Exclamation Points Are Too Happy

“Well, it’s been two months...you should be feeling better by now!”

My neighbor’s words felt like the scorching red tip of a sword piercing through my heart.  I managed to smile though my eyes didn’t follow suit; the skin around them completely frozen matching the onslaught of vocabulary I held just behind my teeth.   

This neighbor is not a bad person.  She cooked me dinner every night for two weeks after my mom passed away.  She makes frozen treats for my dogs.  She watches my house when I'm away.

Yet her words still hurt.  

Even on the best of days, people, myself included, can say hurtful things but during times of despair, the wrong words at the worst of times is nauseating.   

So what do you say to a friend who has lost someone to suicide?  To a fatal car accident?  To an illness?  

Not much.

And, most people know this, often beginning their sentence with “I know there’s nothing I can say to make this better....”, words that assign instant credibility to the speaker.  

But, habitual, flippant greetings like “How are you?” are akin to nails on a chalkboard to someone who lost a loved one.  Just skip the question knowing that the grieving wish they could die rather than feel their inescapable pain.  Instead, a “Hey....I just wanted you to know I’m thinking of you ~ I’m so sorry for your loss", while perhaps empty to you, lands softly on our ears.  And (I know this is weird, but...) I was largely put off by exclamation points in texts.  “Hello!!  I’m here if you need anything!!”   

Exclamation points are too happy.   

"Hey...I'm here if you need anything" is somehow easier on the eyes.

Try skipping the “I hope you have a good day!” (and exclamation point) at the end of text conversations.  Sadly, we can’t have ‘good’ days.  Instead, “May you find moments of peace and comfort during this difficult time”  is a warm, neutral parting gesture.  

These conversations are still awkward and clumsy.  We get it.  But your courage in reaching out doesn’t go unnoticed and we appreciate your love and support.

I was most comforted when people prayed for me, when they’d send scripture or other inspirational quotes via text and sympathy cards through the mail; all of it was heartwarming.  Every card I received sits in a large stack in my closet as a reminder of the outpouring of love.  I cherished the friends who checked on me daily as part of their routine; it revealed their hearts for me in a way that I had been blind to before.  The small gifts I received - a rock with the word 'peace' written on it, a scripture book, a cloth bracelet - reminded me of how much I was loved.

Everyone wishes there was something they could say or do to relieve the devastation.  But grief feels like drowning.  It grabs your ankles and pulls you under water before you’re able to take a deep breath.  It robs you of the normalcy to which you’re accustomed, turning every pore of your body into a death wish to escape its excruciating torture.  While nothing can dissolve the pain, the outpouring of love and support is a lifesaver on the choppy water’s surface.  In moments where I felt my lungs filling with water, I’d catch a glimpse of a lifesaver bobbing in the waves, and then another...and another until I was surrounded by them.  Each life saver was a text, a call, a sympathy card, a small token, a scripture or inspirational quote.  

The pain doesn't dissipate but clinging to those lifesavers help the grieving fill their lungs with enough air to fight the undercurrent that waits just moments away.  The times when I was submerged under water, fighting for air, staring upward knowing I was in too deep, a text would inevitably come through...

"Lisa, I'm so sorry for what you're going through.  You are loved"

...And another life saver was thrown into the ocean bringing the surface of the water within reach.

Photo Credit: John Lund @ www.johnlund.com 

Forever in my Heart

My mom’s ashes are hidden inside a small, slate blue vessel in the shape of a heart with two silver colored butterflies etched into the surface of the metal.  Though it fits in the palm of my hand, its industrial feel robs the piece of the warmth it should bring given its sentimental contents.  

Wanting a different fate for Aaron’s ashes, I decided on blown glass artwork by Artful Ashes.  Per their instructions, I submitted a request form to receive a “ash collections kit” which arrived within three days in a large heavy duty plastic envelope.  A few days later, I took this package with me to the cabin and placed it on the kitchen counter where it remained unopened.   It might as well have been a pile of anthrax the way I avoided it.  But it refused to be ignored.  It gnawed at me like a monkey on my back and after I had enough of its claws pressing into my skin and drawing blood as it tore my flesh, I finally ripped open the package.

I retrieved the tiny plastic scooper from the collection kit and used it to dig into Aaron’s ashes in order to extract a level scoop - the amount required to make the memorial.  As I lowered the scoop into the plastic baggie, my olive skin turned to grey as my hand became blanketed in fine layer of ash.  The plastic scooper against the gritty contents in the bag made an unexpected loud noise as if the scooper was masticating his ashes.  By the time I was done collecting the sample, my right hand was covered in grey dust. 

