The Anger Perfume

I am officially angry.

It wasn’t the easiest conclusion to reach since my anger was fleeting; always dissipating like the top note of perfume, usually giving way to the lingering middle and base notes of compassion and love.  But as time passes, this emotion, no longer encapsulated by the many other faces of grief, lingers in the air demanding to be acknowledged and felt as it lands on my skin. 

But, I don’t know how to resolve it.   

The emotions of sadness and acceptance wax and wane during the day but anger is rigid; its grip constrictive and suffocating and I want to dismiss it but I can’t.  It won’t let me.  It wants to be called out.  All of it.  

  

Some of my anger feels acceptable.  Maybe it’s not my right to be angry that Aaron took his own life but I feel justified in being angry that he chose to do so in front of me, in my house, in my room....with my gun.  I feel justified in being angry about the dominos that crashed down afterward like being unable to sleep in my own room and having to make the call to have my duty gun destroyed.   I’m angry over the absolute mind-screw of keeping a gun on my nightstand reminding me of what happened but being unable to sleep without it in arms reach.  In the same way 9/11 changed the way we travel, 6/23 changed the way I look at my weapon.   We still travel but it’s not the same and it never will be.  Lord knows I spot my weapon every time I walk into my room and can’t help but dwell about it every night before I fall asleep.  I’ll always have access to a weapon for protection but it will never feel the same; it’ll always be attached to the incident from June 23rd regardless if it’s a new Glock or not.  

But there’s a hidden anger that feels undeniably selfish and indignant.  It’s harder to resolve because how dare I say anything is unfair when a man’s life was lost. 

But, Aaron took his own life.

And, this is my struggle.  Aaron’s gone, but that it was his choice brings to the surface every injustice I feel as a result of his own actions.  It’s ugly.  I feel shame over it.  I don’t talk openly about the facets of this particular anger but that doesn’t diminish its existence. If anything, ignoring it only intensifies it.   It remains a potent ingredient in the top note of that nasty perfume.  It doesn’t dissipate to love and compassion because it’s a top note of inequity - an injustice that cannot be easily resolved. 

But anger and bitterness doesn’t smell beautiful on anyone.  

Its potency is driving me insane but I’ll try desperately to dilute it. Aaron's cologne which I wear daily is composed of rosemary, pineapple, neroli, bergamot and lemon as top notes. 

But, my guess is that there are two top note ingredients to the perfume that heals, restores and brings peace:

Prayer and forgiveness. 

I'll apply those every day and I'll keep applying them until they fully saturate the anger.  And when that day comes, I'll breathe deeply into those top notes knowing that I have permanently placed that anger at the foot of the cross.  

Oh how sweet that perfume will be....

....In Just One Year

What happens in a year?

Winter gives way to Spring.  Spring holds space for Summer.   And, Summer welcomes the Fall.  The appearance of twilight, dawn and dusk are as certain as the sunrise and sunset of each day in the year.

Everything else is unpredictable.   

Today, September 18th, would have been my one year anniversary with Aaron.  And, it looks nothing how I imagined it would.

A lot can happen in a year.

I used to be certain that Aaron’s life would turn around.  I knew that his concerns were only temporary; his financial struggles would not only cease to exist by July of 2016 but his portfolio would grow exponentially given the immediate success of his pool business.  He just needed to give it one more month...

I knew with just a little more time he would feel more confident running his pool business.  He even knew this to be true.  He would reflect on how uncomfortable he felt when first embarking on a motorcycle technician career only to graduate #1 in his class and become a highly respected, knowledgeable and experienced mechanic.  Aaron started that pool route in the busiest time of the year and he was doing great.  Eventually, business would have slowed down and he would have been able to take a deep breath and gear back up for the following summer.  He just needed to give it two more months.

Knowing that his biggest stressors would be eliminated by today’s date, I pictured him proposing to me.  He was really anxious to be married and I thought we would be officially engaged on our one year anniversary.  We recently talked about where we’d eventually get married - either at the cabin in front of the Lover Trees or perhaps the Grand Canyon.   We talked about having a small wedding; just his parents and a few friends.  I talked a lot about the wedding cake since it’s my favorite part of any wedding celebration.  But the proposal definitely needed to come first and what better day than on our one year anniversary?

He just needed to give that 3 more months.

A lot can happen in just one year.

Ironic Twist of Fate

I missed a lot of signs.  

But at the time they didn’t seem like signs.  Instead they felt like individual pieces to a jigsaw puzzle that begged to find their place.  Some pieces were quite heavy for their size.  Others were a bit ill-fitting.  Regardless, I held each one in my hand and I either justified it  - I can’t blame him for being stressed about finances...I would be, too.  Or, I quickly labelled it, like in instances when my friends texted me in the middle of a storm  - “high-drama...text u tmrw”.  Or I’d dismiss it - he’s only been in the pool business one month...things will get better.

