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

So this is how it feels...

I'm struggling.

Right now, it feels like every day is a struggle. I know the winter blues have gotten their wicked grasp on me this year, more so than ever before, because of everything that happened last month.

I stopped going to therapy... I realized in December that I wasn't getting what I needed out of it anymore. I learned some really valuable lessons and skills in the first six months and continue to put them to use and for that, I'm thankful. While I have so much respect for my therapist and she really, truly was amazing and so incredibly smart, I felt like she too often forgot to focus on the fact that I'm a daughter in all of this and not a Masters level Social Worker.

But I did start working out again (after taking a FAR-too-long hiatus) so I'm hoping that helps to elevate my spirits... or at least help me lose a few pounds!

For weeks I've been wanting to write down the feelings in my head. I'm a "thinker" by nature so whenever I'm not thinking of something in particular, I start to think about whatever is hitting me the most at the time. For the past month, those thoughts have revolved around my dad.

December was an unusually cruel month in my life. One I was both happy to see go and didn't want to end. Knowing that we're done with the legal proceedings is both comforting and sad for me. Because it means this is all a part of my past now... a "past" I didn't feel ready to let go of. I am relieved, however, by the fact that I no longer have to be fearful of what the outcome may be. What needed to happen, happened. As hard and painful as that may be.

The 19th, sentencing day, was especially traumatic. I relive that day often. Seeing him fall apart in court... saying words of love and then words of hate. Knowing that the whole world was about to see just how bad his behavior could be but knowing that now it was far, far worse. The man they splashed across every local news station was NOT my dad.... the dad I once knew seems to be gone. A person of my past. The man in that courtroom was a different person, one that has significant mental health issues and desperately needs help (but refuses to seek or allow for it).

I struggle every day with how I grieve for my dad. One moment, I miss him terribly. I think about past memories with him. I hear his voice and the excitement and happiness it could hold (usually pertaining to Liana). I remember so clearly how much he loved my kids... the way he sat and read book after book to them. The way he colored at the kitchen table with Liana (and truly did color). He lived at their beck and call. I miss the way he would call me up and say, "You tell that peanut how much her papa misses her!" and then guilt me into bringing her over despite the fact that we were usually there just about every day. I remember looking out our back window and watching him push her on the swings, just beaming with pride and happiness. I remember the way he selflessly gave up his time to watch her/them whenever I needed help.

I also remember how often he was there to help Mike and I. Anytime something went wrong with the house, he was the one we called. If we needed something done, he did it.

He was my go-to guy. I miss that. So, so much.

But after I remember all these things, I then remember how hard it often was. How he could say such cruel things when he was angry. The way in which everyone walked on eggshells around him. How he tried his hardest to control what we all did or were going to do. I remember the anger, the outbursts, the silent treatment we'd receive for days on end if things didn't go "his way". I remember him turning our lives upside down more than once when he decided he didn't want to participate in his marriage anymore. I remember the lack of consideration he showed to us throughout the divorce proceedings and ultimately, the night of February 15th. I remember how much harder he made this past year when  it seems that a "good person" who loved his family would have done anything to make things right and avoided causing any more pain.

Every day, I struggle with where to go from here. Do I write or do I wait for him to write? Do I tell him I love him in hopes that it'll help crumble that wall he's built so high? Or do I let those words pass me by? Do I put my heart on the line for a man who put us all through hell, or do I just walk away? Half of me wants to have a relationship with him still but the other half knows how foolish that would be. I fear he'll use me and manipulate me. I fear that he'll tell me what I want to hear just to get the things he wants. I fear that he won't mean whatever it is that he would say. Being betrayed by him in this way has been terrible enough but at least he's been honest (it feels terrible to say that, considering what his "honesty" has entailed)... I can't even begin to imagine how hard it would be to be lied to as well. I can't handle him telling me he loves me when in reality, he may very well hate me.

