Snow Globe

I loved snow globes as a kid.  I’d shake them furiously in hopes that the snow wouldn't cease falling on the magical world inside while wishing I could transport myself into the winter wonderland that I held in the palm of my hand.  

Instead, I was in the Bronx.  

I spent the first 7 years of my childhood there and the most vivid memories I have are of the playgrounds enclosed with chain link fencing and flooring made of interlocking rubber mats, and the Michelin Man suit my mom made me wear in the snow.

I do love the snow.  It glistens in the sun.  It adorns trees and roofs like icing.  It’s peaceful the way it gracefully falls to the ground.  And, you can form it into a ball and throw it at people which is fun.

It’s the cold I dislike.  While I don’t enjoy 118 degree temps in the Valley, I can handle it far better than 20 degree weather in the high country.  

But this weekend I made an exception and decided to stay through the snow storm predicted for Happy Jack.  And, I’m glad I did.   

I haven’t been around snow since the early 90’s when my then husband and I celebrated our one year anniversary at Lake Tahoe.  We rented a cute cabin and built a snow man on our first night.   Our work was commendable and as proud snowman builders we were anxious to head back indoors to celebrate our accomplishments with a warm meal.   That’s when we realized we locked ourselves outside.  We had no other option than to break a window to regain entry.  That was an expensive snowman.

Fast forward to 2018.  When I awoke this morning, the thought of seeing snow again reminded me of how I felt as a kid on Christmas morning.  I was ecstatic!  The second I saw snow flurries I ran outside with the dogs in tow.  I snapped dozens upon dozens of photos only to realize that the better pictures are of the snow when it starts sticking to the ground...only to realize that the even better pictures occur when there is even more snow sticking to the ground...and so on and so forth.

That went on all day.  My Face Book feed is proof.

I didn’t spend any winter days here in the three years I’ve owned the cabin.  I loved the summertime - spending every minute outdoors, napping on the couch on the deck, reading, journaling, watching my dogs keep a look out for squirrels and rabbits...spending time with friends on RZR rides and at BBQ’s.  I don’t regret not having spent time here in the winter.  I know myself too well.  After the first full day of being cooped up inside, I would have longed to be back in the valley riding my motorcycle, rock climbing and being warmer.  

But it’s fitting that a new experience would be the book end to cabin ownership.  It was a new experience having first purchased it and it feels like I’ve come full circle.  Every moment of today has felt like a gift.  There were more elk grazing across the street than I have ever seen here.   I enjoyed watching my dogs jump and play in the snow for the first time.   I threw snowballs at trees since there were no people around but still enjoyed every minute of it.  I walked around in the snow just to hear the crunch of it beneath my boots.  I noticed the way it weighed down the pine needles on the trees, how it collected differently in some areas depending upon the obstacles it had during its descent, and how vastly different the overall landscape was compared to all the summer days I've spent here.

More snow fell today than tears though there were quite a few of those.  I think that’s normal, given what this place has meant to me over the years and all the memories it holds.  But, like my 14th St house, as hard as it was saying good bye, I know in my heart it’s time. 

And I know it’ll be in good hands  - the future owners and their family will enjoy it as much as I have. Perhaps they’ll even use the cabin in the winter.  If that’s the case, I hope the snow doesn’t cease to fall on this magical place.  May it be for them the beautiful winter wonderland that I’ll hold in my heart and mind for years to come.  

It's the most precious snow globe I have ever owned.

I Stand Accused

“That doesn’t sound right.  Someone needs to look into that further....”

Matt’s friend spewed that sentiment after the explaination of the incident involving Matt's brother.  The discussion took place not long after Aaron took his life.  Matt was upset by it.

I was shocked.

I never imagined there would be speculation.  Yet literally, just some random (to me, anyway) guy in Illinois arrogantly dismissed the incident as a suicide, and effectively deemed it a homicide.

And, he made me the suspect.

I’m angry about it, still.  I don’t think about it that often, but when I do it’s a bitter pill to swallow.  My jaw clenches, my teeth grind, my face twists into a scowl and I want to punch holes in walls and scream until I lose my voice.   

Does this jack off even know Matt's brother?!  Was he here to manage the moods that covered Aaron like dark clouds drifting above depending upon which way the wind blew?  Was he here that morning?     

No.  He wasn’t.  But, I stand accused.

And, Matt’s friend isn’t the only one.

