Over Salted

You know how when you’re having a really bad day and you just can’t wait for it to be over?

The year 2016 is like that for me.  

Was the *entire* year bad?  No. I retired from an amazing law enforcement career and embarked on my dream of competing in a fitness competition.  Aaron and I enjoyed motorcycle rides, trips to the cabin and we were planning a Fall vacation - we were thinking Hawaii.

I see the posts on Face Book encouraging people to not be so hard on 2016.  Some posts strive to stir people to enlightenment by encouraging their readers to post something positive that happened this past year.

I can’t bring myself to comment.  

Just as too much salt ruins a perfectly good pot of sauce, extreme tragedy overshadows the good times - a tough place to be in a society where we’re constantly reminded to focus on the positive, to always be thankful.   In my darkest days, I was overcome by thoughts of suicide along with images that played in my mind on a relentless loop.  If someone would have told me to find something for which to be grateful, I might have launched a heavy object in their direction. I was not well.  Being grateful for say actually brushing my teeth at some point during the day would make my breath less offensive but it wasn’t going to do shit to improve mood.    

Just one split second in 2016 caused all that.

But, a lot can happen in such a small increment of time - an instant, really.  A blink of an eye.  

One thousand one...

...the gun went off.   He found peace.  I was swallowed by darkness.

One second out of the 31,557,000 seconds that comprised the year 2016 was all it took to make it the worst year of my life.  I can’t fathom how anything could be worse than breathing the same air as your loved one as he commits suicide.  God help me if I’m wrong.  

Gratitude, the feel-good serum that helps people elevate to a higher energy, wasn’t even possible for me for the first few weeks.  In my experience, it actually takes an already healthy mind to practice gratitude.  Something bigger than gratitude kept me alive until the perpetual darkness subsided...

...my faith in God.  And, hope that things would get better.

Sure, eventually, I felt grateful  - I had the support of amazing friends, my appetite finally returned and eventually I could lay down in my bed and close my eyes without opening them every 3 seconds to stare at the spot where Aaron fell.  

But, gratitude doesn’t outweigh the desolation of 2016. 

And, I just can’t wait for the year to be over.  I don’t think that makes me ungrateful.

I think it just makes me someone who’s anxious to be inside of a year that has some hope and promise.

Besides, I’ve always loved New Years.  Yeah, some preach that if you want to make changes, don't wait for the New Year.  “Take action NOW”, their words angrily spilling into their live Face Book feed.  

I get it.  New Years isn’t a potion that magically changes anything from December 31st to January 1st.  

Let them preach.  As for me, I’m grabbing a soft throw blanket, a warm cup of coffee and I’m hunkering down...riding out the year until 2017 arrives.  If you’ve had to fight and crawl your way out of 2016, feel free to do the same.  If you want the symbolism of the New Year to start your weight loss program, increase sales in your business, embark on your dream...then wait.  Ignore the static.  Let the rats race.  Life is meant to ebb and flow.

...even a delicious pasta sauce takes a long time to cook.  

To my readers who I love so much, have a safe and happy New Year.

And, may there not be too much salt in the sauce.

Emerging Victoriously

No detail was spared.  I told her exactly what happened...a play by play of the facts.  And, when finished, I took a deep breath and sat there silently.   My therapist, taking notes with such fervor, filled the room with a scratching noise caused by the tip of her ball point pen making contact with the paper’s surface.

She took a lot of notes.  And she kept writing.  And writing....

Her focus was unbreakable.  The scratching sound was unnerving.  So I began speaking again.

“Uhhm.  And, also I....I keep seeing the incident over and over again in my head.”   She silenced her pen and looked up at me without speaking.

“....yes”, I said, as we held eye contact.  “The incident plays like a movie in my mind’s eye, on a continuous loop.  It doesn’t have an ‘off’ button.”

Placing her pen and notebook on a nearby table, she leaned forward and flatly responded, “You have a serious case of PTSD”.   Her words felt like a swarm of bees flying out of her mouth, attacking every inch of my exposed flesh.   

Stunned, I only caught bits and pieces of her continued explanation... about my seeing Aaron’s suicide, about how I thought I also was going to die, and how all those images, segment by segment, got stored in the wrong part of my brain.

I left that first session feeling like a carton of eggshells - too fragile to be out in the world with the diagnosis of PTSD.   How easily could I be set off?   What are my triggers?  How will I react?

Those questions were answered just a few days later when fireworks went off near by as I sat in the backyard of Aaron’s parent’s house.  I’ll spare the details but to say that it was ugly would be an understatement.

I didn’t want to live the rest of my life having a melt down every time I heard a loud bang.

