Archive for the ‘death’ Category

Today, I sat down and cried for what I have lost.

I sat and cried until snot covered my face and my body was curled into a ball on the floor while both dogs snuffled around me, trying to see what was wrong. I cried until the sobbing turned into dry heaves, and then I cried some more.

I cried because I wanted it to all be new again.

I wanted me to be new again. To be whole again.

Like I was here, like I had just arrived.

I cried because I know I can’t.

I cried because I’m selfish.

I cried because I want my husband.

I cried because I want my daddy.

I cried because I want all of the people back in my life who loved me and made me feel safe.

I cried because I felt so alone.

I want the ones that are still here to be here for me, to tell me they love me and no matter what they always will, no matter the family drama or stupid arguments over a damn fig tree or who did what to who or boathouses or any of the stupid shit that doesn’t matter.

I cried because I wanted my life back.

I cried myself to sleep and woke up on the floor with two terriers on either side, watching me with their big eyes, their tails cautiously wagging to and fro, as if testing the winds of my emotions.

I hugged them until the energy from their bodies give me a reason to get off of the floor.

Then I fixed myself a drink and went and sat out on the deck.

And as I sat there and the images of my life started to run through my head, I started to cry again.

Because I was thankful.

Thankful that I was born to an amazing family.

Thankful that I was given a life and a childhood that so many only dream of.

Thankful for the lifelong friends I have from Singapore and Mississippi and from my life now.

Thankful to have had Gregory for the time that I did, and for the love and the fun and the memories we made.

Thankful that I am healthy, have a job, a home, two cars, friends and people who love me.

Thankful that somehow I gathered the strength I never knew I had to get through this, one step at a time.

Thankful to be here.

Thankful to be me.

Even through it all, I’m still me. With the same goofy grin and dark scary hair I had in that picture up there. Older, not so sure about wiser.

Bruised, scarred and hurting.

A conundrum.

Clawing my way out of bed one day, bounding out and ready to take on the world the next.

But never giving up. Never.

I wasn’t made that way.

And for that, I am especially thankful.

Last year at this time I would rather have spent 48 hours watching Twilight and listening to Miley Cyrus than to go to the lake and put on a happy face in front of the family and friends that congregate there for the Fourth. (run on sentence much?)

This year, I’m actually looking forward to it. Going to the lake, not the other part.

Like I said yesterday, roller coaster emotions. Last year I was clothed in the black veil of meh over G’s death, and though I took every chance I could to spend time with my daddy, I knew each time was once closer to the last. I think that while the agonizing wait for death propelled me to be with him it also somewhat pushed me away, because I couldn’t stand to see him suffer. It’s odd how things come full circle because he reacted the same way when my Granny was being taken away from us by dementia. This year I have to be strong not only for me, but for my mother. It will be another milestone for her without my dad. The Fourth is a big deal around our house, and anytime you live on the main drag of a huge lake, it should be. We’ll have a bit of the work taken off by my awesome cousins who are also hosting a shin-dig at their place, letting my mom relax and just enjoy time with the family. When we aren’t there she and I will cook, entertain family and friends, lay in the pool and take boat rides. We’ll smile and wave at the folks we know as they go by in the various boat parades. And I hope we’ll make more happy memories.

I’ve decided as such that I am Declaring My Independence from Dr. Lecter and any and all Grief Monsters that may try and impede on my celebration of good times and noodle salad.

Begone annoying grief bugs, no room for you in my life the next few days. I shall swat you with my electronic bug zapper and shoo you away with blasts from my always half full cup of whatever the hell I feel like drinking. I will try and be successful in having a good time and make that happen, snot filled sobs of grief and despair be damned. You may ambush me on another day, another time, but not in the next four. I refuse to give in to you. I must protect mah house. (that’s an Under Armour reference for you non-sporty folk)

And don’t go bothering anyone else either. Why don’t you take a long walk off a short pier? Stick a bottle rocket in your tailpipe and light ‘er up. Whatever you do, leave me alone. And my friends and family too.

We have memories to look back on, and more to make …….

**DISCLAIMER – all stories in this series are true. The names of suspects, victims and officers involved have been changed to protect their identity and to keep them from suing my ass. The opinions expressed are mine only, and do not reflect the policies or opinions of any of my former employers or co-workers.**

In my former life as a Criminal Investigator, I got to wear plainclothes to work and on call out duty. Naturally, being a woman, I was all about the clothes and shoes that I could wear to work. It had to be comfortable but still cop-like, in case I had to fight someone or go through a door or something like that. I also couldn’t run around in heels or strappy sandals, as much as I would have liked to. My footwear of choice was usually a pair of comfortable Timberlands or something dressy but practical for court. Then of course there were the Hi-Tecs in case I ever had to be in uniform or tactical gear or whatever.

My favorite shoes however, were always Doc Martens. I think I had about six or seven different pairs that I tromped around in – black/brown/tan/hi-cut/lo-cut whatever, if they were Docs, I had them.

There was one problem with my Doc’s though.

Every time I wore a new pair, someone ended up dead.

For real.

The first time, I had some nice tan mid ankle ones with a really thick sole that I was sporting with some new jeans and I’m sure some prepped out shirt. I tried to balance my wardrobe between preppy and punk – prunky?

Anyway, that day some young man decided to put a Russian assault rifle under his chin and pull the trigger. I’m glad I had them on, because that’s not a mess you want to be flitting around in wearing nothing less than nuclear grade soles.

The next time, I was wearing my new black hi-lace Docs around and had just washed them off after walking around at the stockyard in poop and dust. Then we got a call of a drowning in a  pond. Needless to say, they got washed again. Several times that day.

Next ? Brown low classic style Doc’s. The poor soul who drew the Doc Marten death card that day was murdered by some wayward youth and had sat in an un-airconditioned mobile home for a few days before anyone found him. In July. He wasn’t only a stinker, he was a slider. You probably don’t want the full on definition for a slider, but let’s just say that your skin starts to break down after a few days and if someone tries to move you it will, well….never mind.

Finally, the last ones I can remember were my black classic low-riders. Wreck on the interstate. Seven people in a car meant for four. Not one of them had on a seat belt. Three were DRT (dead right there), and four were on their way to the hospital on a wing and a prayer. One of the poor dearly departed was so badly mangled on his way out of the jagged metal mess that he left his ear in the emergency lane. Which promptly got stuck to the bottom of my shoe when I accidentally stepped on it. Prompting several weeks of officers and medics shouting at my shoes “Hey hey can ya hear me?” ….. emergency personnel have a sick,twisted sense of humor. It keeps them from going absolutely insane.

I still have all of those Doc Martens. They sit high on a shelf in a closet full of my things at the lake house.

One day maybe I’ll wear them again, but with all of the stuff going on in my life these last 15 months?

I’m kind of afraid to.