I’d eventually tell this story to Aaron’s best friend, Damon and his girlfriend.  “Oh, yeah, I’ve heard that too....you know how some cops can be”, Damon replied.

(What?!  Are you kidding me?)

Damon knows and works around a lot of police officers.  And that day over lunch, I'd learn that one of them suggested to him that perhaps things aren't what they appear.   Someone who wears the same uniform I wore for 25 years....someone I call family even if we don't personally know each other....

...one of my own judged me.  I stand accused.

But, I think I played it cool that day...hiding from Damon my sadness, confusion, anger.   Jaw clenched.  Teeth grinding...

But I couldn't help but wonder how many more brothers or sisters in blue suspect me in a homicide?

I don’t know.  

I wish I did.  I wish I could meet those who question the incident and explain with such grave detail the events that occurred so that they too might see it in their minds eye every single day like I do.  But that's a burden I've only placed on people who got paid to listen to me.

So I'm silenced.  And, I stand accused.   Jaw clenched, teeth grinding...face twisted in a scowl.

But, with my next deep inhale, I remember the countless friends who reached out to me in support; those who have poured so much love into me that my darkest days turned to light. You who are reading this - who cheer me on, encourage me and remind me that I'm never alone.  You bring me back to center.

And, with that, my jaw releases its tension, a space gives way between my teeth and my face softens as I drop to my knees in deepest gratitude that God has blessed me with the most amazing group of friends on the planet. I get up off my knees.

And, I stand....loved.

Chocolate Beginnings

I can’t seem to do it.   

It nags at me, consuming my thoughts, like an itch I can’t scratch.  I’ve tried willing it back into existence by making Face Book posts announcing to the world that I’m “officially back”.  But, in reality I’m not back.  I can’t seem to get my Isagenix business running again.  It’s frustrating because I felt unstoppable not that long ago; my momentum was strong and I loved helping friends realize their goals.

But when Aaron took his life, my nutritional business took a back seat.  As much as I try to put it back in the driver’s seat, I’m still looking at it through the rear view mirror and it keeps getting farther and farther away.  So, when I explained this to my counselor and admitted that I still want to work at least part time, she gave me homework:

“...write down three things you're most passionate about ~ don’t worry if they’re silly.  When you do what you love, it won’t be a struggle and it won't feel like work.” 

It only took me 3 seconds to write the first three things that came to mind:

1. Motorcycles
2. Fitness
3. Chocolate  

I know number 2 and 3 are at odds but admittedly, I have a small piece of dark chocolate every single day.  There were times in my life where I entertained the idea of learning how to make chocolate - my love for it runs that deep.  I’d marry chocolate if I could.

So I sat with my list, the corners of my lips curled up in a slight smile as I sunk into a day dream of what it’d be like to run my own chocolate business...

...and, then suddenly my heart and mind were flooded with ideas that did not seem to be my own.  I can’t explain it any other way other than to say that I felt as if the inspiration came from God.  

I felt He placed on my heart some specific ideas and this inspiration catapulted me out of my chair toward my laptop where I commenced research on chocolatier schools.  I poured over the internet for over an hour to the point of overwhelm.  To clear my head, I took a break from research and went to check a Face Book message but naturally got sidetracked by a marshmallow chocolate dessert tutorial which I immediately shared on my wall.

The thread received some attention and one friend commented that her son, Jason, could easily make that dessert.  After making a few more comments using fancy chocolate lingo, I asked “Is Jason a chocolate-maker-type guy?”   

“Yes.  He’s a chocolatier and has his own business here in the Valley”.

“Well, that’s interesting”, I replied.  “I was literally just researching chocolatier schools...”   

“Well, if you’re interested, we’ll hire you and teach you how to make his chocolates.”

I stared at her response in total disbelief.  One minute I’m researching chocolatier schools.  The next, I’m getting offered a job as a chocolatier.

Craziness.

So what happened next?  

My friend suggested I meet Jason at the kitchen.  So I did.  That meeting took place the morning of February 22nd.  Jason invited me back to shadow in the kitchen which happened yesterday.  I couldn't wipe the smile off my face the entire time.  

How will this whole thing end?

I dunno.   I do know that Jason invited me back again and he let me borrow a Level 1 Chocolate book to study in the meantime.  I know better than to look too far ahead into the future because things don't always go as we imagine they will.  So I'll just keep taking one step at a time. And, right now my next step is to make myself an Isagenix shake (product consumption, definitely not an issue!) and crack open my chocolate book to study some more.  