Instead of being able to hold his hand, I was wearing him....on my hand.  

I felt numb as I rinsed the grey dust away with warm water revealing my normal olive skin tone.  I paused to stare out the kitchen window finding solace in the tall pine trees which stood stoically against the clear blue sky.  Aaron loved it here, I thought to myself as I shook the water from my hands and grabbed a nearby hand towel.

Once back in Phoenix, I returned the package to the company and a few days later I received a voice mail: “Hi, this is Ashley from Artful Ashes.  We just want you to know we’ve received Aaron and he’s in good hands...”    They estimated my memorial arriving by August 23rd which it did; exactly two months from the day Aaron passed. 

I opened the package in the kitchen of my Phoenix home, looked out the window and stared briefly at the Mesquite tree along the east block wall of the back yard.  My lip curled upward in a slight smirk at the Mesquite's awkwardness.  While beautiful in its own way, it was just so different, almost comically so, from the pine trees that comforted me the day I acquired Aaron’s ashes at my cabin.

After removing the bubble wrap, I carefully unravelled the packing paper from the memorial until finally the splendid heart shaped piece of glass landed gently in the palm of my hand; the colors - a brilliant blue, vibrant purple and an emerald green so vivid as if they were plugged into a outlet.  And, like grains of sand, Aaron’s ashes were beautifully swirled into the piece; bright and shimmery under the surface of the glass as opposed to the dull grey color of the ash that I recall.  

How surreal it is to have such vivid memories of what it was like to be with Aaron -  to see him, touch him, hold him, kiss him; to be able to hear his voice whenever I wanted, to see his chest rise and fall as slept...to then stand in my kitchen holding a glass heart containing his ashes.  

I used to hold his hand...and there I was holding him in my hand.

...and forever in my heart.

Contents of Collections Kit

Aaron's ashes ready to be shipped 

Finished Piece

Aaron, wait...

Did you know that the physiological response to stress isn’t just “fight or flight”?

There’s more.

It’s Fight, Flight or Freeze.  Go ahead...Google, it.  I’ll wait here.

I told you so.  

I didn’t believe it either.   During my first therapy session with Dr. K, inconsolable and ashamed, I admitted in the seconds after Aaron took my gun away from me, that I froze - I became an empty shell of myself.  My eyes fully functioning absorbed, in slow motion, the horror that ensued but my mind took the rest of my body hostage.  I could not open my mouth to talk.  I couldn't let out a scream.  I was unable to move.  I stood there paralyzed.  

The clock that governed my life had become inoperable yet I could still see time prevail for Aaron as I witnessed his demise.

With my head hung low, tears streaming down my cheeks, I sheepishly concluded, “I'm trained for this, I've been in fights for my life, and...I...just stood there.  I should have screamed, pushed him or fought him. Or, something."  

Dr. K. flippantly responded “You couldn’t.  You froze”.

“No fucking shit” I snapped back.

Like a fire engulfing every cell and organ in my body, I was filled with anger and shame.  Sitting on her lavender colored oversized couch, I felt as if I was covered and being eaten alive by red ants.  Every breath was painful.  I just wanted to die.

The torment, written all over my face must have alerted Dr. K to my lack of understanding about the 'freeze' response prompting her urgent explanation. Her voice softened as she explained that we freeze when our minds rule out ‘fight’ and ‘flight’ as options.  She became technical as she illustrated what processes occur in the brain concluding that once the response was activated, there wasn't anything I could do to control it.

She concluded, “Lisa...honey, you thought you were going to die.  You froze as a protective measure to make your death more peaceful.”

Her words flowed like liquid entering into every crevice in my brain.  Completely saturated, I just sat there in silence staring at her.  She sat in silence staring back at me.  "I....need a minute", I softly whispered.

I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply.  Instantly, I was transported to the moment in time that I froze in place.  I quickly opened my eyes...

“Trajectory”, I said with my head nodding ‘yes’ in agreement.

Dr. K asked me to explain.

“I was standing right next to him... I thought I was in the way of his bullet”.

“You thought you were going to die”, Dr, K said in a manner that sounded more like “case in point”.