Things never got better.  

So, what signs did I miss?  

Some were easily excusable like his insomnia.  Aaron crawled into bed with his cell phone every night and I was certain that’s why he couldn’t sleep.  I’d later learn insomnia, as well as getting too much sleep, is a sign of depression.  Other signs were less subtle like his incessant fidgeting.  With the ball of his foot planted firmly on the ground, he’d rapidly bounce his heel up and down in the air forcing his entire leg to submit to a punishing jitter.  In the movie theater, he’d cause our entire row of seats to shake.  Restlessness is another sign of depression; it’s tension in the body aching for an escape route.  

He lost interest in activities he previously loved like running, heading out on exploration trips across the state and taking photographs and posting them to photography websites, often earning him various photography awards. 

Aaron had very happy, energetic days followed by the lowest of low days.  He struggled to find happiness at work no matter if it was at the dealership or in the pool business.  Gratitude eluded him; he was seemingly blinded to any positive occurrences in his day. 

The signs just seemed to slip through my hands. They sometimes pretended to find their righteous place in the puzzle.  And, even when they didn't it was no harm, no foul as those pieces were set aside.

When I looked at Aaron I saw a handsome, strong, bright, successful young man.  When he looked in the mirror I believe he saw his mistakes, his fears, his doubts, his lack of self-worth and his misfortunes.  

And, I believe he saw no hope.

“To live without hope is to cease to live” ~ Fyodor Dostoyevsky

I’ve started this blog a dozen times but always quit out of fear that I might be dishonoring Aaron by talking so intimately about his symptoms.  But, I kept coming back to when I was a cop, how we’d reap the benefits of training that stemmed from other officer’s poor tactics on the street.  The officer-safety value of the training always outweighed the proverbial spotlight on the officer whose tactics prompted the refresher training; the highest good always prevailed.  It is my deepest intention that this blog reaches the right person at the right time.  It’s my belief that in some cases, suicide can be prevented.  It is my mission to be a crusader against the stigma of depression, its diagnosis and its treatment.  It is my daily prayer that there will be beauty from ashes.  It is my wish that no one misses the signs from their loved ones.

I missed all of them.  

And in an ironic twist of fate, every day I ask him to send me signs.

http://ed.ted.com/lessons/what-is-depression-helen-m-farrell

Unfit For Duty

To what in this world are you attached?  To your health?  To your spouse or children?  To your house, car or your job?  To success?  Attachments come too easy in this life where absolutely nothing is guaranteed.   Some of us are just one diagnosis away from good health.  Our loved ones can be called Home at any time.  People get laid off unexpectedly and sometimes we flat don’t succeed.

We all have attachments though.  I’m no different.  And, in the wake of losing Aaron, my attachments grew stronger; I didn’t want lose another damn thing.   So I clung to everything - to my goal of competing in a fitness show; continuing to work out at the same gym, trying to stay on the meal plan....and then realizing I simply had to let it go.   I planned on attending my Isagenix event in August hoping to become motivated to start running my business again.  But at the 11th hour, I gifted my ticket to someone else, I  haven’t returned to ‘work‘ yet.  When people suggested I sell my house after what happened there, I adamantly disagreed.  My appraisal is scheduled for the 15th of this month.  My closing date is September 30th.  I've done my share of letting go.

But, I remained attached to my duty weapon: a model 22, Glock .40 caliber handgun, serial number MMA121.  It was my duty weapon for decades, my silent partner.  It kept me safe at work.  I slept peacefully with it on my nightstand every single night.  I completed Fire Arms Instructor school with that gun.  It flew to DC with me for Police Week, twice.  I taught my mom and dear friends how to shoot with that weapon.   But, on the morning of June 23rd, Aaron used it to take his own life.  It was impounded as evidence.  It sat in a property warehouse for weeks.  Eventually, I learned it was being released back to me.  All I had to do was go pick it up.

For weeks before this day arrived I researched having my gun refinished or dipped in order to change its appearance.  I asked for help on a closed Law Enforcement Face Book page and the response was overwhelming - countless referrals to companies that could make over my gun.  And, countless judgements of some who were shocked that I would consider retaining it.  Their opinions only strengthened my resolve to keep it.

Until one day I realized that it would still be the same gun underneath no matter its outward appearance.  My next step on this journey was the decision to have it melted down.  I’d have an artist take the metal and make a cross out of it.  I’d hang it on my wall at the cabin.  But every time I looked at it, I’d know the metal’s origin.  And, I decided I didn’t want a cross made out of the same metal that was used to take Aaron’s life.