Meanwhile, did you know that milk fat is very sensitive to saponification?  Me neither. Mostly because I didn't even know what saponification meant.  I had to look it up.  And, it's a Level 1 book.

But every successful chocolatier had to start from the beginning.

Helping to make ganache in the kitchen with Jason making another recipe behind me!

Chinks in the Armor

Dark clouds, grey skies and rain.  The last few days have felt like an unwanted mirror to the dark, damp places in my heart.  Frankly, I thought I was doing okay.  I mean, yeah, still a work in progress, no doubt.  But, what is it about a dark sky that rattles the doors to the places that you would rather just keep shut?

Meanwhile, a friend from church has been telling me about a Grief Share group since Aaron’s passing.  When he first mentioned it back in June of last year, I wished I had attended something like that when my mom passed in 2009.  But I wasn’t connected to a church back then.  Or to God for that matter.  When I look back, I wonder how I made it through my mom’s terminal diagnosis, my denial, her decline, some upsetting family dynamics and eventually her passing, all within three months.

I’m still not over the family stuff.  I should probably work through that at some point.

It wasn’t that I didn’t want to attend the Grief Share meeting.  It’s just...I was in therapy, after all...watching green lights flash back and forth on a super cool light bar for weeks on end.  And I blogged, like a real blogger there for a minute.  I was back in my own house, sleeping in my own room just eight days after Aaron died.  Granted, it’d take me forever to get to sleep because I’d open my eyes every 5 seconds but I still regained lost ground.

Alan continued to keep me updated about the meetings over the course of the last eight months.

I continued to not go.   

I felt my armor was holding up pretty well.  Sure, I had my moments and still do (all normal), but I was dressed for battle and holding my own against grief.

Then the clouds came.  The skies drew dark.  I turned on every light in the house but it didn’t help.   I was literally in denial about it being gloomy outside.  Then my cell phone chirped:

“Hey Lisa, just a reminder that Grief Share starts the 19th at 11:00.”    

“Thanks Alan!"

So yesterday, when church let out at 10:30, I avoided Grief Share by heading to Dunkin Donuts for some glazed deliciousness and a small coffee (Not to worry, I squeezed it into my macros)!  I tried to enjoy my snack without paying attention to the time on my cell phone.  But when it got to be 10:51 am, I knew if I was perhaps, possibly, probably not, but maybe, going to Grief Share, I had to leave 5 minutes ago.  I took one more sip of coffee, cleaned off my table and left, passing Ocotillo Rd. which would have taken me back to my house.   

I’ll just turn south on 14th St to head home....I’m not going to Grief Share.  

Then I passed 14th Street.  And, 12th.  And, then 7th.  And, eventually I found myself walking into the room where the Grief Share meeting was already taking place.

I was handed my own workbook, a Sharpie and some paperwork.  I finished the questionairre just in time for it to be my turn to introduce myself and share who I lost.

“Uhm.  Sorry I was late...I wasn't going to come....I was eating a glazed donut.”   Some laughed.  Some nodded their head in genuine empathetic agreement.  

I spent just 20 seconds explaining who I had lost and the manner of their passing and my throat felt like it was being clenched tightly by someone's fist the entire time.  Throughout the meeting, that knot would return when something that was said during the video would pierce my heart or when I'd see someone else in the room struggling with their grief.

It's easy to eventually place our grief on a shelf.  We get to a place where we're functioning so well, and we want to continue that way.   We dress ourselves in armor and walk around seemingly 'fixed' but grief has layers that beg to be peeled back.  If we don't address it, sometimes it takes the rain to come and the clouds to hold the sun hostage and keep it from shining....  

...and, that’s when you see it.  

When there isn't any light reflecting so brightly off the armor, you see the chink.  It was always there.  And, it always will be.  It's just eventually it won't be so noticeable.  And, with all the work I've done so far, my armor still looks pretty solid.

But, yeah I'll possibly, perhaps, most likely continue on with the Grief Share 13-week series. I've always said grief can't be ignored (not when it's cloudy anyway).   And truly it's there to serve me, not to do battle with me.  It's there to remind me that perhaps I have some chinks to address; another layer I need to strip away.

Regardless that I've made the decision to again partner with grief and see what comes up this time around, rather than to try to fight it back, I'm still sporting my suit of armor.  It's kinda badass.  Sure, on dark cloudy days it's a little dull but when the sun is shining, and I have a feeling that even when I'm indoors attending Grief Share, the armor relects the Light beautifully.

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.