I drove home dumbfounded that in 47 years I had never heard of the stress response in its entirety and while in session, Dr K admitted her surprise of my ignorance given my profession.  Upon arriving home, I spent hours researching the "Fight, Flight or Freeze” response on line yet in all my research - despite knowing I couldn’t do a thing about it, the guilt was relentless. 

Though I see a different therapist now, eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR) therapy is helping to re-frame the events that occurred.  We break down every millisecond of the incident, stretching them out into double 90 minute sessions that this intensive work demands in an effort to turn the malignant, guilt-inducing perspective that plagues my mind into something more benign that allows me to process the information in a healthier manner.  In yesterday’s session with EMDR, I even got to picture myself moving in all the ways I wish I could have moved in that moment when I was frozen.  And, more importantly I got to speak all the words I couldn't speak in that moment that time stood still.

Aaron, wait.  Stop.  Don't do this.  I love you.  Your family loves you.  Please, just put the gun down...

Most assuredly, having a voice to speak the words I wish I could have spoken over Aaron that morning and moving in a manner that I wished I could have that fateful morning somehow bridges the gap from malignant to benign.   It helps brings a sense of closure to this infectious wound that is relunctant to heal.

After therapy, feeling lighter and more at peace than usual, I drove straight to the UPS Store where my mail is delivered.  I was excited to receive the coffee pot that I ordered.  I also had another package that I opened when I got home.  In that package was the beautiful blown glass heart shaped memorial containing Aaron's ashes.   I held the glass heart in the palm of my hand staring at the beautiful colors that swirled inside the glass.  Like grains of sand, I could tell where Aaron’s ashes were incorporated into the glass piece.  I shouldn’t be able to hold Aaron in the palm of my hand...

Those words I got to say yesterday didn't actually get spoken...  

I never got to say them directly to him.

I placed the heart memorial in the acrylic stand on a shelf in my bookcase.  I stood back staring at the piece.  

And, the wound started to fester...turning my world malignant.

I Saw Him First

I saw him first.

I stared at his profile picture noticing his five o’clock shadow which perfectly defined his jaw line, the way his left eyerbrow furrowed slightly and the rebellious manner in which he wore his Harley Davidson ball cap backwards.  I was drawn into this picture, captivated by his green eyes which gazed slightly right of the camera.  His expression was pensive and wistful.   He was magnetic.   And like the pull of a great novel, I couldn’t put his picture down.  

Face Book suggested that Aaron and I might know each other due to our mutual friends and though most of you know the story, I’ll briefly remind everyone that we did not know each other but, like a dork, I friend requested Aaron because he was just that gorgeous. Yep! That's what I did.  Truthfully, I didn’t expect to actually meet him.  I simply mused that should he accept my friend request, I would enjoy, 1) stalking the rest of his photos, 2) following this incredibly good looking man on Face Book, like a complete weirdo and 3) perhaps becoming acquaintances since he worked at the Harley Dealership where I brought my bike in for service.   

That friend request turned into more than friendship.  But, how we first met would become something he and I joked about many times throughout our relationship.  The fact that I initiated contact with him was sometimes my best ammunition.  Yes, he asked me out but I never missed an opportunity to remind him that I saw him first.  A routine conversation would go something like this: 

Aaron: I love you.

Me:  I love you, too, sweetie.

Aaron: I love you more.

Me: No, I love you more.

Aaron: That’s impossible.

Me: I saw you first.

That last sentence always made him smile.   

I miss his smile.  I miss his hugs and the way we'd sit close together on the couch while watching TV.  I miss the sound of his voice, the smell of his colonge on his neck and his laugh. I miss our conversations.  I miss telling him "I love you" and "I saw you first".  I hope I told him enough.  

Lord knows, I never it saw it coming...the day where I'd see him last.

Seasoned Salt

Our plans to update the bathroom of our little house filled us with enthusiasm.  Each color sample that adorned the bathroom wall, the names of which were written in pencil below the appropriate sample, indicated the sheer amount of discussions that took place about paint color.  But that was all part of the fun! Eventually, we purchased a gallon of paint called Powdered Gold to brighten up the small room and a gallon of Seasoned Salt for an accent wall to bring out the sage in the shower curtain and matching soap tray and dispenser that we picked out together out at Bed, Bath & Beyond.  We had also planned to install baseboards throughout the house with the help of his father, Don.  Both projects were put on the back burner, though, when the men hit the ground running on their new pool business during the busiest time of the year.