In my second session with my therapist I explained what happened.  “That’s your PTSD”, she said in response.  

And, that’s the last time she said those words.

Over the course of just two sessions, she repeated the phrase “your ptsd” enough times that I finally requested she word it so that the PTSD was less.....mine.

“Can PTSD be fully cured?”, I asked. 

“Yes”.  

“Then from this point forward please refer to my diagnosis as ‘The temporary PTSD related to the incident’ versus ‘Your PTSD’”.   

I’d eventually switch therapists.   I explained to her from the beginning about my diagnosis but I assured her that I would become PTSD-free very soon.  She smiled and said  “There’s a societal consciousness around PTSD where the diagnosis has become more powerful than people’s ability to be restored from it...but full restoration and healing is possible as long as therapy is available to patients.”  

My new therapist conducted 90-minute EMDR sessions with me over the course of several weeks (as compared to just 20-30 minutes with my previous therapist).  They were exhausting.  It was a lot of hard work.  I went through countless boxes of tissue paper.  But, I embarked on every session with the sole purpose of emerging victorious.   

I still conjure up images of that horrific day but the images don't paralyze me; I'm in control of them.  And, I still live in a world where cars unexpectedly backfire while I’m out walking my dogs.  And, where large canyons of fireworks go off while I'm cheering on an ASU football player who just scored a touchdown at Sun Devil Stadium.  

I jump at the loud sounds just like everyone else.  But, then I smile.  Victoriously.  

The Letter Z

He is the first one listed in my contacts on my iPhone.  

His last name is followed by the emoticon with the two pink hearts - the one with the heart on the bottom and the smaller one just above it, to the right.  It’s my favorite; they’re the happiest of hearts.

Yet, it feels like a punch in the stomach every time I see his name: Aaron McDonald

I can’t ignore it.  But I can’t call him.  I can’t email him.  I can’t text him.  All I can do is stare at his name in disbelief that I can’t talk to him or see him ever again.

It's the same feeling I got when constantly faced with our last text message string on my phone.  Being slightly Type A, I delete texts to keep my text screen clear and tidy.  But, I was careful not to delete that last thread between me and Aaron.  It was a short conversation (given my propensity to continually clear messages) but it was the last one I had.  It took place June 22nd while I was having dinner with Staci at True Food Kitchen and he headed out to his friend’s house.  

“I’m headed to Damon’s but I’m fine.  I’m 100% fine" he texted while I sat at the dinner table.  The part about him being "fine" was out of the blue like it always was every time he would say or text something like that.   “So happy you’re visiting Damon...plz tell him hi!”, I typed back, ignoring the "fine" part knowing that this theme would repeat throughout the evening, his words and pixilated texts sure to leave me confused and anxious.

His text made me feel sick to my stomach.  I knew this was just the beginning of a very volitile situation; I knew he wasn't doing well.  Exasperated, I looked up from my phone to Staci and confided, “this is what he does....he says he’s fine but a storm is coming.  I just don't think he's happy.”

I hated that text string. 

Sure, it contained a few normal sentences here and there but mostly it consisted of the all-too-familiar discussion where Aaron pretended everything was okay when I knew damn well it wasn't.  It made me anxious every time I saw it.  And, sad.  Mostly sad.   

So one day I just simply deleted it.  Unceremoniously and without much thought...I swiped left, hit delete and it was gone.  Forever.   I don't regret it.  

Like that text string, my mood often lowers when I see Aaron's name in my contacts every single time I pull up that screen.  Sadly it does remind me a little of the confusing and manic text messages he'd send me. Plus it's a bummer that it just sits there....unused, as a reminder that things never did get better like I hoped.   

But, I don't have it in me to delete his contact card.  Not yet.  Though, I recognize I can't get sucker punched by it every time I stare at my contact screen.  So I pulled up my contacts, my heart dropping when I saw his name even though I was prepared.  I cliked on his name, hit "edit" and while in that mode, I placed a letter "Z" before his name.  I hit save.  I pulled the main contact screen up again and saw Aimee K.F as the first name listed.

I smiled.  My contact screen was nuetralized.  I feel no guilt in that.  I'm still here and I have to take care of me.  Aaron will be forever and always in my heart.  But, in my phone he's 'ZAaron' and frankly, I think he thinks it's hilarious.

Shredded Plastic

It wasn’t a proud moment, the day I lost my temper with the 84 year old lady that lives on 15th Place. 

(She started it).  Her name is Phyllis.

