Full Circle.

I've intentionally not updated for a while now, which should come as no surprise to anyone.

I'm actually planning to shut the blog down sooner rather than later but for some reason, I just feel like this post needs to be written. It's too much work keeping this up anymore and quite frankly, I'm ready to focus my energy on other things. On average, it takes me an hour to write one post because I'm such a perfectionist when it comes to putting my thoughts into words. It's not worth it anymore... that's an hour I could be spending with my kids, or Mike, on myself or getting something done. So more than likely, this will be my last post.

Things have been different lately. The last time I wrote about me, I wasn't in a good place. The first three months of the year were pretty ruthless on this heart of mine. I sunk to the lowest of lows, missing my Dad and coming to grips with the reality of our situation. During those three months, my whole world changed all over again. It seriously felt as though the foundation I had been standing on for the past year (and in some cases, even longer) was crumbling below me. Mike and I had some of our darkest of days as a married couple, I was a mess of a mother, a mess of an employee, a mess of a daughter & sister. My world was in shambles.

In April, I received a letter from my Dad. There wasn't anything special to it, it just was what it was. I could see the way in which he was trying to garnish my attention and sympathy, discussing the dramatics that goes on around him on a daily basis. After a few weeks, I mailed him back but kept my letter short and to the point: I miss the man you were, not the man you have been... Liana and Lukas are doing well.... The end.

My hope all this time was that he would see that I was trying so desperately to extend an olive branch to him. I was praying that one day, he'd let down that wall he had built so high and actually let me in. He'd see that while I loved him, I wasn't going to let him hurt me again. I hoped that he would eventually see my actions as those done in love, not out of hate. I even hoped that maybe, just maybe, someday he'd take ownership of what he did and apologize for how he had devastated us all.

May 6th, I got a second letter. It started out well enough, talking about how he misses Liana and Lukas and how he can't stand the thought of missing out on their lives. But before I knew it, "bad dad" began to rear his ugly head again. He blamed me for everything that had happened, accused me of trying to steal everything he had, told me that I never gave him the "benefit of the doubt" and swore up and down that none of this had been premeditated (which is such a joke). He told me not to send any more care packages (we had sent one in March) because he's "better off without them". Essentially, he told me never to try and have contact with him again and then proceeded to remind me of his wishes for funeral plans.

Needless to say, I was crushed one last and final time. How could he treat me this way? I was trying to take care of him the only way I knew how but instead of seeing the good I was trying to do, he only saw my actions as evil.

Oh the irony.

I wallowed for a while after that last letter came. Then a few days later I realized something that probably seems so simple to the rest of you.... He's just not worth it.

I wish he was. I wish I had a dad that loved me selflessly. But the fact of the matter is, I don't. My father is one of the most selfish and self-absorbed people I've ever met.

And yes, it pains me to say that. But the truth so often hurts, doesn't it?

Since then, I've been better. I haven't thought much about him because it doesn't do me any good. I've let go a lot of the anger and grief I had been holding on to. There's been so many big changes in my life so far in 2014, both dealing with the loss of my dad and others I had been close to. There's been a lot of loss.

But for the first time in a long time, I feel good. I feel like I've made it through the storm and the sun is finally shining again. My heart feels lighter. I look back and see this past year as a test- one which I've passed. My life doesn't feel devoid of anything or anyone.... it feels like this is exactly the way it's supposed to be. I look at my friendships and relationships differently now... these are the people that stood by my side through my darkest of days and came out on the other side with me. They're the ones that held me up when I felt like I was falling. There were people who I thought would be at the finish line with me but weren't. However, I'm at peace knowing that's the way it was supposed to be.

After nearly 15 months, I hope that I am free from my grief... at least for a long while. (I still dread the day I get a telephone call from my sister saying that something is wrong or that he's gone.)

Our day-to-day life is busier than ever. I find so much joy in watching my kids grow and trying to embrace the time we have together as I know it's fleeting. We continue to make our house a home and are *thisclose* to being done with all of our big outside projects. (We finally have a beach... with sand!) Mike and I are in a good place again and I'm so thankful that God has blessed me with such a good man and that my kids will never have to feel pain at the hands of their father.

The bottom line?

I feel happy and blessed.

And even though I haven't always understood His plan for me, I find comfort in knowing that He has one. Probably a good one too. :)

This place I'm in.

The past couple of weeks have been extremely hard on me. But really, I haven't been in a good place since everything happened in December.

I foolishly thought that once the legal issues were resolved, life would get easier. While in some (major) respects it has, in many other respects it's gotten a lot harder. 

Mike said to me today (in the midst of one of my many recent breakdowns) something along the lines of, "I, along with so many others, saw you get through the past year and stay so strong. Once everything was over, I figured you would be okay but I'm realizing now that it's only gotten harder." He said some other brilliant words following that, which I of course, cannot remember.

It's the truth. The floodgate of emotions has been opened. I've been so hurt by everything that happened last year and I had to get through it before I was able to finally turn around and look at it. 

The problem is, because I was "strong" last year, people in my life are now surprised by my "weakness". They don't know how to handle it. They don't know how to handle me and all this emotional "baggage" I come along with.

And I know I'm not the only one in my family to feel this way. My mom is really struggling too as people expect her to move on with life and she has days where that's just not an easy task to do.

How do you "move on" with life when you're stuck in the thick, black mud that's called grief?

Feeling so hurt, disappointed, and disposable to my own father has made me all the more aware of the other "hurts" in my life. Right now, it feels like I'm full of gaping wounds and I have been for weeks. If you've been in close proximity to me recently, you've either seen the pain seeping out of me or I've pushed you away so that you don't.  Black or white, right or wrong, that's the way it's been. The people I've pushed away are the ones that have hurt me the most. It's not that I don't love them... in fact, it's probably the opposite. I'm just tired of putting myself out there and my heart on the line to people, who like my dad, see me as "disposable". 

It's a snowball effect. Mike even said it today, "All these feelings about your dad have brought up feelings about me. All your feelings about me have brought up feelings about _____."

Simply put, this place I'm in right now is not a good one. If I'm to be honest, it's sad, dark, full of tears and anger. One minute I'm okay, the next I'm far from it. I'm grieving for the totality of this experience.... what happened, what I lost, and what I continue to lose.

The one thing that's reassuring though is this... I can see the sun shining and every day, I wake up wanting to be happy. I wake up wanting to focus on the relationships that have run the gauntlet with me and allowed me to feel loved, respected and appreciated. I still look forward to things, like Spring which is hopefully just around the corner and Liana's upcoming 5th birthday (!!!). I know that some relationships will become stronger as a result of this while others might fade and I know I'll be okay regardless of which way they fall (though I do hope that they all remain intact as I don't want to lose anyone else from my life). My heart may be hurting deeply but my head is strong as I've never been so aware of how I'm feeling and why. 

I still have hope and I'm desperately clinging to it. If I didn't have hope at this point, I'd be far worse off. I find myself talking to God... something I haven't done often in my life or in a long while. This is always a good thing but also signifies to me just how much I'm hurting.

So, I have one request.... if you pray, will you pray for me? I don't ask that easily but I know that right now, my heart needs it in the worst way. I need to find a way through this pain. And pray for my mom and Mike too? That my mom finds her way through her own pain and that Mike and I can find a way to reconnect emotionally.

Before I go, I want/need to say that I debated about writing this post for weeks but after my conversation with Mike today I realized that it might be better if people understood why I've been feeling sad lately. I also wanted people to understand for my whole family's sake that just because the events of last year are over, the emotions left in the wake of everything are far from gone.We're still full of hurt... maybe more so now than ever before. ♥

And again.... I'm sorry for another sad post. 

