Two Years Down - The Rest Of My Life To Go

This post is a reflection on my personal experience and I, myself, am the intended audience. I'm concerned that the first few sentences will seem morose or attention seeking, but that is not the case at all. I share these things in this way because I believe they may help someone who knows exactly what I mean. Someone who will look at the words and think to themselves, "yeah, that's a good way to express how I feel" 

A person who has been through what I've been through probably won't need this explanation, but since a ton of my friends and family read this stuff, I just want to make sure you all know that I'm fine. I'm not depressed and most of the time, I'm not even all that sad. 

We had so much fun together.

The woman in this picture died 2 years ago. The man in this picture took his last breath a little after 4 in the afternoon on June 13, 2015. In that single moment, she too ceased to exist.

I know this because I have been walking around in her body for the past two years.

At first, I tried my best to impersonate her. I thought if I could act just like her, she would recover - like one might recover from illness. I thought I could eventually return her to a previous state of wellbeing. As it turns out, it doesn't work that way.

I think of the time when Brian was alive as my past life. I even talk about it that way sometimes. His death is a milestone event, like graduation or marriage. It's a life-changing, identity-altering, priority-shifting experience and the only way for the next phase of life to be successful is to let go of the previous phase, accept the inevitable changes and embrace the future with hope.

Or something.

I'm still working on it.

Some days (like today), I'm zombie Tricia - the animated corpse of the person I once was. Hungry for the past, I shuffle around with no real purpose. I feed on memories and emotion and do my best to make it to tomorrow without destroying the people around me or getting my own brains bashed in.

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With that said, I thought it might be a good idea to reflect on some of the positive changes that have happened in my 2nd year of life without Brian.

1. Started (and stopped) dating - This has been super awkward and uncomfortable and I'm choosing to opt out for now, but I've learned a ton about myself in the process so I count it as a win.
2. Changed jobs - Twice actually. The business I started didn't quite work out, but it was part of a natural progression towards the job I have now. The job I have now is fantastic. The people I work for are amazing and have made me feel like family. (A red-headed step child is family, right?*)
3. Got Baptised - If you've been following my writing, you'll know that I've struggled significantly to define my relationship with God. Getting baptized was an important declaration of faith and a major personal milestone.
4. Had a roommate - I learned a ton about myself from this experience. Most importantly, I learned that having a roommate is not a good solution for me. I also learned that (although I'm not super fond of confrontation)  I'm capable of having difficult conversations.
5. Went through the Eastmark Leadership class. This was a fantastic learning opportunity. I'm also proud of myself for not flaking out on it when things got tough for me in the last few months of the class.
6. Created Mesa-Gateway Connection magazine. It didn't work out, but it was a great experience and I learned a lot.

As I've said before, this was my montage year. Hopefully, year three will be a little less transitional.


*The red-headed step child thing was just a joke. :) I apologize to any red headed step children who might be reading this. 

June is the worst.

So here we are at June again. I don't care for June. Not one bit.

It seems like my emotions respond to the anniversaries, milestones and memories of Brian's passing even when I don't have a conscious recollection of the specifics of the date or event that triggers them. 

There are some obvious ones - his birthday in March, the day in late April when we received confirmation that the mass was, in fact, cancer and the day we first learned the word "cholangiocarcinoma" in early May. June includes the date we stopped treatment, the date of his passing and our wedding anniversary. 

Then there are the not so obvious triggers -- like the start of the NBA playoffs, mother's day, Eastmark Awesomefest, and the first Friday concerts. My brain has permanently tied these events to the memory of Brian's illness and death. 

This makes spring and early summer a really shitty time for me. 

I thought the firsts would be the worst and they were definitely tough. My 40th birthday was a little over a month after he died and it was BRUTAL. The first holiday season was pretty terrible too, but it wasn't the worst. I was prepared for those dates. I knew they were coming and that they would be tough. My friends, family, and church rallied around me to make sure I was supported. Those firsts were not easy, but they weren't the worst. 

The worst is the stuff that I didn't see coming. The sucker punch in the gut when I turn down the aisle in the grocery store and see that egg rolls are on sale and then realize there's no one else on the planet who knows why that's funny.  

The worst is the thousands of little paper cuts I get every day when someone says a joke he would have appreciated or when I accidentally put the cheese on a taco before the sour cream or when something is obnoxiously loud or when Tess goes swimming or when I realize that the good friend I'm talking to never even met him. 

It feels so fresh for me, but it's almost two years old now.  Life has gone on (as it does and should). For the most part, the people around me don't know anything about the person I was before this and the only thing they know of Brian is what I've told them. That's the worst. 

It's a bit of a catchphrase.