If it was an appropriate response.

If I could bring myself to do it.

If I could scream, I would scream at the top of my lungs:

“Why did this happen!”

“I want her back!” and

“I wish she had called me!”

If I could scream, I would scream until my throat hurt:

“Why didn’t any of you…any of us listen to her?!”

“Why didn’t you call her back or answer her messages?!” and

“Why didn’t anyone help her?!”

If I could scream, I would scream until I could barely breathe:

“This is not how it was supposed to end!”

“Stop being so selfish!” and

“I hate this so much!”

If I could scream, I would scream until I collapsed:

“She deserved better!”

“I will never be the same; we will never be same!” and

“This…hurts…so…much.”

It hurts so much.

If I could scream, I would scream.

I’m angry about so many things surrounding Erica’s death.

And maybe this is one of the steps in the grieving process; I don’t know.

But I’m angry.

And I’m probably going to take some heat for this blog entry, but I don’t care.

I’m angry.

I’m angry with my parents.

I’m angry with them for not doing a better job.

I’m angry with them for not preparing us better. And I’m angry that their parents didn’t prepare them better.

I’m angry that we were – for all intents and purposes – left to sort things out for ourselves. When we were young teenagers.

I’m particularly angry with my mother.

I’m angry with her for not listening.

I’m angry with her for putting other people before her daughters and son.

I’m angry with her for not trying harder.

And I’m angry with her for trying too hard and doing it the wrong way. Entirely the wrong way.

I’m angry that she didn’t care enough.

I’m angry with her for unloading her personal problems on me.

And I’m angry that she felt her problems, her stress, her whatever was more important; more relevant than ours.

I’m angry that our feelings didn’t matter to her. That she told us our feelings were wrong or that we didn’t have a right to feel the way we were feeling.

I’m angry that she has not taken any responsibility for what she did to us; for what she put us through.

I’m angry with myself.

I’m angry that I wasn’t a better sister to Erica.

I’m angry that I wasn’t a better friend to her.

I’m angry that I wasn’t more supportive.

I’m angry that I didn’t understand her well enough.

I’m angry that I didn’t do everything I could do to help her.

I’m angry that I left her alone.

I’m angry that I walked away from her.

And I’m angry at Erica.

There.

I said it.

I’m angry at her.

I’m angry that she was so difficult.

I’m angry that she was so stubborn.

I’m angry that she made the choices she did.

I’m angry that she wouldn’t listen.

I’m angry that she said and did such hurtful things.

I’m angry that she forced my hand so that I had to walk away from her.

I’m angry that she didn’t call me one last time.

I’m angry.

And probably a lot of my anger is irrational (that’s what anger is, isn’t it?) or misplaced or I’m overreacting or being selfish or unfair. I don’t know.

It is what it is.

I’m angry.

And I’m horribly, horribly sad.

I have no idea why.

But, when I see a mouse, I am basically this woman:

And the kids got to witness that today when we walked into the house after school, and I saw a mouse scurry into the shoe closet.

The frakking shoe closet!

Between the three of us, do you have any idea how many pairs of shoes we have in there? How many little hiding places there are for that mouse?

Fortunately, the kids jumped into action, because they are going to “save Mommy,” if it’s the last thing they do.

Z runs to the fridge to get some cheese, and M immediately starts emptying the closet of the shoes.

Z unwraps and starts tearing up cheese. With each piece he tears off, he waves it around in the air and says, “Smell this, little mouse? It’s dee-lish-ous! Come and get it….”

M is furiously removing every single shoe and before she tosses it into a bag – “so it will be safe from that mouse!” – she turns each one upside down and shakes it vigorously.

Finally, they locate the mouse.

(Of course, the entire time this is going on, I’m just standing by silently watching. What? They had the situation under control.)

When Z announces he’s found it, I jump onto the first of the two steps that lead into the living room (because what else was I going to do?), while he grabs a broom to gently coax it out of the closet.

Somehow, they manage to get the poor thing outside, all the while saying, “Mommy, why are you so scared of mice? Look how cute he is,” and “C’mon, little mousey mouse, it’s time to go back outside.”

Then, being the excellent mother that I am, as soon as they get it outside (“It’s okay, you can go outside in your socks, guys, really, it’s okay”), I close the door behind them and tell them through the door how wonderful they are, while also telling them to get the mouse further away from the house.

As Z begins to lay a trail of cheese for the mouse, M says, “This is crazy. I’m just going to pick him up.” So, she picks him up by his tail and walks to the grass and gently puts him down. Z gathers up all the cheese and goes and puts it beside the mouse.

They walk back to the door and I let them in and then start gushing about them being my heroes. Z – knowing he can play this for all it’s worth – says, “do we get anything for saving you from the mouse?”

“Of course you do! Want to go to Toys R Us?”

And here are my superheroes:

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Reblogged from undercoverrenaissance:

Coping, that is.

I mean, not well, anyway.

Jeez.

I don’t know what I’m saying. Or what I’m feeling. Or how to do this. Or when it will end.