One year.

**Trigger warning.... Read with caution. Contains graphic language and images.**

Yesterday was the one year anniversary of my mom's trauma.

Today is the one year anniversary for everyone else's trauma that was present for the aftermath.

Yesterday, I made it through the day feeling okay. I credit a lot of that with talking to my mom in the morning and realizing that the 15th wasn't about me... it was about her. What she went though, what she fought for, what she survived. While I grieved what he did to her that night, I celebrated the fact that she made it and she didn't give up even when it took everything in her not to (and a guardian angel by her side).

Last night, I thought about writing but actually felt relief when I realized I didn't need to. My heart didn't feel ready to explode... which is always a good thing. But then as the hours crept closer to bedtime, I became more uneasy. I went to bed with this feeling of anxiety that's only been matched a few other times this past year. Thankfully, I was too tired to remain awake for long.

No dreams haunted me.

But then I woke up.

And the flashbacks started. The memories are still SO vivid. I had them yesterday and I have them often but today, they're too much.

For whatever reason, my first flashback this morning was of me begging and pleading with the hospital staff to find a pair of cutters to cut her wedding ring off. I know, it seemed odd to me too. But seeing that ring on her hand when she looked bloodied and beaten mercilessly by the very man who gave it to her was all kinds of wrong. That ring was a sign of the vows they made to each other... the vows she tried to keep for more than 33 years... and the vows he so easily threw away. That ring was the only part of my dad sitting in that hospital room with us and it needed to go. It didn't belong any more just as much as he didn't belong anymore.

After hours of searching, they found the ring cutter somewhere in the depths of the ER. The plastic surgery team that was caring for her wounds all surrounded her bed right along with us and sliced the gold band in half. That was an emotional moment for each and every one of us, family or not. A moment of great significance... the moment in which we officially let go of their marriage. It had been tainted before but now, now it was destroyed. There was nothing left and with the ring gone, that seemed more official.

I flash back to making the phone calls to our aunt and uncle... at 3 am that morning... and telling them that they needed to come to Grand Rapids right away. I remember just NEEDING them there. I may have been a grown adult but in that moment I needed someone to take care of me as I took care of her. I remember my uncle walking into the ER and just swallowing me up in his arms where I promptly lost it. Tears don't come often to me but in that moment, they were plenty.

I flash back to listening to my mom's account of what happened that night as Detective Glover interviewed her. Because I knew the crime scene so well, her words played like a movie in my head. I remember thinking, "How could anyone, let alone my own father, have been capable of these actions?" Taking a crow bar and then a hammer to a persons head... for hours on end... well, there's no words for how horrible that is.

I remember how much pain she was in both when she was in the ER and later when she was on 4 North. I remember the moaning, the grimacing. I remember being able to smell her blood from down the hall in the ER and then the smell of dried blood just engulfing her after she had moved upstairs. I remember sitting beside her in that hospital room and looking into her ear and seeing no skin, just dried, flaky blood. Her head and hair were soaked in it and because it hurt too much, the nurses weren't able to wash it off that day. She hurt in all the obvious places and some of the not so obvious ones.... Where she wasn't covered in blood, she was covered in bruises from where he sat on her and pinned her down.

I remember falling silent to all but two of my friends despite the fact that everyone knew something was terribly wrong. How do you say, "My dad tried to kill my mom last night and then himself?" It was easier to just go quiet... and it may have been the one and only time in my life that I was left speechless. There just wasn't any way of explaining the gravity of the situation via a telephone call. Plus, what were they going to say? How could they possibly make this feel any better? Talking to my friends would have just put both of us in an uncomfortable spot as we both knew there was nothing they could say to make this any less painful.

I remember our (very small) family slowly trickling into the hospital that day and the next. I remember the look of horror on their faces as they laid their eyes upon her for the first time. I remember her reaching out to every one of them and reassuring them that she was alright. That's my mom for you.... even when she's in agony, she's still looking out for everyone else. I remember placing my uncle in charge of telling everyone else in the family because Brittany and I just could not do it. We were physically and emotionally incapable of speaking the words that needed to be spoken. I remember him leaving the hospital that day to go and tell my Papa in person because we all knew what this was going to do to him.... and I will never forget the look on his face as he walked into that hospital room and laid eyes on his daughter, the one he's always loved so much, as she's covered in her own blood. He wore his pain like a dark cloak, just sitting quietly next to her bed and staring at what my dad had done to her. He's not a man of many words but his emotions were easily read that day.

Leaving the hospital that night seemed impossible. But after not getting any sleep in nearly 36 hours, I knew it wasn't an option for me to stay overnight and I knew my mom was in the good and capable hands of my aunt and uncle who both agreed to stay with her. I drove myself home in a daze. I remember walking into the house and laying eyes on my kids and realizing in that moment how one of the biggest parts of their world had just been shattered. I remember taking a shower and then sitting down on the couch with some leftover pizza. I remember in that moment realizing that my dad would never again get to eat pizza like this...he'd never get to go out to dinner... he'd never again have the same freedoms he had had just 24 hours ago. I realized in that moment that the life my dad had always known was now over. In that moment, I had no tears left to shed so I simply stared absently ahead and tried to ingest that reality at the very same time I ingested that pizza. A short while later (7:30 to be exact) I climbed into bed and passed out. I abruptly awoke at 5:30 the next morning, jumped in the shower, cried violently for nearly 30 minutes, and went back to the hospital. I walked into my mom's room and just fell apart at the side of her bed, listening as she selflessly apologized to me for everything he had done.

This weekend, I've thought often about how differently this could have ended. How I could have lost BOTH of my parents that night.

I'm so thankful he didn't succeed at taking her from us. I'm so thankful she didn't let him win.

February 16th, 2013, was the day my world shifted. I received the phone call from the ER social worker at 1:30 am and I laid down my head at 7:30 pm. Eighteen short hours carried so much weight, so much disbelief, so much grief. My life was split that day between the "before" and the "after". I've read and heard that I shouldn't let this event define my life but to me, that's absolutely ridiculous. Before this, I lived a fairly regular existence. My heart was still relatively innocent to the evils of the world... I was naive and thought stuff like this only happened to "other" people and in the movies. After this, I'm a different person. Not in a bad way but definitely in a sad way. My heart is jaded and while some days are just fine, other days seem impossible to get through.

I was changed that day. My heart was changed that day. Any innocence and naivety I had died that day.

This past year has not been one about healing. My mom, sister and I have had so many well-meaning people make comments to us about how we're one year into the grieving process and now we can start healing. I know their intentions are so good, but these comments are so upsetting and so inaccurate. We've only just begun our grieving process. That first year was about survival.... nothing more, nothing less. I didn't realize just how true this was until after my dad was sentenced in December and my true grief actually began. For the past year, we've done nothing more than survive everything that was put before us... primarily, her physical healing and the legal matters that came as a result of all of this. And even those aren't complete. My mom still has one more oral surgery to go before she'll be physically put back together. Plus, we learned last week that my dad is appealing his conviction.... surprise surprise. While I'm confident that the court of appeals will see the truth in the fact that his representation this past year was good, fair, and solid, it's still upsetting to think of the possibility that we may have to go through the legal battle all over again. It's even more upsetting that he can't just take responsibility for his actions and stop putting us through emotional hell.

Last but not least...