My dog-walk-route has been the same for years.  I serpentine through the neighborhood hitting 14th Place, 15th Street and 15th Place where Phyllis lives in the cute, blue house with the outdoor cats in the carport.  She also has a dog.  It’s a small, wiener-type-thing which barks every time we walk by them causing Phyllis to repeatedly yell “no” at the dog which hasn’t been effective yet.   Meanwhile, though hard to believe, my dogs are well behaved on walks.  They don’t bark at other dogs and they don’t spin around on their leashes.  They just walk....probably because there’s nothing of mine for them to chew.

One particular day, we walked past Phyllis like we’ve done many times before and her dog barked at us, as usual.   “Good morning”, I said to her while trying to get past her as quickly as possible for her dog’s sake.  Exasperated by her dog’s behavior, she shouted “MAYBE YOU SHOULD WALK YOUR DOGS DOWN A DIFFERENT STREET!”   

I looked over my shoulder at her and without hesitation fired back, “Maybe give your dog some training!!!” 

Ugh.

I have avoided Phyllis ever since.  I only walk down her street if she isn’t out walking her dog.  If she is, I backtrack to 15th Street to avoid drama.  But this particular day, instead of backtracking, I continued east to 16th Street, a main artery that borders my neighborhood.

Once there, my environment changed from the manicured lawns and flower beds of the neighborhood to one with a filthy bus stop and shredded grocery bags tangled in nearly every oleander tree lining the road.   Crumpled up Walgreens store receipts, styrofoam to-go containers, empty liquor bottles, and cigarette butts were strewn across the ground and the traffic pollution was deafening.  My mood took a nose dive.   Cinnamon was nervous about the cars whizzing by and I felt badly for her.  I was also stressed from keeping Clove from eating discarded chicken wing bones mixed with broken glass on the sidewalk.  I felt depressed and agitated.

16th Street is a detour I won’t take again.  It was messy.  It made me feel messy.  And, I felt uneasy that the stench and unsightly garbage resided just on the other side of contentment...so close I can touch it, smell it and taste it in a moments notice.  So vivid I can conjure it up with a snap of my finger...seeing in my mind’s eye the shattered glass, wasteland of paper debris and the ragged plastic grocery bags being pulled and lured by the wind but held captive by the oleander’s grip.   

16th Street could get cleaned up but the road will always be there....the memory of how it looked that day when I walked my dogs down the sidewalk doesn’t disappear.   I became grateful that morning for the reminder that while 16th Street is just a stone’s throw away, I can choose the other streets.  I can walk among the immensely tall trees that fill the neighborhood...some which were surely planted nearly five decades ago.  There’s a certain way the sunlight hits the leaves in the early morning, seemingly waking the birds who have a song in their heart.  Thank you, Phyllis.  Thank you for the reminder that though 16th Street remains, I must always seek the beauty that exists all around me.

Somethings Aren't Meant To Be

I knew my words would punch her right in the face.  I attempted to soften them, as I do every time when faced with this conversation piece. My voice was calm and even toned yet despite my best wishes for the words to land gently on the receiving end, they delivered a jaw-breaking blow.  

It had been three years since I’ve seen Laura.  When we first met, we became instant friends so it was a huge drag when I broke up with her brother.  Actually, breaking up with him was easy.  Knowing I would no longer enjoy the same relationship with Laura was heartbreaking, though.  I was also quite close to my then-boyfriend’s mom who makes the best fudge on the planet.  

Even after the break up, Laura and I stayed in touch for a while and not a day went by without her telling me that she wished I would get back together with her brother.  “Somethings just aren’t meant to be”, I’d reply every single time to the point she began saying it with me. Though my response ended with a period, there was an ellipsis that begged for more “....and plus your brother is a lying, cheating jerk so....”    Somehow I always managed to keep the latter part inside my head.

The last time I saw Laura, I was single after having just ended my relationship with her brother.  Just yesterday we reconnected in a posh Central Phx Eatery.  And, I’m still single.

It was heartwarming to hear everything going on in her life and to learn that her mom still makes fudge.  “Enough about me!!” she said.  “Last time I was on Face Book, you had just met Aaron...GIRL!  He’s adorable!”  

...Yes...he is adorable.   

I try softening the rest of my words.   

“Oh Lisa.  I am so sorry!”  Her eyes welling up with tears.  “Honey...please tell me you weren’t the one who found him!”  

I take a deep breath and consider lying through my teeth.  But, instead I speak the truth.  I can almost see the blood dripping from her nose at the final blow.

She melts down, shaking and in tears.   And, I recognize myself in her.

The waitress breezed on over to refill my coffee and immediately sees Laura in distress.  The knot that had formed in my throat clenched onto my voice like a tight fist rendering me unable to speak for a split second.  Finally, taking a deep breath, I dealt with the awkwardness in the only way I know how.  