I’ve been through some stuff. A lot of stuff. A lot of bad stuff. But this…. This is the most difficult thing ever. And I don’t know how to get through it. I mean, I know there is no “how.” Everyone’s “how” is different. It’s that – right now – I can’t imagine that I will get through it. I know I will, but I can’t imagine it.

It’s been three weeks today.

I’ll stop doing that eventually, right? The counting? I’ll stop counting the days, the weeks, the months?

I’ve barely been sleeping. And it’s all I want to do. Just sleep.

I’ve been terrible to the kids. Overreacting to the littlest things. I’ve been so terrible to them that,  last night, when Z said, “Mommy, I think we should just go and be with Daddy for a bit,” I could do nothing but agree. I started crying and I agreed. I felt horrible. He didn’t deserve the way I responded to him. He’s being a 7-year-old kid for goodness sake. But he was right. And, thankfully, my ex stepped up and took them for a few hours.

And I want to be around people, but I don’t want to be around people.

And I want to talk about Erica to someone who knew Erica, but they’re too wrapped up in their own stuff. And, then, I don’t know if that would really help at all, or if I just really want it to.

And I know there is no timeline for this.

And I know that everyone’s different; that every situation is different.

And I know that everything I’m feeling is normal.

I know all of that.

I just….

I don’t know.

I wish I didn’t.

Already?

I don’t know.

It’s too soon, right?

Too soon to think about moving on?

Too soon to say that we need to move on?

Too soon to say that we’re not moving on quickly enough?

I know it will happen eventually.

Wait.

Actually, I don’t know that, because I’ve never done this before.

I think it will happen eventually. Probably on its own. That day-by-day, it will just fade somehow. That the memories of Erica won’t be the first thing I think of when I wake up, or the last thing I think of before I go to sleep, and they won’t be what I dream about when I do sleep, or all I think about as I stare at the ceiling for hours when I can’t sleep. Eventually, that will slow down and then maybe stop.

Right now, I don’t know if I want it to stop. I don’t know if I want to stop thinking about her.

Right now, I don’t know how to move on. I don’t know that any of Erica’s family knows how to move on.

We all had challenging relationships with Erica.

Erica was…challenging.

Being Erica’s sister was a lot of work.

Being Erica’s parents was a lot of work.

But she was my sister and their daughter.

I know things about her that they don’t know.

I had experiences with her that they didn’t have.

They know things about her that I don’t know.

They had experiences with her that I didn’t have.

We are all who we are, in part, because of our relationships with Erica.

Whether it was good or not good, Erica helped to shape each of us.

Moving on after Erica is hard.

It’s so hard.

And I don’t want to.

Not yet.

I can’t.

“In these bodies we will live, in these bodies we will die
Where you invest your love, you invest your life.”

I had a lot of love invested in Erica. She knew that.

Having met with my parents for just a few minutes, she managed to describe Erica perfectly, including acknowledging her challenges.

As she spoke these words about Erica, I shook and wept and repeatedly nodded my head.

I would take nothing away from the grief that you feel today. I would not say to you that everything is all right, because it’s not – you know it, and I know it. It hurts, and we all know it will continue to hurt for some time. God made us so that we can be in relationship with Him and with one another, and when a relationship is lost we feel pain. You have lost a loved one – and it hurts.

And no wonder it hurts. I met with Erica’s parents for only a short time yesterday, but that’s all it took to convince me what a great girl she was. Like all of us, Erica had her struggles in life, but she had a unique inner strength too – one that enabled her to face even the most trying of times. The sort of pitfalls that might drag a person down only drove Erica to a renewed sense of purpose, not only to press on herself, but also to inspire others to overcome their challenges as well.

But while it’s true that Erica was resilient, that didn’t stop her from being a truly sensitive person, who genuinely cared about those around her (and not just her friends and family, whom she loved dearly, but everything around her, including her beloved pets). I think it’s fair to say that Erica was a self-proclaimed animal lover, and would care and provide for any animal in need, just as she would for any person in her life.

Erica’s love of animals had a recreational side to it as well, particularly through her passion for horseback riding. Such a hobby is common among free-spirited individuals like Erica, and I know firsthand the sense of freedom and exhilaration she must have felt on the back of a horse.

An artist herself, with an ear for music and a love of nature, Erica was one of those people who could find beauty in many places – even where others couldn’t. And I think that must be what enabled her to see within a person, their inner beauty, and not just the self that they portray to the world. She wasn’t about judging people, but about getting to know them for who they really are; she was about helping people, and putting a smile on their face (often thanks to her fantastic sense of humor and an unparalleled quick wit).