I feel like I have this huge void in my life now. A couple of weeks ago I finally thought to myself, "Wow, THIS is what grief feels like." For years I've been working in grief & loss with my patients and their families but I never truly understood what it was they were facing. Now I do. I know what grief feels like now. I know how deeply it goes into a person's soul when they lose someone so important to them. I know just how much it hurts.

(To clarify... more so for my own benefit than anyone else's due to a guilty conscious... I have grieved before. The loss of our baby to my miscarriage. But the grief I feel for my dad is very different than the grief I felt for our baby. And the grief I feel for my dad is far more relate-able in terms of the work I do.)

I often wonder if losing my dad to prison is harder than it would be if I had lost him to death. My dad was ripped from my life just the same as he would have been if he had died. The only difference is that instead of dying, he's sitting in a cell somewhere, CHOOSING not to be a part of my life anymore. Which hurts more? I can't say for sure, but knowing that your parent abandoned and walked away from you hurts like hell.

I realized over the past few weeks that I was in survival mode throughout the ten months leading up to sentencing. While I thought I was "dealing" with everything, I see now that I was only dealing with one side of things... the side that I could see and feel the most - my mom's side of things. I've grieved what he did to her and the lasting effects it's had on her and I know I'll continue to do so. I know that while my grief may someday take a vacation, it's only a matter of time until it comes back and I'm again reminded of this chapter in her story. But for the past ten months, my focus has been predominantly on her... likely out of a need for self preservation. How could I cope with the loss of him at the same time I was trying to cope with what he did to her? And getting her through the mess he made? It wasn't possible. But now, now I know I'm out of "survival" mode. I now feel the gravity of the situation....

My dad is in prison and will likely die there. While he's currently in Jackson, he could be shipped off to anywhere in the state in just a few short weeks... It could be 1 hour away or 10 hours away. He doesn't want to talk to me and I may never get the chance to see him again, at least while he's alive. I worry every day about whether he'll take his own life. I don't know how he's doing, what his days are like, whether he's lonely or made friends. After 30 years together, my dad has become an absolute stranger to me.

I really pray that this gets easier with time. I pray that I find resolution within myself to know what's right and what's wrong when it comes to my dad. I pray that God gives me the direction I need.

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.

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.

A mother in mourning.

Just like the rest of the world, my mind & heart have been reeling from the events that transpired on Friday.

It was supposed to be a day like any other. And for me it was, until about 1pm when I entered into a patient visit and noticed half way through our conversation what was playing on the television behind me. I tried to act like I hadn't seen the headline running across the bottom of that screen and just move forward with our conversation, but saying that was difficult would be an understatement. So instead I fumbled through the next few minutes and then excused myself. I went out of my patients room into the lobby of the facility where other staff members were glued to the television themselves. It was there that I felt like the world started to crumble down around me. It took everything in me to maintain my composure and not go running home to wrap my arms around Liana and Lukas.

Gratefully & humbly, none of my loved ones were in that school. I didn't experience any of those losses on a deep and personal level. But what I did experience is the same thing millions of other mothers in this world experienced...

Mourning.

For the loss of innocence. Every child gunned down in that building was absolutely innocent and yet, their lives taken. Every child present in that building came face to face with a horror that they should never have had to experience. Their feelings of safety and security robbed of them because of the action of a single person. Every other child in this nation who is old enough to absorb what was on the news that day was also robbed of that sense of security.

(And yes, for the pain and loss of the adults present that day as well. For the teachers, the staff, the policemen and the clergy that were all present to see such horrors. For the staff that selflessly sacrificed their lives for their students and will forever be remembered as heroes.)