I thought long and hard about my attachment to this weapon.  I sat down and recounted every grateful memory I had; all the times I cleaned it after successfully qualifying with it, the times it earned me an expert's shooters badge, and how it was my constant travel companion.  I vividly recalled the day I fought in a backyard of a Maryvale residence with a homicide suspect who grabbed the radio mic off my shoulder lapel and began wrapping the long cord that attached the mic to the main radio around my neck.  I immediately drew my weapon and pointed it at the suspect fully intending to shoot him and he knew it.  He dropped the radio mic and the cord lost its grip around my throat.   My gun saved my life that day.  

I couldn't help that my eyes welled up with tears when I decided I’d never pick up my duty weapon at Property like I imagined I would.  I’ll never see it again.  

I requested that my duty weapon be destroyed.   It was my loyal partner for a very long time.  Had I still been employed on the Dept, given the circumstances of what eventually occurred with the gun, the gun would have been labelled “Unfit for Duty”.  Sometimes loyalities don't last...

Sometimes your most treasured possession becomes unfit for duty.  

The O-ring

My parents and their generation remember where they were when John F. Kennedy was shot.  My generation remembers where we were when the Space Shuttle Challenger burst into flames shortly after liftoff.  Seven souls perished that tragic day when the seal of an O-ring failed. I was baffled that something so seemingly benign could be so disasterous.

Fast forward to September 18, 2015.  I met Aaron who at the time worked at Buddy Stubbs Harley Davidson.  Admittedly, I was seduced by his mechanical prowess.  I loved asking him about his work. The fact that I didn’t understand anything he’d tell me in return didn’t matter; he was sexy when he talked shop.  His most frustrating jobs always involved a reoccurring theme: the infamous O-ring.  

“Seriously, baby, why do we still have those?  Honestly?  

He’d just smile, the dimple on his left cheek making an appearance, melting my heart.

When Aaron became CEO of his own pool business, once again, O-rings took center stage as the main culprit for malfunctioning pool equipment.  

And, an inside joke was born.  

If the TV remote didn’t work I’d ask Aaron to replace the O-ring.  If his razor blade was dull, he’d blame the O-ring.  

“Sweetie, I hoped to have dinner ready for when you got home but the stove O-ring failed....again.  How does Pei Wei sound?”

Fast forward to today.  I walked into the garage to give my motorcycle air compressor one last chance.  Last time I used it in preparation for a ride, I was able to air up the front tire but not the rear; it just wouldn’t receive air.

I walked into the garage and summoned Aaron's help, “Sweetie, I’m giving this one more try...” 

The front tire aired up eliminating the compressor as the problem.  I tried airing up the back tire but it wasn't working -  the gauge needle uselessly flipped around the dial.

I removed the compressor, ran my finger over the top of the valve stem and felt something protruding.  Worrying if I was causing more harm than good, I fished out the rubbery obstruction...

You guessed it.  An O-ring.  

Kneeling by my back tire, I held the tiniest O-ring I have ever seen in my life in the palm of my hand...

And I doubled over in laughter.  I laughed really hard.  And, Aaron was with me; I could  feel him.  I sensed he orchestrated the entire thing.  I pictured him smiling...the dimple in his left cheek making an appearance and melting my heart.   And, my laughter turned to tears. I miss his smile so much.  I miss him so much.   

And there I knelt on my garage floor, crying....

over an O-ring in the palm of my hand.

It's so tiny, it's blurry.  But, no doubt, it's an O-ring.

A Hint of Copper

The security doors on my house were 15 years old and showed every bit their age.  The lower section of screen on the front door fell off constantly.  Aaron always screwed it back in place.  He kept meaning to get better fasteners...

And, mere days after Aaron died as I went to leave the house, as per usual, the screen fell to the ground.  

I calmly knelt down and picked up the screen.

And, then I launched it into the air.

It landed in the street and I stared at it for a few seconds before finally retrieving it and throwing it against the outside wall of my house before leaving for the day.

When I arrived back home, I noticed the screen leaning awkwardly against the wall. Impulsively, I called Steel Shield Security Doors who showed up in person just days later.

After small talk, Door Guy handed me a trifold brochure.  I opened it, saw the limitless styles, colors, textures and materials available and quickly folded it back up, placing it on the table.  

I hate too many choices.  Once, I went to Spencer’s for a microwave and when the employee asked what features I’d like I said, “white”.  He began spewing about timers, settings...models, and I repeated “it just needs to be white...”.  He hesitantly pointed to a nearby microwave stating “This one’s white”.  “I’ll take it”, I said.  With a smirk he added, “we have white ovens too, if you’re ever interested.”