When Aaron passed, the paint samples on the walls and the two gallons of paint in the spare bedroom became a stark reminder that the bathroom plans we made were no longer fluid and evolving.  Instead, they became frozen in time.  Even worse, they had expired with Aaron.  The gallon of Powdered Gold paint was utilized the very next day following Aaron's death by my dear friends who came by to give my room a make over.  

With everything that happened, one evening just a mere few weeks ago, I decided to put my house up for sale. When I told Aaron's parents this, they both jumped to my rescue. Aaron's mom, Bonnie, packed kitchen cabinets and bookshelves and did a lot of organizing and cleaning for when people come over to look at the house.  Over three days, Don measured, cut and installed baseboards throughout the entire house. While helping him, I thought about Aaron the entire time and about how he was supposed be here to help his dad.  I watched as Don stapled baseboards into the wall knowing that he too was thinking about Aaron.  Somehow we both kept it together, completing the task at hand, while holding tightly behind the closed doors in our minds, the thought of what should have been. When the baseboards were installed, Don and I painted the entire house.  The bathroom was painted a color called Almond Cookie which I found beautiful but meloncholy given that it wasn't the color Aaron and I originally picked out.  

When the work was completed, and Bonnie and Don left to go home, I began cleaning up and putting smaller furniture pieces back in place.

While working, I noticed several cans of paint in the living room that needed to be stored in the garage.  I decided I would appropriately label the lid of each paint can with the corresponding room of the house.  The thought of the future home owner appreciating my efforts should they hammer an ill-placed nail into the wall at some point, brought a smile to my face.  

I grabbed a black marker, knelt down on my knees by the cans of paint and the saw that the can closest to me was Powdered Gold.  This was supposed to be our bathroom color, I thought, as I wrote, "NE Bedroom" on the lid.  The next gallon of paint I came across read "Almond Cookie" on the label prompting me to scribble “Bath” across that lid.  I labeled the lids for the kitchen and spare room paint cans and eventually spotted a gallon container that looked brand new; the lid was shiny silver without any evidence of paint that had dripped down the sides like all the other cans.  I reached for the can to drag it closer so that I could read the label without having to get my glasses.  Once it was close enough, and with marker in hand, I located the paint color on the label.

Seasoned Salt. 

Tears welled up in my eyes.  I stared briefly at the blot on the lid thinking how nicely the color would have brought out the sage green in the shower curtain and matching soap tray and dispenser.  I pulled the cap off my marker and wrote, “Never Used” on the lid.  And I broke down in tears, just as I’m doing again now.  Who knew that a paint color could make me so heartsick.  But, it's not just a paint color.  Instead, it represented my life here with Aaron.  It was to bring our bathroom to life and instead the paint can was left untouched like everything else of his in this house.

Through the tears, I placed the paint cans in the garage to include the brand new gallon of Seasoned Salt which never once accidentally dripped on the bathroom floor, got into my hair or onto Aaron’s shirt by mistake.  The entire bathroom paint scheme died with Aaron ~ the Powdered Gold was used in my room and the Seasoned Salt which was supposed to go on the west wall was...never used.

I sometimes picture the future owner that will move into this house.  I picture how excited she'll be having a place of her own - a cozy retreat to unwind and be herself.  She'll know that Aaron died here but she'll understand that it's my story to take with me; not her story to hold onto here.  She'll fill this place with her own framed photos, decorations and all her personal things.  She'll venture into the garage and spot the cans of paint that I left for her.  When she notices that I labelled each one, she'll smile.  As she leans forward to take a closer look, she'll spot the can with the words "never used" written on the lid.  In a moment of pause, she'll most likely understand that Aaron passed before we got to enjoy that paint color on the wall - she may even wonder for what wall it was destined.  Perhaps, as she's tucking the paint away in a place more suitable for her, this gallon of paint which died with Aaron, will for her be a living, breathing reminder of how fragile life is.  Maybe a brand new, untouched gallon of paint with a shiny silver lid will fill her with gratitude for the life she has and remind her to cherish every single moment.

Those last two words....

There exists, in all 50 states, a Survivors of Suicide (SOS) group for those of us traumatized by suicide.  Arizona has six chapters, with as little as eight or as many as twenty people in attendance.  We sit in folding chairs that have been positioned into what the facilitator calls a “Healing Circle”; a safe place to share and cry.   A tray filled with several tealight candles sits on top of a small wooden box within the center of our circle along with a book of matches.  Some light a candle in memory of their loved one. I didn’t - the thought of extinguishing the flame at the conclusion of the meeting made me sad.