For the fact that our world has come to this. I try to remain hopeful that things will get better but with each additional "breaking news" story of this nature, I lose a little bit more of that reserve. It just feels like things continue to get worse and worse in this world of ours. I look at my patients, most of whom are in their 80s and 90s, and think about the world they grew up in and compare it to the world I've grown up in. Even worse, I compare it to the world my children will grow up in. Things have gotten exponentially worse in the past 10 years. Gone are the days in which you could do anything safely. If you can't even send your children off to school safely, or go to church safely, or go to the mall safely, what CAN you do safely? It just breaks my heart that we now live in fear of the constant "what ifs" and that the "worst case scenario" is a part of our every day mentality.

It should be no surprise to anyone reading this that I'm quite the worry-wart. Since becoming a mother, I've often found myself worrying over what lies ahead for my children in their lives. I've even found myself wondering if it's a selfish act by bringing more children into this world when I'm not sure what kind of good the world may hold for them. Will things continue to become more scary for them? What obstacles will they face? What everyday fears will live within their hearts? With the passing of each generation, are we leaving this world a better place than when we entered it?

Call me a debby downer but it just doesn't seem that we are.

I'm not sure of what the answer is that could fix all of this. Do we tighten our gun control laws? Do we establish a better mental health system? Do we stop placing so much stock into the media and allowing them to "sensationalize" these events? I'm not going to jump into any of those debates because like I said, I'm not sure what the answer is.
I do believe that we've lost some sight into the good of the world. Obviously I have.

However, I also believe that if we raise our children in loving homes with strong morals and values, things could get better. I'll be the first to admit that I haven't always been the strongest Christian. But even through my own spiritual doubts and questions, its times like these that lead me back to my spiritual roots. Because I need to believe that there is something good ahead of us if we lead a good life and we teach our children to do the same.

So while I mourn the loss of the lives that were taken on Friday, the loss of innocence, and the probable loss of the world I had hoped my children would grow up in, I'm trying to renew my faith. I'm trying to be a better influence to my children in hopes that it'll make them better than I've ever been myself.

I pray with everything I have that someday, we'll find a better way. That people will stop doing this to each other. I pray that my children will see things turn around in this world and that they won't share the same fears for their children that I share for them. I pray that I can forever shield them from at least some of the pain in this world and when I can't shield them any longer, that God will do it for me. I pray that they will be stronger in their faith than I've been in mine. I pray that God will show me the way in teaching them.

Most of all, I pray that other parents share these same prayers. Maybe if we start to refocus on the good in this world and teach our children to do the same, things could actually change.

If nothing more, it'd be a step in the right direction.

Black + White = Gray.

I've been thinking all week about how to write this post. How to word exactly what I have to say and feel.

But there are so many words that I'm sure I won't be able to fit my feelings into one small post... regardless of how small it seems to all of you.

Last year, October was a highly anticipated month. I was so focused on being 36 weeks pregnant when the 1st rolled around that I didn't have the mindset to think about anything else. I was focused on October 27th, the date of our scheduled C-section and the expected birthdate of Lukas. As we got closer and closer to that date, the anticipation just grew and grew. All I could think about was Lukas and finally being able to hold him in my arms.

This year however, October has been an incredibly tough month for me. The minute it rolled around it was like a switch flipped inside this head of mine. I had so many things on my mind... my changing job, the house, the kids, the husband, my daily responsibilities... but one thing was always lingering in the back of it.... the miscarriage.

Two years later and it feels like yesterday.

I guess with all the chaos of last October and the anticipation of Lukas's arrival, I didn't have a chance to give it much thought. I'm paying for it this year.

It's hit me like a ton of bricks all over again. Not in a tearful way, just in a "I can't stop thinking about it" kind of way. I think about the 23rd and what it felt like to wake up that day pregnant and go to bed at the end of the day knowing my baby was dead inside me. I think about those moments in the ER... the moments I spent on the phone with two of my closest friends... the moments of sheer terror and desperation. I think about it all. It seriously plays like a movie in my mind because I remember it all. Every detail.

And for those of you who know me well, you know I'm terrible with details.