I told Door Guy that I wanted the same doors my friend just purchased through Steel Shield - the kind that don't bend or break when hit with a baseball bat.   He picked up the brochure and pointed out the doors matching my description.  “Ok...I’ll take it”, I said.  

....then he broke out the enormous silver ring of color and texture samples.   

“Black is fine”, I blurted out.

“...ok, but there are quite a few variations and textures that come in black”

I refused to play this game.  I was not getting sucked into that drama. 

“I’ll take whatever one looks most like black”.  He suggested a black with a hint of copper.  (Whatever).

He took measurements, wrote up my ticket and I paid him half of the total cost, $1,174.00   

It was money I couldn't get back once I later decided to sell the house.  The doors were already in production.  

And, yesterday my Steel Shield Security Doors were installed.  With my house now under contract, I forked over the remaining $1,174.00 balance on the doors.  

But, they do look amazing.

No doubt I’ll be emotional when I’ve loaded the last box, leashed up the dogs, relinquished my keys and locked the door behind me for the very last time.   I’ll try my best not to look back at the house as my dogs jump in the cab of the truck and I get them situated.  But, I will.  I won’t be able to resist taking one last look at the trees  (they’ve grown so much!) that I picked out for the front yard, the color paint I chose for the exterior of the house including the red front door and the rock I chose for the desert landscaping.  

I’m sure to maintain my stare as I back out of my driveway and start driving away for the very last time.  Though they’ll be filled with tears, my eyes will soak up everything...perhaps even catching a glimpse of the copper in the black frame of the shiny new security doors as the sun sets on the little cottage on 14th St.

Dear Aaron,

Dear Aaron,

The unanswered questions continue to cause irritation like the sound of a leaky faucet, the incessant drops drumming against the bottom of the stainless steel sink equal to the sheer number of questions that remain...questions to which I’ll never receive answers -  at least not on this side of Heaven.   The leaky faucet cannot be quieted.

I talk to you every morning when I walk the dogs.  I fill you in on the house sale, what song I’m learning on guitar, what upcoming plans I have, whether heading to a friend’s house for lunch or getting Clove treated at the Vet for the millionth time for an ear infection.   All our conversations are one-sided.  

Every single day I look through your photos on Face Book and Instagram  All of them.  I spend a lot of time staring at the few last photos I ever took of you, dumbfounded that at the time I had no idea they’d be the last.   I long for just one more photo of you.

Our last text conversation from the evening of June 22nd, as we jokingly texted each other from different rooms of the house, remains in my cell phone.  I have it memorized, having read it so often since you’ve been gone.  I’ve not received a text from you in two months and 12 days.

I find myself torn between two worlds - yours and mine.  

Here, I’m forced to put all the pieces of my life back together without you.   I have a large support system but I still wake up every morning alone and I go to bed every night alone.  With the exception of an occasional dinner with friends, I eat dinner alone.  I am single again.  And, I don’t want to be.  I didn’t think I would be after we met.  But, I am.  And, yet through it all - while trying to ignore your shirts in the closet every time I open the doors, doing the same with your toiletries in the bathroom, and wading through every memory we shared together while in this house, I fight every single day to see the beauty this world still has to offer.  

Because my story didn’t end.

It severely changed course but it didn’t end.  And, sometimes the only hope I have is that perhaps my best memories have yet to be created.  That in spite of everything that has happened, I must push forward, remain open, live life to the fullest and come out victorious. 

Yet I so badly want to be where you are.

So, it's difficult to stay present and grounded here.  I’m constantly wondering when we’ll see each other again, playing over and over in my mind what that reunion will be like.  My desire to see you and talk to you has me bursting at the seams most days and inevitably I wish time away just trying to get closer to the day where everything makes sense; where I can be with those I love the most in Heaven and where all my questions get answered.   I know I’ll get there some day.

But, not knowing the number of days between 'today' and 'someday' is excruciating.

I don’t know how to let go - to fully move on, while keeping you close at the same time.  I don’t know how to live this life, fully present to the miracles that occur all around me on a daily basis while wishing that I could be with you and my mom.  I’m pushed forward, drawn into the mystery of what a brand new day holds while being pulled back by what used to be and what I wish still was. 

Maybe someday the pull won’t be as intense.  Maybe someday my heart won’t feel like it’s being torn to pieces every time I think of you, wishing we could be together again.  

Or maybe life’s push just gets stronger as it continues to entice me into yet another day...

The promise of a new day, the laughter it may hold, the creation of new memories...just promise me, Aaron, that you'll be with me through all of it.