For the past few months, I've wrestled with whether to share the pictures of what he did to her. These pictures are the sole depiction of the anger and hatred he felt as well as the battle she fought to stay alive.... both of which have historically felt like intensely private matters. However, we've also realized that many people have underestimated what he did to her that night based on how quickly she healed and how well she looks now. I feel like in order to understand how far we've come and why we continue to grieve so deeply, people need to see the reality of what she/we went through and sometimes, words just can't do that justice. So with my mom's permission, I'm sharing them today in the hopes that everyone can truly see how far my mom has come physically over the past year and so that no one ever underestimates what she went through.

Yes, we've come a long way. And we have a long way yet to go. My heart is so thankful for so many things... for the way so many people have supported us through the past year... but it continues to ride these waves of grief. And while some days are much harder than others, I know this.... I'll get there. We'll get there. My mom, sister and I still have each other. My family may not be whole anymore, but it's just as it needs to be. And while I do still miss my dad and the person he was before all of this, I know he is where he deserves (and needs) to be.

(And yes, someday I promise I will update on something a little more light-hearted. Just gotta follow my heart right now and right now, my heart is here.)

The Lord is close to the brokenhearted, and saves those who are crushed in spirit.

Psalm 34:18

Here we go.

What does one say the night before she testifies against her father in criminal court?

Not sure. But I feel like I should write.

Writing has been hard for me lately, hence the extreme lack of updates. It makes me think and quite honestly, it's easier not to think.

I don't really appreciate the reminder of how screwed up my world has become over the past ten months. How screwed up our situation is. How screwed up my father is. How screwed up what he did to us was. I've come to realize just how valuable denial can be as a coping mechanism.

This week has been ten months in the making. I've been anticipating this week all that time but now that it's actually here, I don't feel ready. Somehow though, I'm also eager to get it over with. My life is full of contradictions these days.... if you're going to keep reading, you might want to get used to that.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the end for us. In one sense that's good.... we'll be able to move forward with our lives and this will only be a thing of the past. In another sense it's bad.... we'll be expected to move on when in reality, I feel like I'm going to be brokenhearted all over again.

Because with conviction comes a sentence and with a sentence comes my dad getting shipped off to God-knows-where. While I haven't seen him in the flesh in nine months, I'm saddened by the fact that he will be sent hours away. I find comfort in knowing he's close even though at times, I've been fearful of that same fact.

I'm brokenhearted that this is our reality. That it's come down to this. The finality of it all is crushing.

As my sister said last week, "These three days are going to change our lives forever."

He's not a good person right now and he did a terrible, horrendous thing but somehow, I still love him. I want to hate him but I can't. He wasn't always a bad man. I look at the wedding photo that sits on my dresser every day and am brought back to how it once was. It wasn't perfect but it wasn't awful, either. He loved us in the only way he knew how... and while that wasn't a truly "healthy" love, it was better than nothing.

I can say that because now, I've got nothing with regards to him. And it hurts. A lot. He's told us that he wants nothing to do with us and his actions and words have repeatedly suggested this.

I wish I could see him wrap his arms around my daughter again. That I could hear the excitement in his voice when we all walked in the door. He never really knew how to love me well (or my sister or my mom for that matter) but he sure knew how to love Liana and Lukas well. He lived for them.

I only wish he had tried to live for them back in February. It infuriates me and devastates me at the same time that he gave up on being a part of our lives... and even worse, tried to take my mom out of this world with him.

I wish he could see Liana and Lukas and what they've grown to be over the past ten months. How much he's missing out on. I know I'd see a softer side of him if he did rather than this hate-filled side I see of him now.

I wish I could sit across from him that court room tomorrow and I could see his love and his regret for hurting us the way that he has. I know that won't happen though. Instead, I'll feel fearful and anxious because of his angry demeanor. He continues to make it blatantly clear that he has no regrets for his actions that night. Each time he says something to this effect, it's like a dagger to my soul all over again.

Because not only did he destroy my mom's life that night, be he destroyed the rest of ours as well.

I hate to say that because I feel like it gives him too much control but the fact is, right now it's the truth. Every day I live with the pain of what he did and what he's doing... to her, to himself, to Brittany, to Liana, to me.

I've never felt so broken and so strong all at the same time. I feel like I'm at a healthy place in my grief because of therapy but at the same time, I feel like I'm falling apart. How does that work? If you know, please, tell me. I can't for the life of me figure it out.

I just wish God could make his heart softer. I may be 30 years old but when it comes down to it, I'm just a girl who wants to be loved and cared for by her dad.

So, that's where I'm at tonight. All over the board mentally and broken emotionally. I know I'll get through this week because I have to. But how I'll get through this week, I'm still unsure of.

I just hope that someday, God answers some of these questions I have for Him because "not knowing" is weighing heavily on this heart of mine.

A Fathers Day to forget.

I've been dreading this day all week.

Sunday, June 16th. Fathers Day.

Confession: I'm a pessimist by nature. Always have been. It's not an endearing trait and not one I'm particularly proud of so I usually try to keep those pessimistic feelings under wraps. But today, I'm having a hard time doing so.

Yes, I am blessed. Yes, I have a husband who is a wonderful father to my children. He blesses them in ways I never expected. He loves them unconditionally. He does all the things a dad should do... and more. He's patient and understanding (most of the time!) and their smiles tell me just how much they love him each night when he walks through that door. I am so incredibly lucky to have married this man and to know that my children, our children, are in loving and gentle hands.

I am also blessed to have a wonderful father in law who is our biggest cheerleader. I've never been a "words of affirmation" kind of girl and I was never used to a man telling me how proud he was of me growing up. I was also never used to a man showing me affection through simple gestures like hugs and pats on the back. My father in law is the cream of the crop when it comes to these things, constantly telling his children how much he loves them and how proud of them he is. My husband learned from the best and for that, I am forever grateful.

I desperately wish I could say that my dad was "the best dad in the world". Checking facebook this morning, with the dozens and dozens of posts from my friends about their wonderful dads, I found myself feeling terribly sad. I knew those posts were coming but I didn't expect the way they would make me feel. Don't get me wrong - I'm so happy for these people that they have been blessed with such wonderful fathers in their lives. I just wish I had been blessed in that same way.

Today, I'm feeling angry. I'm grieving the loss of the dad I wanted but never had.

And I'm even grieving the loss of the dad that I did have.

Because sometimes, even having an "okay" dad is better than having no dad at all.

You see, my dad was always a very distant man. He was there in body but never really in heart. He was a "stay at home dad" because his job was always maintaining the houses; ours and the four others he managed as rental properties. Sometimes he would get busy with projects on these houses but for the most part, he was home every day, all day. Any time you would walk into my parents house you were more likely than not to find him sitting in his chair in the living room and watching television. He didn't do much else. He was a "glass half empty" kind of guy... I guess that's where I got that trait from. He never "loved" life but rather sat on the sidelines watching everyone else enjoy theirs. It made him pretty miserable to be around at times.

But we loved him nonetheless. My mom, Brittany and I tried our best to take care of this man. We attributed his personality and behaviors to the family he grew up in.... an emotionally and physically abusive one plagued with mental health issues. We told ourselves for years that while he was never good about showing his emotions or talking about them, that they must be there deep down. We always gave him the benefit of the doubt.

Now, I can't help but wonder.

Does he really love us? Did he really love us? Or were we always just a means to an end?

He didn't want to be alone but yet he didn't know how to be a part of a family.

Now, four months and one day later, I feel like my dad has been ripped from my life. It's such a complicated loss. He's not dead but its hard to consider him alive. He's so close (14 miles away, to be exact) yet so far away. There have been times I've been close to the jail for work purposes and I'm plagued with anxiety, knowing that he's within walking distance but I can't go see him. He may as well be a million miles away because that's just how it feels. And some days, he may as well be dead because that's how it feels too.