I think about the next four days and how my mom and Mike had to take turns taking PTO to stay home with Liana and I. I couldn't be left alone in the event that I started to actually miscarry because an 18 month old needs supervision - supervision I wouldn't be able to give her during that time.

I think about the 28th and how my family came over for lunch. I started feeling poorly as we ate and once everyone (but my mom) had left, I layed down. The cramps came on quickly and strong. At 3:30, I found myself screaming in agony on the toilet begging my mom to call the doctor. I remember thinking, "Am I going to die?" because it hurt that badly. I remember the feeling of everything leaving my body at once and realizing that what was left of my baby was in the toilet water below me. I remember having to put on gloves and pulling the tennis ball sized "mass" out of the toilet for Mike to take to the doctor so that they knew whether everything had come out or not. (It did.) I remember feeling emotionally dead for the rest of the day.

I remember going back to work two days later, walking into hospital rooms and trying to console family members of my patients while thinking to myself, "If only you knew....". I remember going into the hospital bathroom to take pills that would help my uterus contract so that we could be sure everything was out.

So last year, I didn't remember but this year I remember it all. I can't stop remembering. I wish I could.

I think that one of the worst parts of all of this is that the date I actually lost the baby falls just one day after the birth of my newest baby, Lukas Ryan.

Had I realized how much these dates would affect me, I would've scheduled the c-section for a few days later. Or on my actual due date of 11.3.

I feel like on the date which I should be entirely focused on Lukas, my mind is also elsewhere. It feels like he is really getting a raw deal.

The 27th = White. The day I celebrate the birthday of my little boy.
The 28th = Black. The day I mourn the loss of a baby I never got to meet.
Mix the two together and you have a whole lot of gray.

Sure, I try to focus on the celebration. My son means the world to me. I wouldn't give him up for anything. But I'd be a liar if I said my mind didn't shoot elsewhere every once in a while when these dates roll around.

I wonder whether this was the plan. I wonder whether God set this up to give me some reprieve & a cause for celebration in an otherwise hard week. I know one thing: when Mike and I started trying again after the miscarriage, it never once crossed my mind that I could have a baby 364 days after the loss of my last one. Had I known how things would evolve, I probably would have waited another month or two because I hate having these two events so closely tied together.

Then again, it sometimes seems fitting that they're close together because I wouldn't have one without the other.

The fact that this hit me again so hardly this year was unexpected to say the least. It's not that I ever "got over" the miscarriage but it felt like I had moved on from it. I guess this just goes to show that what they say about grief being a rollercoaster is true.... one day you're high, the next you can be low. I know it'll get better and I'm thankful that I'm emotionally healed enough that these thoughts haven't left me in tears.

I also know many people probably read/hear my words about miscarriage and think to themselves, "I just don't get why this was such a big deal. She was only 11 weeks." I'll admit, I often wonder that myself. But all I can say to that is this was a big deal to me. Every woman handles this loss differently..... I know many women who haven't talking openly about their miscarriages and seemed to move forward without ever looking back. I'm not them. I can't do that. And I know full well that there are other women, even some I know, that have experienced much greater losses. My heart aches for them because I know that as hard as this has been for me, it would have been even harder had I been farther along like they were when they lost their babies.

A friend sent this to me the yesterday:

It's a print she found on Etsy and I have to admit, it made me smile. It also almost made me cry but I was too busy getting ready for Lukas's party to cry, so I didn't.

This print, in all it's simplicity, was incredibly reassuring and comforting.

I have Liana & Lukas here on earth to cherish and a baby in heaven that awaits me. While I never got to meet that baby, I know he/she was born into good and safe hands. It's thoughts like that that help me move forward.

Here's to hoping November is a better month.....

And up next... Lukas is one. Stay tuned. :)

Disposable.

My heart needs to write. So, here I am.

For the past week, there's been a quote that has stayed in the forefront of my mind.

"It's sad when someone you know becomes someone you knew." 

-  Henry Rollins -

I can't tell you just how true this is.