Everyone in the room looked normal - I could find myself standing in line with any one of them at Sprouts.  But a woman in her early 50’s caught my attention.  She was dressed in a business suit, her I.D card tucked into the plastic sleeve attached to a black silk lanyard still around her neck; her brown hair was neatly pulled back and her accessories well thought out.  She exuded confidence.  I sat across from her in shredded jean shorts, a Harley Davidson shirt, flips and a baseball cap.  We appear different but our grief is the same.  When she spoke, her voice cracked, her lip and chin quivered...”My husband....he....committed suicide three months ago....”   I leaned forward in my seat, resting my forearms on my thighs, my hands coming together, my fingers interlocking and my head lowered, my gaze upon the ground right underneath my feet...I couldn't look her; her emotion was too penetrating.

“....he left a note...”.  

My upper body and head jolted upwards and I stared intently at the woman.  Simultaneously, I saw that my furtive movement caused some people in the room to quickly glance in my direction.  I didn’t break my stare.

She found a note.   What did it say?  What did that note say?  Tell me what the note....

“...I mean, I knew he was depressed but...since then it has been really difficult.  Our kids live out of state....”

Wait, what?  Go back....what did the note say?  

“...I found a piece of jewelry that I know his daughter would have wanted...”

She made no further mention of the note.  No one else in the room spoke about finding notes, either.  I’d learn through my own research, that a mere 32% of people who commit suicide leave notes.  

I get I was there when it happened.  I get that a note doesn’t make what occurred any more obvious.  

But, I still want a note.

The end result is the same whether I saw it happen or found him seconds after hearing the gun go off.  Regardless, some people get notes.  I'm not "some people".  His mom, dad, brother and best friend - they're also not "some people." We didn't get a note.

I still ache for his explanation.  I want to know what he would have written in a note.  I want to be able to read the words “I love you” whenever I want.  I don’t have anything physical to hold in my hands.  A note would have been the "goodbye" that I never received.

Yet, logically I know a note could have left me with more questions than answers.  And, nothing that Aaron wrote would have been justification enough to end his own life.  

But my stubborness and non-acceptance wants a damn note.  Instead, all I'm left with are the last two words he spoke prior to the gun going off...

Those last two words...which weren't "good bye".  

To My Friends....Thank you.

I wonder who my friends are?

Do you ever wonder that?  Do you ever ponder who would be there if you needed them?  I used to ask myself that a lot.  Being single the majority of the time tends to raise that question.  So does having parents who are out of the picture and zero siblings to boot.  When I ran through this exercise, I thought of many friends but crossed them all off the list due to my self-imposed criteria; he lives too far, she has kids to care for, that friend is already going through something, I’m too independent to be an imposition...the list went on.   Once the majority of my friends were crossed off, I was left with a handful of people I felt I could call.  Maybe three.  Actually...just one.  

This exercise always left me feeling alone and vulnerable yet I still couldn’t help but wonder who my real friends were.

Until one day God showed me.

To my motorcycle friends who filled my Face Book feed by changing your profile and cover photos to pictures of us together...you all brought a smile to my face during a time when I thought my smile was broken.  Thank you.

To my friends who immediately took me under your wing and gave me a place to stay for as long as I needed....and when I’d transition back to my house and you'd not allow 24 hours to pass without checking in on me...Thank you.

To my friend who boarded my dogs that fateful morning and took my shirts to the dry cleaners after noticing that my closet door was opened slightly when the incident occurred...thank you.  When you and another friend gave my room a makeover so I could sleep more peacefully at night...I was eternally grateful.

To everyone who texted, messaged or called...thank you. To this day, the outpouring of love and support still brings me to tears.  

To my friend who came over to hold me while I laid on the floor crying so hard I couldn’t breathe....thank you.  And, thank you for the kindness you showed when you took that large stack of papers from the top of my file box in my closet and meticulously examined each page, one by one.  Thank you for using a scissors to remove teeny pieces of affected paper and throwing the pieces in the garbage where I’d never have to see them again.  I am indebted to you.

To my friend who unconditionally flew out from Chicago to attend Aaron’s service....thank you.  Your visit that one evening was a Godsend.   To the numerous other friends who attended the service in support of me, his family and his friends....thank you.  Your presence meant more to me than I can explain with words.