Like on days like today. Fathers Day. When I can't even celebrate the man that he was or the man that he is. I can only mourn what I had always hoped for and what I know I'll now never have.

A dad that loves unconditionally.
A dad that is selfless instead of selfish.
A dad that would do anything to protect us from hurt.
A dad who misses us as much as we miss him.

Today, I find myself angry. For all that he's taken from us. For all that he's taken from himself.

I also know that 14 miles away, he's sitting in his jail cell and probably feeling angry about the fact that he doesn't have visitors today. That he didn't receive any cards. More than likely, he thinks that we're having a special meal and enjoying the day together when this couldn't be any further from the truth.

We all hurt too much. We're just trying to make it through one of the toughest days we've had in a while.

I wish he could see what he's done. I wish he could understand how hard this day is for us. I wish, for once, he could see beyond his own thoughts and feelings to ours.

I wish I had been blessed with a great dad. And as angry as I am for the fact that he put us into this situation, today I would even settle for my "old" dad rather than this "new" one.

Losing Dad.

So, it's been a while. Eight weeks and two days to be exact.

To say that we've been a bit busy would be an understatement. We're finally in our new house and it feels great. I didn't realize how much I missed having our own place in the world, a place to truly call home, until we had it again. I'm thankful to be in our new home.

Though I miss living across the street from my mom. A lot.

The past eight weeks have brought on a whole lot of other changes too. Some are pretty small and then others are pretty big.

Today was the perfect representation of one of the biggest changes though....

We spent the day at my mom's house trying to sort through all of my dad's stuff to be sold. What doesn't sell will be donated.

If you know my dad and you know of his OCD behaviors, you know this couldn't have been any small task. It was overwhelming so for the most part, I sat back and watched as my mom and some of her friends did a majority of the work. I'm so thankful that these friends took the bull by the horns and helped her do this because it wasn't something I was ever looking forward to doing myself. At one point during the day while she and I were alone I said, "I always knew we'd have to do this one day, I just figured it'd be when he was dead."

Hello, reality.

My grief has come a long way over the past eight weeks. I've started seeing a therapist which has helped me tremendously.

But as there always is in life, there was also a tipping point. A moment in which everything changed... again.

I've been receiving letters from my dad religiously for a while now. They always seemed to come on Fridays and Saturdays and I usually would get about two or three letters a week. At first they were focused around property issues; what he thought we needed to do with what pieces of property and so on. Over time though they began to take a different shape; he would ask questions about us and my mom in a way that made us all feel uneasy. After a few weeks of this it became clear that he was probing for information not because he genuinely cared but because he wanted to keep tabs on us to maintain some sense of control. He tried to maintain this control through his manipulation as well and I've come to see just how good he is at this.

For me though, the straw that broke the camels back came a few days after Easter when I received  a letter stating that he "hoped to never have to live through another holiday without Liana and Lukas" and that he was "planning to make that happen".

How is a daughter supposed to respond to such words?

Initially, my heart responded with agony. How did we get here? To the point in which my dad is basically telling me that he is going to try and kill himself while in jail and I'm not sure whether that'd secretly be a blessing or a curse? I cried out of desperation. His, mine, ours.

In tears, I walked across the street to share the letter with my mom. (Each letter that comes, whether it's addressed to myself, Brittany or Mike, is shared. Everyone reads it and my mom keeps them.) We sat on her bed, crying together and unsure of what to do. The social worker in me knew that the right thing to do was call the jail and report this to them so that they can do what needed to be done in order to ensure his safety. But the daughter in me, well, she often felt like he would be better off if he had succeeded in his suicide attempt that night. Like we all would have.

As I sat there talking to my mom, reading and re-reading that letter dozens of times, it clicked -

Would a suicidal man really spell out his plans to his daughter in writing?
Would a suicidal man really still be fighting for 50% of the estate?

No. But a manipulative man would.

In that moment, I felt like I could finally see my dad for who/what he was.

I saw him for the control that he was trying to bestow upon us. For the way in which we were just a means to an end. I realized to him, we were nothing special. We may be his daughters and his wife but to a person like this, those are merely words with little meaning behind them. He doesn't love us, he only loves himself. He only looks out for himself.

Which he so clearly proved the night of February 15th when he shattered our worlds, one by one.

That moment was one of liberation for my heart. It was the moment in which I realized that my life would be better without him in it. That I didn't have to continue fighting for him, taking care of him, worrying about him because he certainly wasn't doing any of those for me.

Don't get me wrong, I love my dad and I always will. I never wanted to have to push him away and close him out from my life. All I really wanted was for him to love us the way that we loved him.

But it's pretty obvious that isn't going to happen.

Cutting my dad out of my life isn't about being hateful towards him. It's about self preservation. It's about not letting him get the best of me anymore. It's about not letting him ruin any more of my days. It's about not walking out to the mailbox in dread because I know that even if there's a letter in there with my name handwritten on it in pencil, I'm not going to let his words weigh on my heart. He can only hurt me if I let him and at this point, I refuse to let him hurt me.

My dad wasn't always a bad person. I look at old pictures now of the days when things were good and I find myself questioning how he could have changed so much. He surely was never a perfect person or a perfect father, but he loved well for at least a little while.

I'm slowly coming to terms with the fact that the man I know now, the man in those mugshot pictures, isn't the man I've loved all my life. In the words of my therapist, "that's the 12 year old you that feels that way about him." She's right. I love the man that he was but I can't love the man that he is now.

I just can't. I won't.

I hope that someday, he can find love in his heart again. I hope that he sees my actions for what they are... not of a hatred towards him, but of a love for me. I can't take care of myself and try to take care of him at the same time. It just doesn't work.

Everything changed.

One month and two days ago, my world was turned upside down.

Every day, there's a thousand different thoughts that run through my head. They plague me in the most literal sense.

Things like:
How long did he plan this? At what point did he know he was going to do this? Did he think it was crazy or completely rational? Why didn't he think about what it would do to Brittany and I? Why wasn't I worth a simple apology? How could he have written me off so easily? And my kids? Did I ever really know him? How does someone you've known your whole life turn into a complete stranger overnight? Does he still hate me? Is he still angry at me? What if he had succeeded? Where would I be in my life if he had? What would I have to be contending with right now? What if my mom hadn't outwitted him? What if he had used a gun? (They both would've been gone then.) What are his days like now? Does he sleep at night? Is he comfortable? Or safe? Will he die in jail? Will we ever talk to him again? Is he remorseful? Does he wish he had not done this?

And those are just the thoughts I dare share. I have so many deeper, darker thoughts too that rattle me to my core.

What happened on February 15th was big.

So big, in fact, that it doesn't feel real. It feels like my life is a television drama and that I have a front row seat.

Someone made a comment to me last week that my life will forever be lived in terms of "before" and "after".

Before this attack, my family was much like any other. Obviously we had our own share of issues and our own demons. But growing up within the environment that I did, with a dad who was often angry and a mom that was often trying to make it better, was normal to me. I knew it wasn't normal to everyone else but it was to me. I never really considered my dad as an "emotionally abusive" man, just one that had grown up in a physically abusive household and had a lot of anger and control issues as a result. (Hello, denial.) My relationship with him was always tenuous while living at home... he and I are alike in many ways so we naturally butted heads a lot. When compared to my mom and my sister, I'm the more outspoken one so I didn't put up with much of his crap and when he was being an ass, I told him. (As you can imagine, he didn't receive that well.)

The day I got married, that changed. The day Liana was born, it changed even more.