Before I go any further, let me say this... I'm not perfect nor would I ever claim to be. I remind myself each day through my thoughts, behaviors, and actions that I am still a work in progress. I'm a person that is often guided (or misguided) by her emotions and at times, this makes me irrational and quick to react. It's one of my biggest faults.

Now with that being said, one thing I have learned about myself in the past five years is that if I love you, I will use everything in me to not react to a situation that might damage our relationship because I value it too much. I learned that lesson the hard way once and vowed I'd never do it again.

In spite of this, there have been a few times in my life where I've lost friendships that I didn't expect to lose. Most of them were during my younger years and occurred simply because we grew apart as we grew up. But over the last few years, I've lost two friendships that I expected to last a lifetime. In fact, both of these people were in our wedding... a wedding party Mike and I chose based on who we felt would be in our lives for the long haul. (Hence the reason our wedding party was quite small.)

I hate it when I'm wrong.

One loss was a few years ago and one was much more recently. With the addition of this second loss, I've found myself really struggling with why this has happened twice now.

I have so many questions running through my head. Questions like:

How did I get here again? What did I do to deserve this?
Why did you ask something of me and when I couldn't deliver it, you throw our friendship away? Why was our friendship conditional to you?
How are you content with not being a part of my (or my kids) life? Or not having me be a part of yours?
While it feels like I did everything I could have to prevent this, could I have done more?
Are my expectations of my close friendships too high?
Why didn't you show us the same respect of thinking before reacting that we showed you? After all those years of friendship, it seems like we owed that to each other.
I miss you... don't you miss me/us too? Or are you just unwilling to admit it?

My heart just feels broken. I don't know why my friendship to these people was so disposable, why they could walk away so easily after so many years.

I know it hasn't been that easy for me. It saddens me so deeply that at this point I won't get to be a part of their lives... see them have children... share in the joys and the sorrows that life dishes out. It also saddens me that they won't get to be a part of my life... know my children as they grow... share in my own joy and sorrows.

Every time I look at our wedding photos, my heart becomes heavy now. The one thing I had hoped to avoid when choosing our wedding party has happened.

I've often wondered if maybe I put too much stock into people. Maybe I trust them too deeply. I've always been the kind of girl who would rather have a few very close friends rather than a lot of acquaintances (though I seem to have a lot of those these days too, thankfully). Maybe that's my recipe for disaster. Maybe it places too much pressure on my friendships.

But what would life be without those close friendships? It seems like it would be more lonely. Less intimate. Less meaningful.

I am so blessed to have the friends I do, even after losing these two very important people. I'm thankful to have my husband, who truly has been my best friend (even when he's also been a royal pain!) for the past 11 years. His friendship really has been unconditional.... he's seen the best and worst of me and still, we're there for each other. He chooses to love me rather than leave me. He's stuck by my side through both of these ordeals (as they have directly impacted him and his friendships, as well) and supported me the best that he could. I'm thankful to have a few girlfriends that I'd move mountains for because their friendships really do feel unconditional. We may talk every day or every few weeks but regardless of where on this spectrum they fall, the friendships remained strong. I'm thankful for my sister and my mom, both of whom have also seen me through the best and worst my life has had to offer and who I consider friends in addition to family.

I place a lot of stock into these existing friendships.

I pray that they remain strong and that twenty years down the road, I'll look beside me and they'll still be standing there. Having stood the test of time.

I pray that someday I'll understand why this had to happen. I pray that someday I'll look back and no longer doubt what I could have done differently.

I pray that I find peace in all of this. Closure.

And if I'm to be completely honest, I admit that I still find myself praying that someday, somehow, these two people make it back into my life. It's happened before, only time will tell if it could happen again. <3

October 23rd.

One year ago today, I woke up 10 weeks pregnant.

Only a few days before, we had officially shared our news with the world.

And by the end of that day, I found myself in the ER watching an ultrasound screen confirm the fact that we would never hold that baby in our arms. I cried tears I didn't know I was capable of crying.