I can honestly say that I wish I could have met Erica, and my heart goes out to each one of you here today who have lost someone so unique and so special. And that’s precisely why I would not endeavor to take away your grief at this time. Grief is natural, and it’s to be expected with such an incredible loss. I would; however, like to offer a few words of comfort. In truth, I already have. Except they weren’t my own words, but those of Christ Himself – the ones we just read in our Gospel passage. I hope the words still ring in your ears, but just in case they don’t, I will read them to you again: “Let not your heart be troubled; believe in God, believe also in Me. In My Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, I would have told you; for I go to prepare a place for you. And I will come again, and receive you to Myself; that where I am, there you may be also.” And it is in these words of Jesus that I find two particular thoughts of comfort I’d like to offer you this day:

The first is that even in the darkest of times, God promises us peace: “Let not you heart be troubled.” I know that today is a mourning for each of you, and peace seems to be the furthest thing from your heart at this time. Yet even in the midst of this, if you believe the words we just read God can lead you toward some sense of peace, which truly does pass all understanding. Consider what he’s told us: That He is here with us at this very time. The 23rd Psalm said that, didn’t it? “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil, for thou art with me.” God is with us, even in the darkest of times. But it gets better than that. In fact, it builds on that:

The second thought of comfort is that God assures us He has prepared a place for us. Remember Christ’s words, “I go to prepare a place for you.” And what a place that must be. Jesus tells us that this place is in the Father’s house, so we know this place he’s talking about is in heaven- recall the way Jesus taught us to pray, “Our Father, Who art in heaven.” It also tells us that there are many rooms – a room for Erica, a room for you, a room for me. Isn’t that a comforting thought? God has prepared and reserved a place for us – a place with Him, and with one another.

And these two promises together, for me at least, are about the most comforting thing there is to hear at a time like this. Because God tells us that He is both with us here in this place right now, and also with Erica at this very moment. This is comforting because it means that through God we will always remain connected to the ones we love but see no longer.

Believe in Him, believe in His words of comfort, and let this bring you some sense of peace.

Today, many are sad, many are confused, and some are feeling very alone. But all may take comfort in knowing that Erica feels none of these things. And not because she feels nothing, but because she feels the opposite. Erica is not sad, for in heaven, she is in the most joyful place. She is not lost or confused, for what confounds us all in life makes perfect sense to her now. And she is not alone, for she is with God and with others who arrived there ahead of her.

It may feel this way to us now, but Erica is not gone. Erica has simply gone ahead. Ahead of us to a place where we will all go, if we allow Christ to lead us there. And if we do we will all, one day, be together again. Together with Erica all the others who have gone ahead of us, and with all of those who will follow. We will all be together again. Together in the presence of our God, in the heavenly home His Son has prepared for us all. Thanks be to God.

Amen.

Shortly after I learned of my sister’s death, I knew I had to get a tattoo with that same text. I also wanted to add some artwork to it that would be meaningful to both of us.

I knew I wanted the infinity sign with the text.

With some help from a very good friend, I came up with the rough design in the pictures below.

The original sketch had flowers, but I had the tattoo artist change the flowers to purple butterflies, because Erica loved butterflies, and we both love purple.

So, here it is…in memory of Erica.

I can’t burn it.

I bought a new dress for Erica’s funeral.

Erica’s. Funeral.

I was sure that whatever dress I wore, I would burn it afterwards.

So, I bought a new dress. I spent $40 and bought a new dress that I would burn after the funeral.

I couldn’t imagine ever wearing the dress again, because it would always be that dress.

The dress that I wore when I had to say ‘goodbye’ to my sister forever. The dress I wore when my knees buckled when they put her urn in the car to drive her to the cemetery. The dress I wore when I carried her urn to her grave. The dress I wore when I couldn’t put the urn down. The dress I wore when I went back to the urn to press my hand against it one last time, and then another last time, and another last time.

I feel like I will have nothing at all left of Erica if I burn the dress. I know that’s silly and irrational, but it’s how I feel.

I still can’t imagine that I will ever wear the dress again, but I also can’t imagine burning it.

I was planning to burn the dress.

I can’t burn the dress.

“Exactly.”

Except, no, they don’t.

I know that it’s just something people say, but I’ve never been a fan of it.

How you can you know “exactly” how I feel, when I don’t even know?

How can you know “exactly” how I feel, when I can’t even begin to articulate it?

How can you know “exactly” how I feel when the loss you’ve experienced hasn’t even been the loss of a younger sibling? Or of a sister? Or of a woman you had a difficult relationship with? Or of someone who had addiction and mental health issues? Or any of that? Or none of that?

You can’t.

The other night, I said to my dad, “I know it’s completely different for you than me…losing a daughter and losing a younger sister is just different.” We lost the same person. But it’s a different loss for each of us.

It’s just different.

And you’re not me.

And you didn’t know Erica.

And you don’t know either the joy or the pain that she and I shared, or that we caused for each other.

In a recent blog, I said that it felt like someone was actually crushing my heart. And I mean with their bare hands.

The other morning, I told a dear friend that I feel like my grief is going to swallow me up.

Another friend told me that, when jazz musician Charlie Parker died, his best friend Dizzy Gillespie said it felt like “the other half of his heartbeat” was gone.

All of those things describe how I’m feeling right now.

And none of those things describe how I’m feeling right now.

This is far and away the worst pain I’ve ever felt in my life.

I feel like Erica took a piece of me with her. And I want that piece back. I want to feel whole again.

No one knows “exactly” how I feel.

None of us can ever know “exactly” how someone else feels.