with bouts of crying.  Aren't weekends supposed to be fun? Isn't it sad that I would rather be at work than at home?  I would just be driving back from the grocery store or something that otherwise should be non-triggering, and it would be instant.  I had to actually pull over less than 100 feet from my house one evening because I couldn't see.

When it hit me at the gym, which has served as my only sanctuary from the grief, it was the final straw.  I was able to recognize that I needed some professional help.  I contacted the psychiatrist that helped Megan when she was hospitalized.  He went private practice soon after her death, so I had the perfect person to already know my background and situation.

We set up an appointment and I met him about a week later.  We talked through some things, and ultimately, he prescribed me prozac.

Fuck.  Prozac?  I need a fucking pill?  How are some magic beans going to help me?

I've never taken any "mind altering" substances (well, since high school at least), and I damn sure was skeptical about taking this one.   Who am I to argue with a professional though?

So I filled my prescription, and started at 10mg/ day, half of the "minimum therapeutic dose", as he requested.  By the third day, I didn't really feel any different.  However, on day four, something changed.  I was in a general decent mood, but I couldn't get excited or worked up about anything.  After a few more days of this, the mood swings had stopped completely, but the intensity and enthusiasm for anything had also stopped.  Holy shit, I was falling back into the fog.  The same one I was in the day she died.  I didn't give a shit about anyone or anything.

I actually missed the misery.

I went through the motions of getting Shelby ready for school, going to work, going to the gym, and coming home to do it all over again the next day.  On Saturday and Sunday, I stared at mindless TV for hours.  Eventually, I stared at pictures of Megan, and read old letters she had wrote, in a shameless attempt at making myself cry.  I couldn't fucking do it. I was just "existing", and it was worse.

After going to Tampa though, something changed again.  I had a biblical flood of emotions come out, primarily after I got home.  Ahhh yes, the "Camp Crash"  A switch was flipped back on for me down there after being with people who get it.  I'm back to writing these notes (and now even sharing them with others).  I'm already functioning better at work.  I woke up this morning, and the first thing I thought about was Megan, and I had a little weep.  I'm fighting off the drug, and I feel like I'm winning.

You know what though?  I like it better than being numb.  Having heavy feelings means that my brain is working properly.  In order to build muscles, you have to tear them down and let them rebuild themselves.  The brain is the same way.  Taking prozac, at least for me, is not allowing my mind to tear itself down properly.

For now, I'm still taking it until my follow up on Saturday.  I don't want to just stop taking medications, because after 12 years of watching 18 or more pills a day go into my wife, I know that just quitting something when it's not on a doctor's advice can make things worse.  I had a follow up with him on the Monday before Tampa, and I told him all this.  I had no depression, anxiety, or sadness, but I also had no enthusiasm, drive, or desires.

I think I'm really going to push to be taken off of it.  I can't go to Camp Widow every other weekend to be snapped out of the fog, and I can feel it starting to return again.  In my case, I can still function as a father and human being even with the mood swings, so I'll just deal with them as they come.  I made some good friends recently that get what I'm going through, so if a particularly bad one rolls in, i have someone to vent to that isn't going to be scared off.

I'm not saying that Prozac and other anti-depressants are a bad thing.  They can really, really help people get through tough times or chronic depression.  In my case though, I need some depression just as much as I need enthusiasm for life, and Prozac has killed both things off.

Camp Widow

It has now been one week since I returned from Camp Widow in Tampa.  I wanted to sleep on this awhile before giving my impressions about it, specifically what it meant to me.

When I first registered for it, it was a little over one month since losing Megan.  It was an impulsive thing at the time, because I didn't have anyone else to really talk to about it, other than friends that have Cystic Fibrosis themselves.  None of them had lost spouses, but at least they got me a little bit, because they too have been surrounded by sickness and death their whole lives.  