October 23rd, 2010 was one of the two most emotionally and physically painful days of my life. Yes, there have been other difficult days.... but the 23rd and the 28th take the cake.

One year later, I wake up on October 23rd and find myself 38 weeks, 3 days pregnant. Four days from now, I'll be holding a son.... my son.... our son....in these arms of mine.

I cannot tell you how deeply affected I've been by my miscarriage last year. How there's been very few days over the last 365 where I haven't thought about that baby. My heart still aches to know that child and tears still fall when I think about what "could have" been. It's not something I talk about much anymore but the reality is, it's still there. Right under the surface. Almost all the time.

Four days from now, I'll meet my third child but only the second one I'll ever hold, ever touch, ever name, ever kiss.

And once he's here, I hope that I'll better understand why things happened the way that they did at this time last year.

My arms are ready. My heart is ready.

Four days.

The sum of two wholes.

Here it is.... what I hope will be my final post that focuses on my miscarriage. I've divided it into two parts: Part One is simply something I found while fishing around on the internet this  last week. While my heart is now healing, I feel the need to share this with others whose pain is more fresh and tender. I wish I had come across this months ago because I know it would've been comforting to me then, so I hope that someone else can find the comfort in it now. Part Two of this post is what it is.... no explanation needed.

Part One:

What We Wish Everyone Knew about Pregnancy Loss.

By Elizabeth Soutter Schwarzer

When trying to help a woman who has lost a baby, the best rule of thumb is a matter of manners: don't offer your personal opinion of her life, her choices, her prospects for children. No woman is looking to poll her acquaintances for their opinions on why it happened or how she should cope.

-Don't say, "It's God's Will." Even if we are members of the same congregation, unless you are a cleric and I am seeking your spiritual counseling, please don't presume to tell me what God wants for me. Besides, many terrible things are God's Will, that doesn't make them less terrible.

-Don't say, "It was for the best - there was probably something wrong with your baby." The fact that something was wrong with the baby is what is making me so sad. My poor baby never had a chance. Please don't try to comfort me by pointing that out.

-Don't say, "You can always have another one." This baby was never disposable. If had been given the choice between losing this child or stabbing my eye out with a fork, I would have said, "Where's the fork?" I would have died for this baby, just as you would die for your children.

-Don't say, "Be grateful for the children you have." If your mother died in a terrible wreck and you grieved, would that make you less grateful to have your father?

-Don't say, "Thank God you lost the baby before you really loved it." I loved my son or daughter. Whether I lost the baby after two weeks of pregnancy or just after birth, I loved him or her.

-Don't say, "Isn't it time you got over this and moved on?" It's not something I enjoy, being grief-stricken. I wish it had never happened. But it did and it's a part of me forever. The grief will ease on its own timeline, not mine - or yours.

-Don't say, "Now you have an angel watching over you." I didn't want her to be my angel. I wanted her to bury me in my old age.

-Don't say, "I understand how you feel." Unless you've lost a child, you really don't understand how I feel. And even if you have lost a child, everyone experiences grief differently.

-Don't tell me horror stories of your neighbor or cousin or mother who had it worse. The last thing I need to hear right now is that it is possible to have this happen six times, or that I could carry until two days before my due date and labor 20 hours for a dead baby. These stories frighten and horrify me and leave me up at night weeping in despair. Even if they have a happy ending, do not share these stories with me.

-Don't pretend it didn't happen and don't change the subject when I bring it up. If I say, "Before the baby died..." or "when I was pregnant..." don't get scared. If I'm talking about it, it means I want to. Let me. Pretending it didn't happen will only make me feel utterly alone.

- Don't say, "It's not your fault." It may not have been my fault, but it was my responsibility and I failed. The fact that I never stood a chance of succeeding only makes me feel worse. This tiny little being depended upon me to bring him safely into the world and I couldn't do it. I was supposed to care for him for a lifetime, but I couldn't even give him a childhood. I am so angry at my body you just can't imagine.

