Tuesday, October 28, 2014
Friday, February 14, 2014
losing jasmine - 10 years later
Today is the 10th anniversary of Jasmine's death. I am not in the place to go into details for anyone who doesn't know them, not today, and not after the last 24 hours. It's a joyous kind of place, though, just too emotional for work. If you'd like to hear her story sometime, let me know. I can share some things I've written, or I'm always happy to talk about it. We keep Jasmine with us by telling her stories.
What I do want to share is that she came to visit last night AND I had a no-way-it-was-coincidence experience this morning. Last night I went to bed at about 9:30. It's been a long week, and I'm tired, and ... on the nights Jeff works, I just tend to go to bed earlier. I'd been asleep for a bit when I sensed what I thought was Nina - definitely knew it was my daughter, and she came in the dark to Jeff's side of the bed and slid in. I remember the height and the lightness of her face in the dark.
I said, "What's wrong, honey?"
Nina rarely gets into bed with me in the middle of the night, and when she does, it's related to a nightmare.
There was no answer.
"Nina?"
No answer.
I reached over and turned on the light. There was no one there. Frankly, I was a little freaked out for a few minutes. I KNEW someone had gotten into bed with me, and I knew it was a little girl who I instinctively identified as my own. I turned the light back off and laid there for a few minutes before it occurred to me that it might have been Jasmine. She was, after all, the same age Nina is now when she died, 10. Nina may be a little taller, but in the dark (and with my crappy eyesight) that's hard to judge. And after I turned the light on, I couldn't feel the presence at all.
Maybe I scared her away. Or maybe she just couldn't stay long. But I was convinced enough that it was Jasmine to tell Jeff about it when he got home in the middle of the night.
I had to get up this morning and take something out to our CTE campus. I was kind of in a rush and didn't stop to think too much about the date or the night before until I was in the car on my way to the campus. When I got there, I wasn't sure where to go, so I asked a woman in the parking lot who had also just arrived.
As she drew near the car, she saw the "In loving memory of..." sticker that we still have on the back of the Jeep for my dad. We get asked about it a lot up here - these stickers aren't nearly as common here as they are in Arizona and SoCal. She said, "Oh. Who's that?"
"My dad," I said.
"Where'd you get it?"
So I told her that pretty much any shop that does those family stickers and so on could do it, you just needed to ask for it. She smiled and said, "I'd like one. I lost my son in 2008."
I was stunned for a minute and I'm sure I looked like an idiot when I stared at her. In fact, she probably thought I was having the same reaction most people have when you deliver that bit of news - stunned silence and a frantic internal search for the right thing to say. Well, I had the stunned silence, but it was more because of the day and the timing.
"I lost my daughter 10 years ago today," I blurted.
She immediately hugged me, a long hug and one of empathy and solidarity. When we pulled back, we smiled a smile you can only understand if you've lost a child. "How old was your son?" I asked.
"He'd be 25."
I said, "Jasmine would be turning 21 in June."
And we walked off practically arm-in-arm, excited to talk to someone who understands what it's like. I didn't have time to really connect, but we agreed the meeting wasn't accidental. She works on the same campus I do, and we'll be doing lunch very, very soon.
I prayed on Imbolc, or Brighid's Day, to feel reconnected with my dad and my daughter. This can't be an accident.
What I do want to share is that she came to visit last night AND I had a no-way-it-was-coincidence experience this morning. Last night I went to bed at about 9:30. It's been a long week, and I'm tired, and ... on the nights Jeff works, I just tend to go to bed earlier. I'd been asleep for a bit when I sensed what I thought was Nina - definitely knew it was my daughter, and she came in the dark to Jeff's side of the bed and slid in. I remember the height and the lightness of her face in the dark.
I said, "What's wrong, honey?"
Nina rarely gets into bed with me in the middle of the night, and when she does, it's related to a nightmare.
There was no answer.
"Nina?"
No answer.
I reached over and turned on the light. There was no one there. Frankly, I was a little freaked out for a few minutes. I KNEW someone had gotten into bed with me, and I knew it was a little girl who I instinctively identified as my own. I turned the light back off and laid there for a few minutes before it occurred to me that it might have been Jasmine. She was, after all, the same age Nina is now when she died, 10. Nina may be a little taller, but in the dark (and with my crappy eyesight) that's hard to judge. And after I turned the light on, I couldn't feel the presence at all.
Maybe I scared her away. Or maybe she just couldn't stay long. But I was convinced enough that it was Jasmine to tell Jeff about it when he got home in the middle of the night.
I had to get up this morning and take something out to our CTE campus. I was kind of in a rush and didn't stop to think too much about the date or the night before until I was in the car on my way to the campus. When I got there, I wasn't sure where to go, so I asked a woman in the parking lot who had also just arrived.