That initial excitement and impatience began to wane over the next month, and began turning into anxiety, then apathy.  I really didn't even give a shit about going.  I figured that I would simply be a fly on the wall there, and if I did interact, I would be so rough around the edges that I would scare people off from talking to me more.  I sincerely thought it would end up being a weekend of sitting around and watching widows cry on each other's shoulder while I sat against the wall like the lonely kid at the high school dance because I couldn't squeeze a tear out (fuck prozac, by the way).  On the other side of the coin, I thought that the fact that I was relatively young, male, and dealt with such a long term illness would disqualify me demographically from participating in much discussion.

I was really, really wrong.

Yes, of course there was crying, everyone there has lost someone that they had romantic love with, a few multiple times.  That's pretty fucking rough to listen to whether you're a widow(er) or not.  Yes, there were many times when I felt that my story wouldn't hold a candle to some of the pain and suffering that others have had to endure.  No, no one was scared off by me or intimidated by my age, gender, demeanor, or reactions to their stories.  

Within an hour of sitting down at the meet and greet on Thursday evening, I had connected with multiple people, and I began to feel at ease about the whole thing.  There were a few that I instantly bonded with, to the point of feeling like I had shared a womb with them.  It was a surreal, strangely comfortable, and overwhelming feeling that I haven't experienced in 12 years.

Friday started the workshops and the actual "Camp".  I also ended up being called by my work, ruining most of the morning.  In the "Long Term Illness" workshop, I listened to so many people talk about their dealing with losing their spouse to cancer, and I felt that I actually had it easy, because Megan's illness was present from day 1, and when I met her, I already knew about it.  I remained quiet through that workshop, not really ready to open up in a more structured environment where 45 people were focused on just me and my story.  I signed up to becoming a young widower.  I loved her unconditionally, it didn't necessarily matter to me that she was going to die young.  That's incredibly hard to explain.  Of course, I didn't WANT Megan to die, it just didn't keep me from loving her.

All in all, what was most valuable to me was the socialization outside of the structured workshops.  I definitely picked up some tips and perspectives in the other discussions, but just freely talking with people and hearing their stories outside of a rigid subject to me, was far more valuable.  I did however open up in the "Caveman" workshop on Saturday, as it was much smaller and more intimate than most of the others, for obvious reasons.  It felt good to not only get a few things out about me, but to also lend some perspective to some of the other men at Camp about my journey thus far.

Kelley Lynn's bonanza, "My Husband is not a Rainbow" started in the late afternoon on Saturday.  My god, Kelley is a girl after my own heart.  Cursing, yelling, high-energy anger and sarcasm and morbidity.  She took all the pain and suffering, and turned it into something you can enjoy with a deep, real belly laugh.  Somehow at the end, I got roped into going up and singing morbid Christmas song parodies by a few of my new friends.  I still don't know how I ended up wearing a foam Christmas tree on my head, but damned if I didn't end up enjoying it.

What I didn't expect, after all of this, was immediately wanting to go back.  I didn't expect to miss people so much.  It's part of learning who the new me is.  I only ever needed Megan for well over a decade.  She "got me" when she was alive, and I think that is why I was so sad to leave, because I finally found other people that get me, and actually enjoyed my company.  I definitely had a crash when I got home.  Actually, it started on the plane.  I expected it, and in a sick way, welcomed it.  It let me know that I could still feel, and that the fog was lifting.  It let me know that I am still human, and that I can miss something other than Megan.  It took me a few days of reflection to see it, but Camp Widow actually helped me realize that there is more to life than being a widower.  See if you can figure that one out.

One would think that a gathering specifically focused on those of us that have lost a partner would be a somber and depressing weekend.  I can confidently say that it is totally the opposite, and I will be going back.  Honestly, I wouldn't be sharing any of my writing if it wasn't for Camp Widow.  I can now say that although I might have seemed like a black sheep upon arriving in Tampa, that I left feeling like part of a new family...one that I never wanted to be in, but also one that I can't imagine not being a part of now.