Liana was his life in the most obvious of ways. She idolized her papa and he basked in that. He gave her everything she wanted and more, so the cycle would continue and she then idolized him even more. When I quit weekend option and went to a M-F schedule, he watched her while I worked. Those days were what he lived for... again, in the most obvious of ways because the rest of his days were spent sitting in the same chair, watching television and being bored and resentful.

Liana changed the way he responded to me because he was always scared that I would keep her from him if  he hurt me. Unfortunately though this had little effect on the way he responded to Brittany and my mom. The emotional abuse continued. And even though he wouldn't take his anger out on me anymore, that never stopped him from taking his anger towards me out on one of them.

For 29 years and 8 months of my life, this family has walked on eggshells around him, never knowing what we might say or do to set him off.

After this attack, nothing feels the same. My mom is different and while I know in my heart that she won't be like this forever, she's not the same person that I lived with the past 29 years and 8 months. She's scared. Overwhelmed. Dependent. She's been reduced to a shell of the woman who has always been so strong and steadfast in my life.

My dad is in jail and facing a lifetime prison sentence. Other than in court and on the news, I anticipate that I will never see him alive and in person again. I often find myself desperately wanting to talk to him but I know that no good could come from that because even though he did this to us, I'm fairly certain that he's the one harboring feelings of hatefulness while sitting behind bars. In one day and by one action followed by many, many more that night, my dad was ripped from my life. While things weren't good before this, there was always room for hope. My hope to have a relationship with my dad died that night... along with a lot of other things.

My sister and I are surviving. We feel so many different emotions and often, more than one within the same moment. Sadness. Anger. Confusion. Joy. Fear. Gratefulness. Devastation. We've been left to pick up the pieces of what my dad did and while happy to do so considering the alternative, it's an overwhelming task much of the time.

I realized this week just how deep my denial runs. Disbelief is one of my biggest thought processes... Is this really happening? Did this really happen?

It just doesn't feel real.

Even when I have a "Major Case Squad" detective programmed into my contacts, along with a Kent County Prosecutor. Even when we get a letter from a lawyer or a phone call from the social worker at the jail. Even when I see either of my parents pictures splashed across the television screen or newspaper page. Even when I sit across the room and look at my mom and the scars and bandages she now wears. Even when I go to the Rockford house to check on things and pick up the mail.

My denial does run deep and while I know it can be a dangerous coping mechanism, it also saves me. When I need to put one foot in front of the other, it helps me do that.

I've noticed that my work days seem to be my hardest days. I think this is because when I'm at home with the kids, I can't cry. Not because I don't want to but because I don't have time to. Liana and Lukas are just too young to understand that "mommy just needs a minute" (or an hour, or lets be real here, a week). By the time they go to bed at night I'm so emotionally spent that I have nothing left to give to myself. However when I'm working, I'm often alone in my thoughts and alone in my car. It's in those moments that the reality of this situation truly hits me.

There are no words to express how thankful I am that my dad did not succeed at what he was trying to do that night. There are no words to express how thankful I am that my mother is asleep in the room next to me.

There aren't enough words to explain all the ways in which this has effected me and our family.

But my life will forever be defined in the terms of "before" and "after". Because everything in my life changed in just a few short hours on that fateful February night.

Privatized.

To those of you who are reading this, you made the cut. :)

A few weeks back, I anxiously wrote this post and hit the publish button. Twelve hours later, I even more anxiously took the post down for a few reasons, one certainly being the most prominent: I'm scared that with a criminal trial looming over us, my words could become material used either for or against either my mom or my dad. I knew I couldn't put my mom in the position of having my words used against her in any way so I knew I needed to take it down. In addition, with a media presence surrounding this matter, I was also quite afraid that they would get wind of my blog and use the information provided on it to their advantage. These just weren't risks that I felt were worth taking.

Blogging has always been incredibly therapeutic for me. I have historically felt very safe writing in this forum but these days, my sense of security has been deeply shaken. Now that my blog is private, I hope I can start writing again about anything that my heart wants to talk about.

I hope it goes without saying though that anything shared here, stays here.

Stay tuned....

Shattered.

I sit here, not knowing where to begin and what to write. Not because I don't have the words but because I'm too afraid to share them.

One week ago tonight, my world was shattered.

As some of you know and many did not, my parents have been in the process of a rather difficult divorce since November. In hopes of keeping things amicable, my mom has been seeing my dad every once in a while. Last Friday evening was one of those nights. Unbeknownst to me, she had gone up to his home in Rockford to have dinner with him.

All evening long on Friday my gut felt like something just wasn't right. I had called her right after we finished dinner to see if she wanted to go with us to see the progress on the new house - no answer. I tried the home phone - no answer. While this wasn't completely out of the ordinary, I had grown more accustomed to her "flying off the radar" for periods of time since the beginning of the year when the divorce truly started to get messy.

Because I currently live across the street from her, I was able to see that the house was dark and the garage was closed when we left that night. And that nothing had changed when we got home an hour later.

I knew in my heart that she had gone to see my dad. Honestly, I was angry about it because I just didn't understand why she kept allowing herself to be involved with him considering his abusive past and controlling ways.

Mike and I continued about our night, putting the kids to bed and and watching television as we do every Friday night. While I usually fall asleep on the couch by 10pm, this night was different. I was more alert than usual and even as I went into the bathroom to get ready for bed at 11, I found myself not tired. It wasn't until 12:30 that my head finally hit that pillow.

30 minutes later, at 1:05 am, my phone rang.

It was a 391 number, which I remember thinking could only mean one of two things: 1) I had forgotten I was on call and someone from work was trying to call me or 2) something had happened. Because any time a Spectrum Health phone number calls you at 1:00 am and it's not for work purposes, it can't be a good thing.

I sat up immediately. On the other end of the line I remember hearing a woman's voice stating her name and that she worked in the Spectrum Health ER downtown. Without pause, I asked her what was wrong. She said, "I'm here with your mom and she's been assaulted. We need you to come down." Immediately, my response was, "Assaulted by my dad, right?" When she verified this, I explained that I was on my way.

As I picked up my sister and drove downtown, my mind was racing. "How could he hit her? How bad is it?" My dad, though an angry and emotionally abusive person, had never reached the level of becoming physically abusive. There were many times in my life that I expected him to lash out at one of us in that manner but he was always able to maintain his composure. I asked Brittany as we drove, "Do you think Dad would ever kill himself?" This was the first time we had ever had a conversation like this and I was surprised to hear that our answers matched. This was something I had been concerned of for a while, but knowing that she too was concerned about it made it so much more scary.

At the time, I had no idea just how serious of a situation we were walking into. I figured that an argument had errupted and my mom had been hit by him, left the house and went straight to the ER. I worried that if he had hit her, that he'd try to harm himself while waiting at the house for the police to come.

I wish it had been that simple.

As we walked into the ER, the triage nurse informed us that we would have to wait for the social worker to come get us. My gut knew immediately that this was a bad thing. As Ruth greeted us, she escorted us back into a private hallway and then into a conference room. While walking I asked, "Is my mom okay? How is she?" She paused in her response and stated, "Your mom is alive." It was in that moment that I knew something far worse than I had ever imagined had in fact taken place.

Ruth explained that my mom had been the victim of a murder-suicide attempt. She discussed some of the details with us and then escorted us back to my mom.

When I turned that corner, all I could see and smell was blood. It was everywhere. All I could hear was moaning.

I remember crumbling as I stood in that doorway, not sure if I could emotionally or physically handle taking another step.

But then my mom saw us and called out for us. She reached for both Brittany and I and grabbed my hand as I was the one closest to her. She held it so tight that it hurt.