To the friend who gifted me with a free massage and adjustment, to my friend who sang beautifully and played guitar at Aaron’s service; to everyone who prayed for me, sent sympathy cards, gifted me with books, flowers, trinkets or pieces of jewelry, all from the heart...thank you.  Thank you to those who held me up in church and to those who continue to check in on me. And to my spiritual teachers/friends...thank you for clearing your calendars when I need to come visit.  

I know that's not all; I'm forgetting so many other wonderful ways my friends showed me love during this time.  The end of June is a blur.  July is, too.  God, who am I forgetting?

Prior to any of this happening, I question whether or not I would have shown up for my friends they way they have for me.  I'll never know the answer to that question.  But, I thank God for His amazing display of what that really looks like. I thank Him for revealing the sheer number of friends that poured love into me from the tiniest of gestures to the grandest.  I know one thing for sure...should any of my friends need me in their time of need, I now know exactly what to do. For my friends didn't just serve the role of healers or supporters, they became my teachers.  And, for that and so much more, I am grateful.  

To think I used to wonder who my friends were....

The Relationship Status

Aaron was a little upset that I didn’t change my relationship status on Face Book when we first started dating.  I sheepishly admitted that I was superstitious about it.  Seemingly, the changing of my relationship status was the catylist for breaking up and then I'd suffer the embarrassment of changing my status back to “single”.   Why do I do this to myself time and again?!  I vowed with the last break up that I’d not touch that stupid status button.   

I didn't change my profile picture to one of us together, either.  Aaron did so almost immediately but I used the excuse that Face Book is a platform to promote my business.  "I'm branding myself" I told him.  

Then one day I realized I wasn’t changing my picture or my status out of fear.  

I’ve dated a lot since my divorce in 2001 and my friends tell me I could write a book about my experiences.  To say that I’ve had a rough go of it would be putting it mildly.  My dating life has been disastrous and everyone knows it, whether via the stupid Face Book relationship-status-thing or my big mouth because clearly, I’m no introvert.  With each failed relationship I felt like a giant spotlight illuminated my brokenness, messiness...my singleness.    

Do they think it’s me?  I know they think something is wrong with me....

No doubt I was skeptical about my ability to have a lasting relationship and there was just no way in hell I was going to change my profile picture to one of us together or change my status.  It just wasn’t happening.  I was protecting myself from the plight of having to change all that back when our relationship crashed and burned.  I had enough egg on my face already, I concluded.

But, then, I threw caution to the wind.  I knew my relationship with Aaron was different.  He complimented me more than anyone I have ever been with in my entire life.  Not a day passed where he didn’t tell me I was beautiful, called me his “rock star” or asked how he got so lucky to be with me.  He told me every day how much he loved me and how much he missed me when we were apart.  And, I felt all that about him in return.  I have finally found The One.

I updated my profile picture to one of us together a long time ago.  But, it was just mere weeks ago that I changed my status to “In a Relationship with Aaron McDonald”.  The post erupted with sarcastic responses like “Oh, you don’t say?” or “Really? I would have never guessed!”  Admittedly, it was funny.  Even Aaron poked fun commenting "we've been together 9 months, pretty sure you all know we're toether!"  Secretly, he was happy about it.   The entire post brought a smile to my face and made me giggle the way I always could at myself.  I knew the post made me look silly but I didn’t care.  

But, I still defended myself against the sarcasm of having changed my status so late in the game!  I hit the like button on each sarcastic response, albeit with an occassional eye-roll.  I commented on a few posts here and there.  Finally I made a comment that would catch Aaron’s attention.  I wrote “Changing my relationship status on FB has always been the kiss of death!”  

....the kiss of death.  

Let that just sink in for a minute....

Aaron texted me immediately after that comment posted.   “OMG....stop saying it’s a kiss of death!”   I didn’t apologize.  I simply responded “I’m just sayin’...that’s what it has been!”  

After that text exchange, I hid the entire post thread from my Timeline, weary from the sarcasm and attention it was bringing; it was good enough for me knowing I had made the change.

My profile picture is still one of Aaron and I together.  Face Book still shows that I’m in a relationship with him.  Yet every morning I wake up by myself. I have coffee by myself.  I eat every meal here at my house by myself.  I walk the dogs alone.  I watch TV alone.  I drive to Aaron’s parent’s house alone.  I go to sleep every night alone.

My relationship status has changed.  Everyone knows it.  And, yet I can’t bring myself to change it on Face Book back to single.  

Not yet.