-Don't say, "Well, you weren't too sure about this baby, anyway." I already feel so guilty about ever having complained about morning sickness, or a child I wasn't prepared for, or another mouth to feed that we couldn't afford. I already fear that this baby died because I didn't take the vitamins, or drank too much coffee, or had alcohol in the first few weeks when I didn't know I was pregnant. I hate myself for any minute that I had reservations about this baby. Being unsure of my pregnancy isn't the same as wanting my child to die - I never would have chosen for this to happen.

-Do say, "I am so sorry." That's enough. You don't need to be eloquent. Say it and mean it and it will matter.

-Do say, "You're going to be wonderful parents some day," or "You're wonderful parents and that baby was lucky to have you." We both need to hear that.

-Do say, "I have lit a candle for your baby," or "I have said a prayer for your baby."
 
-Do send flowers or a kind note - every one I receive makes me feel as though my baby was loved. Don't resent it if I don't respond.

-Don't call more than once and don't be angry if the machine is on and I don't return your call. If we're close friends and I am not responding to your attempts to help me, please don't resent that, either. Help me by not needing anything from me for a while. 

If you're my boss or my coworker:

-Do recognize that I have suffered a death in my family - not a medical condition. 

-Do recognize that in addition to the physical after effects I may experience, I'm going to be grieving for quite some time. Please treat me as you would any person who has endured the tragic death of a loved one - I need time and space.

-DO understand if I do not attend baby showers/christening/birthday parties etc. And DON'T ask why I can't come. 

Please don't bring your baby or toddler into the workplace. If your niece is pregnant, or your daughter just had a baby, please don't share that with me right now. It's not that I can't be happy for anyone else, it's that every smiling, cooing baby, every glowing new mother makes me ache so deep in my heart I can barely stand it. I may look okay to you, but there's a good chance that I'm still crying every day. It may be weeks before I can go a whole hour without thinking about it. You'll know when I'm ready - I'll be the one to say, "Did your daughter have her baby?" or, "How is that precious little boy of yours? I haven't seen him around the office in a while."

Above all, please remember that this is the worst thing that ever happened to me. The word "miscarriage" is small and easy. But my baby's death is monolithic and awful. It's going to take me a while to figure out how to live with it. Bear with me.

Part Two:

Closure.

(Originally written 5.31.11)

I've been thinking about this post for days and everything I want to say. So with some time on my hands, here it goes....

May was a pretty awful month with a few shining moments.

This month has been nothing short of an emotional rollercoaster for me. One minute I'm up.... excited about my "rainbow baby" and everything in store for this family of mine. The next minute I'm down.... grieving the loss of the "angel baby" that could've been here in my arms. It seemed like I just couldn't find the happy medium anywhere and in all honesty, it deeply affected the two greatest aspects of my life.

My marriage suffered greatly this month. Mike and I have been at each other's throats constantly. (Granted, the stress of our house being under repair/remodel hasn't helped matters much.) All I wanted was to feel like this mattered to him too.... but never once was I given that impression. And rather than tell him that, I just yelled. About everything. It wasn't good. During a fight last week I said to him, "If you think it's hard living with me, I need you to understand that it's even harder being me right now." Thankfully, I think my point was received.

My ability to parent has suffered. I didn't have the emotional energy to pour into Liana like I usually do. Of course I still adored her but when I can barely take care of myself, how am I expected to take care of a two year old too? It wasn't easy and I'll be the first to admit that Liana has watched FAR too much television this past month as a result. Again, not good.

In addition, I've been emotionally removed from some of the things my family has been going through as well as my friends. It dawned on me this weekend that because I've been so wrapped up in what I was feeling, I often forgot to ask about what others were feeling... not cool Haley, not cool.