I stood next to her and watched as the blood continued to pour out of her. She was unrecognizable. How could this be my mom??

As the trauma team cared for her, she remained alert and was able to verbalize the key components of what had happened. She was in so much pain though and the only thing I wanted to do was take that pain away from her. Fix this in some way. As they began the sutures, Brittany and I both knew that we needed to step out. It was then that we started making phone calls to our family - Mike, Dan, our Uncle Den and Aunt Amy - and asking them to come down. We needed them there. I wanted to call my Papa but I knew he wouldn't be able to handle these initial sights so I held off. Nana was out of town, which didn't help the matter.

As one of my mom's primary concerns was for her dog (if you know her, this should come as no surprise to you) whom she had taken up there that night, Brittany and I decided that one of us needed to go up to the house to get Bailey. As Brittany was struggling a bit more with the blood and the care my mom was receiving, we felt it was best that she go and I stay.

Our Detective arrived about an hour after we did. I stood next to her, holding her hand as she gave him the details of exactly what had happened that night. As she discussed the details, I could so easily picture every action taken and word spoken and it felt as though her words were playing like a movie in my head. The only thing I still cannot picture, thankfully, are the faces of my parents as this all happened. The look on my dad's face as he beat her with multiple blunt-force weapons. The look on my mom's face as she laid there on that floor, not knowing if she was going to live or die that night.

I still cannot believe she was able to discuss the details of the attack with such clarity after suffering such severe head injuries. A blessing from God for sure.

I remember the reaction of each person as they walked into her hospital room and saw her for the first time. The look of pure shock and disbelief spread across their faces, the tears they shed.

Saturday was about survival. Hers. Ours.

Sunday, for me, was a day of disbelief. I woke up at 5 am and the first thing that flashed through my mind was the image of my mom laying on that ER hospital bed, covered in blood. I immediately knew that I wouldn't be going back to sleep so I chose to get up, get showered and get to the hospital.

The minute I started washing my hair, it hit me like a brick wall. I cried in that shower for a good 30 minutes and the minute I walked into my mom's hospital room and saw her laying in that bed again, I lost it some more.

How could he do this to her? How could he do this to us? What if she had died? Losing my mom would have forever devastated me, especially losing her in this manner. My mom, the pillar of strength, laying in that hospital bed and so badly injured was impossibly painful to deal with.

Add on to that the fact that my dad was the one that caused all of this pain simply made it unbearable.

Throughout the weekend I was too focused on my mom to pay much consideration to my dad. Yes, I had spoken with his nurse via telephone call (he had been taken to Blodgett for observation rather than Buttterworth for safety precautions) and asked the questions I needed to. But aside from that, I cared less about what had happened to him in the midst of this process.

Monday, my world came crumbling down all over again. We had been forewarned that this might make the news but I never truly believed that it would. When Brittany suddenly said to me, "Haley, come here a minute" while escorting me out of the hospital room and then handed me her phone, all my eyes could focus on was his mugshot picture splashed across the screen. It was in that moment that something in me died.

The thing is, my dad did a horrific thing to one of the people I love most in this world. But he's still my dad. And all of our memories with him aren't bad. He helped raise my daughter for God's sake. So to see that picture spread so publicly and to know the implications of what this would mean for his life as well as ours, it was devastating.

I went home Monday night only to realize that reporters were scouring our neighborhood looking for someone to give a statement. Fox 17 went door to door and thankfully, struck out time and time again. When they approached my home they had no idea that they had arrived on the (temporary) doorstep of my father's daughter. They parked their news van on the corner of our street, stalking me as I hurriedly walked to our long-time neighbors house in tears.

Tuesday and Wednesday have been numb for me. I recognize that certain things "should" make me cry but more often than not, the tears just don't come.  I feel paralyzed in my grief.

Thursday, I went to the Rockford house. Everyone thought it was a bad idea for me to go up there alone but I knew in my heart that I needed to do it. Not only for the sake of the house but for the sake of my heart. The room in which the attack took place needed to be cleaned before even more damage set in. (We hired someone else to do that job, by the way.) And for myself, I needed to step foot into the place in which my life was shattered. I needed to see the space in which my dad spent his final "free" days and gather some insight into where his head was at. I cleaned the kitchen up from the final dinner they shared. I took out the trash, cleaned out the fridge, did the dishes, wiped down the counters.

I spent more than an hour in that house before I decided I was strong enough to see where it all happened. To see where he had attacked her, where she had tried to fight him off but ultimately had to play dead in order to survive. I saw the spot in which she layed for hours, easily identified by the blood spilled onto the carpet there.

This whole experience has felt surreal. On Monday night, while getting ready to head back up to the hospital to spend the night with my mom, I made a sarcastic comment to Mike about how my life was "a living nightmare." I laughed the minute it came out of my mouth. "I've said that so many times before but this time, its actually true," I told him.

These things are supposed to happen to other people. I never expected my life to take a turn like this - to be standing next to my mom's hospital bed in the ER, not sure if she's going to survive or not. To see my dad's mugshot on every local news channel. To be faced with the reality that he's likely going to spend the rest of his life in prison. To know that he hurt her, and us, like this and did so intentionally with a great amount of premeditation.

I struggle with triggers, just as my mom and sister do.

Tonight, I turned on TV and while looking at the guide, I realized it was 8pm because Last Man Standing was on. My mom remembers the timeline of the attack based on what was playing on the television. It was in that moment that I thought, "One week ago, right now, this nightmare began." The smell of blood sent me reeling yesterday when a hangnail began to bleed. Last night I had my first nightmare about this, though I thankfully didn't remember the details of the nightmare once I woke up.

My children and my husband miss me but right now, I'm needed more elsewhere. When I'm at home, my anxiety is much higher than it is when I'm with my mom so for the most part, I stay with my mom during the daytime hours.

With regards to Liana, we explained to her that Nana was in an "accident". While I know that someday she'll learn the truth about her Papa, she's too young to understand his actions right now. We had cut ties with him about six weeks ago after an argument between him and I in which he blamed me for the divorce. While it had been painful to keep her separate from him, I'm now so incredibly thankful that things happened the way that they did and that we don't have to deal with that pain now on top of the pain we're already feeling.

These are the darkest days our family has ever experienced and the nature of what has happened is incredibly isolating. The media attention has made this feeling a lot worse, too. So many people have reached out to us with help and support and while each facebook message, text, or phone call means the world, I feel all alone in this because there's not a single person that can even begin to understand what this feels like. The only person that can truly understand what I'm going through is my sister but even we feel differently in some ways. My friends are there if I want to talk but where do I even start? Even if I could find a starting point, my thoughts are so all over the place right now that it'd hardly make much sense.

Eleven days from today, we will sit across the courtroom from my dad. I have a lot of anxiety already when it comes to thinking about that day and the range of emotions I will feel. I've been told that the media will be present, which only makes this so much worse. Never before have I felt so vulnerable and exposed.

My mom continues to get stronger each day. She's able to ambulate on her own with the use of a walker and sometimes without (though she tends to get yelled at by yours truly when she takes a step without it). Her bruising has turned a lovely shade of yellow and by the improvement we've seen so far, I'm lead to believe that most of it will be gone next week already. She received more than 40 staples to her head and hundreds of sutures to her face, all of which will come out on Monday and Tuesday. She remains quite forgetful which is likely due to the concussion but may also be worsened by the pain meds she currently needs. Next week is full of appointments, all of which I will be taking her to because I can't handle the thought of anyone else doing it for me.