As she drew near the car, she saw the "In loving memory of..." sticker that we still have on the back of the Jeep for my dad. We get asked about it a lot up here - these stickers aren't nearly as common here as they are in Arizona and SoCal. She said, "Oh. Who's that?"
"My dad," I said.
"Where'd you get it?"
So I told her that pretty much any shop that does those family stickers and so on could do it, you just needed to ask for it. She smiled and said, "I'd like one. I lost my son in 2008."
I was stunned for a minute and I'm sure I looked like an idiot when I stared at her. In fact, she probably thought I was having the same reaction most people have when you deliver that bit of news - stunned silence and a frantic internal search for the right thing to say. Well, I had the stunned silence, but it was more because of the day and the timing.
"I lost my daughter 10 years ago today," I blurted.
She immediately hugged me, a long hug and one of empathy and solidarity. When we pulled back, we smiled a smile you can only understand if you've lost a child. "How old was your son?" I asked.
"He'd be 25."
I said, "Jasmine would be turning 21 in June."
And we walked off practically arm-in-arm, excited to talk to someone who understands what it's like. I didn't have time to really connect, but we agreed the meeting wasn't accidental. She works on the same campus I do, and we'll be doing lunch very, very soon.
I prayed on Imbolc, or Brighid's Day, to feel reconnected with my dad and my daughter. This can't be an accident.
Friday, January 17, 2014
fleeting equilibrium
You know how sometimes you have that moment of knowing you're in exactly the right place you need to be right now, surrounded by exactly the right people and doing exactly the right things (even if they're difficult)? That's how I'm feeling right now.
Being social is still a challenge, but one that's lessening with the adjustment in my brain fixers. Given that my job kind of requires this, that's a good thing. Given too that my psyche kind of requires this, or at least small amounts of this, it's a good thing.
There isn't an end in sight ever, really, and I suppose that when there is, then it's time to call it a day for this lifetime, but at least I'm back to feeling some kind of equilibrium. Writing always helps. I should tattoo that on my hands.
Being social is still a challenge, but one that's lessening with the adjustment in my brain fixers. Given that my job kind of requires this, that's a good thing. Given too that my psyche kind of requires this, or at least small amounts of this, it's a good thing.
There isn't an end in sight ever, really, and I suppose that when there is, then it's time to call it a day for this lifetime, but at least I'm back to feeling some kind of equilibrium. Writing always helps. I should tattoo that on my hands.
Thursday, January 9, 2014
oh happy day
Not crazy, over-the-top, unreal happy, but pleasant and not in the depths of depression happy, which is maybe more like content, but either way, it's due to getting the dose right on my meds. Thank. The. Gods.
One of the things I hate the most about depression is how it warps my view of myself and how I perceive others to be reacting to me. When I'm in the dark depths, I am convinced that everyone can see all my flaws just like I can, that they all know what an imposter and faker I am, and that they're hating me for it. I can FEEL it, and sometimes my ear matrixes sound so that I can almost hear it. Even though I know what I'm feeling and perceiving isn't real and isn't permanent, it doesn't take away the horribleness of that feeling. Sorry mindfulness and positive-psych-pushers. It's all well and good to cognate, but the underlying feeling of SHITE is still there, and still sucks, and still needs medication (for some of us) to go away.
This needs to be the time I don't shame myself for taking medication, and in a few more weeks, when I feel like sometime approaching normal and my perception of myself and the people around me is something approaching real, I need to not try to convince myself that I really don't need serotonin. Because I do. And that's just how it is.
Anyhoo, I thought an update was due, so here 'tis. I'm not out of the dark yet, but I'm in the light gray, at least, and that's just fine.
One of the things I hate the most about depression is how it warps my view of myself and how I perceive others to be reacting to me. When I'm in the dark depths, I am convinced that everyone can see all my flaws just like I can, that they all know what an imposter and faker I am, and that they're hating me for it. I can FEEL it, and sometimes my ear matrixes sound so that I can almost hear it. Even though I know what I'm feeling and perceiving isn't real and isn't permanent, it doesn't take away the horribleness of that feeling. Sorry mindfulness and positive-psych-pushers. It's all well and good to cognate, but the underlying feeling of SHITE is still there, and still sucks, and still needs medication (for some of us) to go away.
This needs to be the time I don't shame myself for taking medication, and in a few more weeks, when I feel like sometime approaching normal and my perception of myself and the people around me is something approaching real, I need to not try to convince myself that I really don't need serotonin. Because I do. And that's just how it is.
Anyhoo, I thought an update was due, so here 'tis. I'm not out of the dark yet, but I'm in the light gray, at least, and that's just fine.
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