Thankfully, my job did not suffer. I found solace in work.... it was my escape. The days I worked were the only days I didn't feel miserable. I didn't dwell on my emotions while I was working. It was helpful to focus on the problems of others rather than on my own.

The days/week surrounding our May 17th due date were definitely the worst. Dates have always been significant to me so to think of the things I could've been experiencing as we came to the 10th... the 17th... and all the dates surrounding those two.... was painful.

Just as we got past our May 17th due date and I was able to breathe a little, I found myself faced with one more "hurdle". My friends, JJ & Jessie, welcomed their little girl into the world on the 23rd. Jessie had announced her pregnancy last October on the same day that I later miscarried. When I found out that morning that she was expecting too, I was so excited that we were due within a week of each other and that we'd be having babies so close in age. After my miscarriage, however, I watched her belly grow and couldn't help but let my mind go to the different places it was naturally bound to go. I felt so many emotions surrounding her pregnancy and while jealousy reared its ugly head every now and again, I was thankful that it wasn't the most prominent one. More so than anything, I was thrilled for her joy and thankful that her baby was okay. Because no mother should have to endure the loss of a pregnancy or a child.

So while I was excited for her little girl to come into this world, I was also quite scared because I thought baby Madison would be a permanent reminder of what I was missing. For this reason, I feared the day Jessie would make the announcement that she was in labor. I figured it was going to be the straw that broke the camel's back for this aching heart of mine.

However, that was not the case. While the 23rd was intensely emotional for me, the next day brought something quite unexpected.... a strong sense of peace to my heart.

After work on the 24th, I went up to visit Jessie, JJ, and baby Madison in the hospital. I won't lie.... I was really terrified to walk into that hospital room. I stood outside of the door as I washed my hands and thought, "Can I really do this?" but before I knew it, I was walking in. And as I held Madison, my first reaction was pure excitement.

Excitement at their beautiful baby girl and everything in store for JJ & Jess. But even more surprisingly, excitement for me. Because five months from now, I hope to be holding my own baby in these arms.  Only for a fleeting moment did I feel sadness over what I didn't have right then and there....instead, I was overjoyed at what was still in store for me.

Thank you, God. For proving me wrong and for showing me the way. Again.

I thought Madison would be another source of grief in my life because she would always be a "reminder". Instead, I found the opposite to be true. She gave me closure. Something I so desperately needed. Something my heart was ready for. She gave me joy... for her parents and myself. She gave me hope for everything that's still to come.

Since then, my heart has been lighter. I've been able to focus more on this pregnancy and not the last one. I haven't cried.... and as a person who rarely cries but has done so frequently these past few weeks, that's a huge step in the right direction. I feel like I'm on a steady upswing and that the ground I'm standing on is growing more solid as the days pass. I pray for no more mis-steps and I pray the foundation I'm standing on doesn't crumble again. I'm not sure my heart could handle much more of that.

I've got a lot to look forward to these days and while I'm still a bit timid at times, I do feel the excitement brewing down deep. Our 20 week ultrasound is just 2 short weeks away and while this brings up a significant amount of fear in my heart, I continue to remind myself that more likely than not, our baby is perfect and healthy (and according to Liana, a girl!). Our house is finally put back together which is a HUGE weight off my shoulders. The kitchen remodel looks amazing and I couldn't be happier with it. At this point, it seems that life is starting to come together a little bit more. Finally. :)

So yes, May has been a tough month. One of my toughest months to date, in fact. June arrives tomorrow and while I'm ready to kick May to the curb, I am thankful for this new peace within my heart and I know I couldn't have gotten to this point without going through all of those points. I know that every single day I lived through this month, whether good or bad, added up me being right here, right now which makes it all worth while. I know our angel baby will always be a part of my story and I wouldn't want it any other way. But my heart needs to move on. And my family needs it to move on, too.

For that reason, I pray that this is the last entry I write that focuses on my miscarriage and I pray that the ground beneath my feet stays strong.