Even though this is at the forefront of my life right now, its unlikely that I'll be able to write about it much because of the court proceedings.

Please continue to keep my family in your prayers. We covet them right now. While we've had some terrible days already, I anticipate that the preliminary hearing and subsequent trial will be worse as we are forced to relive this tragedy, face my dad in court, and cope with the fact that our darkest days are entertainment news to others.

From one to two.

Nearly two years ago when I was just a few months pregnant with Lukas, I had a conversation with my friend Linda about what it was like to go from one kid to two. Linda had three kids already by this point and was well-versed on the in's and out's of motherhood so she's a person whose judgment I trust whole-heartedly. (For this as well as many other reasons.) This conversation, despite the fact that it was held over facebook, has stayed with me and as a few of my other friends are currently making (or preparing to make) this transition, I figured I would revisit it.

During our conversation, Linda explained to me that going from one child to two was going to be the hardest jump in the world of parenting. She was absolutely right.

Throughout my pregnancy with Lukas, I was stressed. About everything.

I was stressed about Liana and how she'd transition to being a big sister. I was stressed about getting the house ready for another baby. I was stressed about our finances. I was stressed about my recent miscarriage and the rollercoaster of emotions I was experiencing regarding that and now a healthy pregnancy. I was stressed about potty training. I was stressed about work. I was stressed about feeling tired during the first trimester.... and the second... and then third... all while balancing the needs of my family and my job. I was stressed about feeling huge and carrying the baby super low all the way through the pregnancy and how uncomfortable this all made me. I was stressed about what was going to happen to my body as I knew from the get-go that I was likely going to have to have a c-section. I was stressed about the constant heartburn that was so much worse the second time around. I was even stressed about stressing my baby out. You name it, I was stressed about it.

When Lukas was born, I realized the stress had only just begun.

It would have been a hard transition with an easy-going baby. But with a more difficult baby? It felt impossible.

I felt like I was never enough to both of my kids. The first two weeks after Lukas and I came home from the hospital, I had help. Mike had taken the first week off from work and my mom had taken the second. Seeing as I was recovering from my c-section, this was a necessity as I struggled to get around a bit (especially the first week... I'm still impressed at how quickly I healed and how well I began to feel that second week) and needed all the help I could get. The last day I had help close by, I remember feelings of sheer panic while thinking of the reality that the very next day I'd be having to do this all by myself. Meeting Lukas's needs AND Liana's needs all at the same time? Was it even possible?

It was. But not without some sacrifices on everyone's part.

I felt like a terrible mom to Liana for the next three weeks. Here she was, two and a half years old, and she was thrown into this new life she never asked for. (Of course I knew that this would only help her grow and that if she was old enough to make an educated decision, she'd likely choose to endure this transition if it meant she got to have a younger sibling. But at two and a half, she didn't know that.) For the first time in her life, she had to wait for the things she wanted and her needs didn't always come first anymore. She learned how to do a lot of things for herself very quickly.... like going potty, getting things she needed and even things that I needed. She learned that we could no longer do the things we were so used to doing with such ease.... like picking up and heading off to the store quickly, heading over to visit with family or friends, and making meals. She was forced to become more independent rather quickly which while good in some respects, also made me sad at times.

As much as going from one to two effected Liana, it effected her mom even more.

Truth: It was hard as hell.

Truth: I knew it wouldn't be easy. But I didn't realize just how difficult it would actually be.

Truth: I didn't always handle it well.

Truth: I know I shut down... more than a few times.

When we first brought Lukas home, the days felt painfully long. He cried so much and was inconsolable for most of the day, everyday, until he was about 8 weeks. It wasn't until he was about 14 weeks that I felt like my baby was "normal". I was putting everything I had in me into my two kids that by the end of the day, I was desperate for just a few minutes of "me" time.

Mike would walk into the house at 5:45 every night and I knew in my heart that he would have rather stayed at work. It was easier there and I couldn't blame him because by the time he stepped foot inside our door I was emotionally fried, dinner still needed to be made and Liana's bedtime was soon approaching. (Which at that time wasn't as easy as it is now.)

Things didn't start to get better until Lukas wasn't as fussy... so somewhere around that 14 week mark. But even then, I'd say that it wasn't until he was about five months old that I truly felt some of the pressure subside. At ten months I finally felt confident enough to discontinue my Zoloft. While I was more than a bit nervous to stop it and be forced to deal with the everyday stresses all on my own, I found myself quite thankful when I realized I actually felt better off it than I ever had on it.

As I write this, I'm 14 months into being a "mother of two". Sure things are easier now than they were a year ago. I can say with much gratitude that I've made it through the first year with my sanity still (mostly!) intact. Our life as a family of four isn't perfect and I'm not naive enough to believe it ever will be. For the most part, I've made peace with that.

But why was the transition from one child to two is so hard?

Because meeting the needs of two young children takes twice as much work but you do it in the same amount of time. Saying its exhausting would be a drastic understatement.

Do I think it would've been easier had my second child not been such a difficult baby? Obviously.

Do I regret doing it? Never.

Because as hard as it was and as tired as I am, I see the way my kids love on each other (when they're not doing things like hitting each other or fighting over toys) and in that moment, I realize that I did this more for them than I ever did it for myself.

I also realize now that I did the best I could, every step of the way. Again, I was no where near a perfect mother. But that's something I have to forgive myself for because I know just how hard it was. There were good days and there were bad. Sometimes the good were really good and sometimes the bad were REALLY bad. While I haven't always been the most relaxed and patient mama, there hasn't been a single moment in which I wouldn't have laid down my life for either of my children simply because I love them that much. Most importantly, they know it. Because while I may do a lot of things wrong, the one thing I know I do right is love them. Hard and with all my might.

Liana informed Mike and I today that she would like a little sister. I'm certainly not ready to see if the transition from two to three kids is any easier than our most recent one and I remain skeptical as to whether I ever will be. (Mike's already gotten it into his head that we're done so that may make my decision quite easy.) So for now, I'm quite fine with keeping this family of four just the way that it is. Chaos, imperfection and all. :)

Changes upon changes.

"If you're gonna make a change, you're gonna have to operate from a new belief that says life happens not to me, but for me." 

-Tony Robbins-

Change. It often comes when we least expect it.

Almost two weeks ago now, I was sitting in a morning meeting when I received a text from my job share partner, Meg, asking if we could meet up after my meeting. It wasn't like her to text me while I was working because when I'm working, she's not. Even more so, she had never asked me to meet up on such short notice. Both of these things being out of her character, I knew something was up. Throughout the rest of that meeting I couldn't help but wonder what was going on and while I thought I had an idea as to what she would want to meet about (that couldn't wait and needed to be shared in person instead of over the phone), I was quickly surprised by the conversation that unfolded.

Almost two weeks ago now, my work-life as I know it was turned upside down. In five simple words, in less than one minute, everything changed.

"I've decided to leave hospice."

I remember feeling as though time stood still after she said those few simple words. I had to repeat that sentence in my head a few times for it to truly sink in. As I did, the my internal conversation sounded a bit like this:

"Did she just say what I think she said? Did she just say she's leaving me? Yep, that's what she said. She's leaving me. How can she leave me? Wait wait wait... am I sure I heard her right? Is she really leaving? Yes, I heard it right. She's leaving. Well what the hell am I going to do now?"

And while I knew this day would eventually come, I wasn't expecting it so soon. The surprise felt a little like getting hit by a bus... which I have in fact experienced once before. :)

I tried to maintain my composure as we sat in that Biggby. I wasn't terribly successful.

"I'm so happy for you. I'm just so sad for me", I explained. Multiple times. In between the tears and the ugly cries.