“I just broke up with her...she won’t find anyone better than me”, I explained to the waitress.

Through snot and tears Laura laughed while blubbering the words “I broke up with HER!”.  The relieved waitress offered her a napkin which served to further smear the mascara underneath Laura’s eyes.

“Laura.  I’m okay...most days.  I put in a lot of hard work for PTSD at the therapist office.  I sold my house.  I’m getting a new one built.  I’ll start a brand new chapter.  I miss him every single day and I don’t understand why things happen the way they do.  But, so far I’m upright and I’ll come out okay.”

I couldn’t help but notice the look of sheer sadness on her face.  But she nodded in agreement.  

“You know....somethings just aren’t meant to be” I added.  

“Somethings are not meant to be”, she agreed.

The Tattered Chapter

Over the course of my adult life, I’ve been single more than I’ve been a couple with someone.  My marriage lasted 9 years though we were unofficially separated by the 8th.  Since our divorce in 2001, I’ve been on 1,836,523 coffee dates, managed to have a few hopeful relationships sprinkled in between and been proposed to three times.   

Proposal #1 was the most memorable.  Mike and I had only been dating for three months but when he invited me to go with him to Hawaii with his friends, I agreed (it’s Hawaii, after all).  On just our second evening there, we found ourselves walking along the moon lit beach when Mike began slowing his pace, eventually stopping to kneel down on the sand.  I thought his shoe became untied.

He was definitely not tying his shoe.

You haven’t lived until you turn down a marriage proposal while still having four arduous remaining nights in Hawaii with a man who you absolutely know will be an ex once the trip is over.   

I’d live through eight more years of alternating between dating and single life when I finally met Aaron.  I reveled that my tragic, though sometimes comical, dating life was over.  It felt amazing to finally have someone with whom I could enjoy life.  Admittedly, it was nice to not be alone anymore.

And, then suddenly I was.

It's familiar territory, though.  I'm no stranger to eating out by myself and seeing movies alone.  It’s just that I thought that worn out chapter, the one with the dog-eared, tattered pages and scribble written in the column of every page, was over. 

But, I thought wrong.

I picked up that chapter and carried it into Scramble this morning...it’s one of my favorite breakfast joints.  As I stood at the back of a long line I noticed there were eight people ahead of me; all couples.  Shortly after I walked in, another couple came in behind me.   

The pair in front of me didn’t have an inch of space between them at any given moment and I wondered if they were newlyweds.  Each couple talked over the menu, held hands and looked overly couple-like.  The inner dialogue in my head dripped with sarcasm:  Really?  Clearly, I was in a coma this whole time and awoke to February 14th.   I guess while waiting for a damn shovel to break ground on my lot, I missed the couple-memo.  Oh look...everyone’s holding hands.   Yay for pockets.

I thought about leaving.

But, I really love their vanilla yogurt.  And, plus, I have to get used to the alone-thing again.  No better time than the present to iron out the tattered pages of that chapter.

But still, the lump that had formed in my throat was beginning to burn.  I finally approached the gal who would take my order: two eggs scrambled, crispy bacon, vanilla yogurt in place of hash browns, sourdough toast and a coffee.  

“Would you like a cup for water?”, she asked.

She became blurry as noticeable tears welled up in my eyes.  Determined to proceed with grace, I made it my mission to somehow make light of this awkward moment.

“No.  Thanks though!”, I said as I began smiling.  “...Water makes me very sad...as....as you might be able to tell.  There’s nothing more sad than water....”.  My sentence trailed off and in place of a period at the end, I shot her a quick wink thankful that a tear didn’t jump ship.

Handing me my coffee cup she giggled at my attempt at humor and her face softened with an expression that begged to ask me if everything was all right.

Yes.  Yes it is, young lady.  

Those tattered pages may be damn near falling apart but crisp, white, blank pages await the rest of the story.   Is it possible I may never meet anyone with whom to share the rest of my life?  Yep.  Anything is possible.

But, if anything is possible, then some day I could actually meet The One.  There must be someone whose love actually stays?  And, if I'm so lucky as to see that day arrive, I can, for once and for all, throw out that single/dating-life chapter.  Actually, I’d douse it with gasoline, light a match, set it on fire and watch as every single page goes up in flames, burning them to a crisp as they fall to the ground in a pile of ash. 

That was dramatic.

But, regardless, it’s a possibility.

I could even get remarried.  

But, yeah, if that actually happens, could someone remind me to also change the beneficiary on all my assets and financial investments?  That would be great... 

To this day, my ex husband (and dear friend) still occupies that line on all the forms.

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.