I didn't want to make her feel bad. I still don't want to make her feel bad.

I am so happy for her. Seriously.

But for the past two years, we've had this amazing thing, her and I. She's been the icing to my cake. The tootsie to my roll. We're such different people but somehow we've built this incredible working relationship that I'm just so sad to let go of. She's the only person that understands what we do and how we do it well. When I need to debrief, she always picks up the phone even though she's not on the clock. When I need advice on how to handle a situation, she's always there to talk me through it. She helps me stay sane when I feel like I'm about to lose it.

That kind of support has been invaluable to me. She's taught me (almost) everything I know about case management.

For two days, it took everything in me to hold back the tears and to be honest, I wasn't all that successful. My long drive home at the end of each day were filled with them.

And she knew it. She knew this was hard on me without me even having to tell her. And she called to check in.

And listen to me cry... that same ugly cry, nonetheless. :)

The more I thought about it, the more I realized why this was so hard.

SHH has been a part of my life for four years now. And since the day I started, she was there. When I got hired in I was newly pregnant, nauseous and exhausted. While training me I confided this in her before anyone else and as she took me from visit to visit, she let me nap in the car while she drove. She taught me so much and was my go-to girl. Even when I was working weekends, I could call her if I had a tough case come up that I didn't know what to do with. She taught me the ropes about case management... how to balance my time and most importantly, my energy, between patients. Those teachings have been invaluable.

She's been my constant in a constantly changing work world. She's pulled me through some tough stuff, both personally and professionally.  She's always... always... had my back.

Even as she gave her resignation notice, she advocated for me to ensure that I wasn't going to get "screwed over" by her departure. She knew that this could be a good thing for me, even though the growing pains may hurt a little. Or a lot.

I realized last week that of all the things I've experienced while doing hospice work, losing her as my job share partner has been the hardest for each of these reasons.

We were so blessed to have this role together for the past two years. To have such a strong partnership and to have such complete trust in each other while we covered one another's caseloads during our "off" days.

I would've been naive to think that it would be like this forever. Change happens. It's the only constant in this crazy world of ours.

But that doesn't make it any less difficult. While growth is a good thing, it can also be a painful thing... hence the reason they're called "growing pains".

Thankfully, I'm starting to see that this change may be a blessing of it's own because now I'll be covering a territory much closer to home... Wyoming, Jenison, Grandville, Hudsonville. My (minimum) commute of 45 minutes will now be more like 5 minutes. My productivity will increase. I'll be able to chart at home rather than sit in a Meijer parking lot at the end of the day. I'll be able to stop home for lunch instead of buying it on the road.  I'll be closer to my kids in the event that they need me. My 8 hour days should be able to stay at 8 hours rather than somewhere between 10 and 12. And I'll be a better mom and a better wife because of it.

Leaving my "north team" has been a hard decision... one of my hardest work decisions to date, in fact. I'm leaving a team that I genuinely care for and respect both as colleagues and as friends. I'm leaving nurses that I love to work with. But in return, I'm getting time. Time with my kids. Time with Mike. Time for me.

That time is valuable in and of itself. It's one of the few things in life you can't get back.

So while change isn't easy and nothing is certain, I'm thankful for this path I'm on. I just hope that it's as good to me as the last one was. :)

Changes.

I find that every once in a while, I go through a major dry spell when it comes to this blog for one reason or another. I get to the point where I question whether I should just shut the blog down completely but then eventually come to my senses again. So what if I don't post regularly? My life is busy and chaotic most of the time. The days are long (sometimes too long!) and the nights are short (always too short!). But I always come back and that's what counts, right? I haven't given up just yet. :)

So, life has been a bit nuts around here lately. Here's a bit of self-disclosure... I've been taking Zoloft since I went back to work after Lukas was born and now more than ever, I'm thankful for my anti-depressant! It's kept me level-headed during times that I know I would've otherwise lost my cool. I tend to be a bit of an emotional train wreck when I'm stressed and so far, I've kept myself on the tracks. Thanks Zoloft!! ;)

So why has our life been such chaos? Three reasons:
1. We sold our house, two weeks after putting it on the market. We close on Monday the 30th and have to be out by Saturday, Aug 4th. Lots of packing has been going on over here in our neck of the woods.
2. While we looked at many houses, nothing felt "right". So, we've decided to build. This was a decision that was incredibly stressful and anxiety-provoking for both Mike and I.
3. As if these alone weren't stressful enough, I also have to find a new daycare provider for the kids for the days in which my dad would've watched them. It just got to be too much for him and for that, I can't blame him.

So, where's my head been? Well, in a lot of different places. The day we listed our house on the market, I walked from room to room and just tried to take it all in. Tears welled up in my eyes as I looked at each wall in this house and remembered all the work we put into making each and every one our own. The kids bedrooms have been especially hard for me to let go of.... I poured my heart and soul into Liana's "purple bedroom" and Lukas's nursery. I knew we wouldn't be here forever but I had no idea we'd be leaving this soon. My brain tells me it's for the best but my heart is having a hard time accepting that in just a few short days, this won't be our home anymore. Even as I pack, I feel a bit numb as to what exactly I'm doing. It's a feeling I'm uncomfortable with because my gut tells me that the ice I'm standing on is getting thinner and thinner and soon enough, I'm more than likely going to fall through.

On the flip side, I'm excited about the next step we're taking. Building a house is going to be an adventure - at least that's what I keep telling myself. I'm thrilled with the idea of making this house our own from the get-go and having things how I want them, down to the very last detail. While I've had some reservations about the lakefront lot we chose (only because of the safety risks it poses for the kids), I'm ready to embrace it. I can't wait to wake up each morning or sit at the dinner table each night and look out behind our house to see nothing but water. I think about all the memories that will be made in that new house and in those waters and I'm left with feelings of pure anticipation. In addition, I feel good about sending the kids to Hudsonville schools (which I've heard nothing but good things about) and about still being so close to everything. I honestly think we'll be incredibly happy living at 2334 Edson. :)

My thoughts these last few weeks have also been wrapped up a lot in Liana. By far, this transition is going to be the hardest on her. She's losing the only house she's ever known as her own and her "purple bedroom" that she loves so dearly. We've decided to live in one of my dad's rental homes which coincidentally is just across the street from my parents. While in some aspects this will be nice, I am really worried about how Liana will handle the balance of staying home vs. going to Papa & Nana's house when they live just across the street. I want her to have good boundaries and know that she can't always be at my parents - but that's a tricky message to get across to a three year old. I see her struggling a bit as we pack up our belongings and she takes in the changes that are taking place; she's become more clingy these past two weeks and even more whiney than she usually is. She asks questions like, "Are we taking my bed to Auntie's house?" (because my sister currently is living there until we move in) or "Are we going to go live with Ms. Michelle?" (our realtor... an association she's made bc Michelle was taking us to look at houses before we decided to build). I can sense her confusion in all of this and as hard as we try to help her understand, I don't think she's truly going to get it until we're settled. So in the mean time, I worry and succumb to the mommy guilt that plagues me.

For obvious reasons, I'm not so worried about Lukas. Sure, I expect some hiccups... after all, this kid is extremely sensitive to his routine and his environment. But I think that after a few days/weeks, he'll find his groove again.

This weekend, we move most of our furniture into storage. (We'll be using my sister's furniture for the time being.) As things get packed away and transferred to wherever their temporary home may be, this house feels less and less like my home, which I anticipate is going to make our final moving day a bit easier. At least I hope that's the case.

There's more to be updated... but for tonight, I call it quits. Back to the chaos!! :)