Disinheriting myself

https://www.facebook.com/notes/to-write-love-on-her-arms/disinheriting-myself/10150747770629658


Above is the link for the following "note". I did not write this note. It is signed by the writer, Emmi.

I was born into a legacy of bitterness.

One side of my family consists of a long line of women whose lives haven’t turned out quite as they had imagined. They might not say it outright, but they are angry, and they have been angry for a long time. They have been left by more men than they can count; fathers, husbands, and lovers have walked out of their lives without looking back, but not before doing some deep damage. They can’t seem to forget, and those memories have decayed into a sense of bitterness, which makes itself known through criticism, gossip, and broken relationships.

It’s exactly the kind of legacy no one wants to inherit.

I wondered for a long time if this legacy was mine to inherit too, just like the women before me had inherited it from their mothers and grandmothers. Never mind that I have an amazing father who chose to stay and to fight for me through the most difficult years of my life. Never mind that I am not prone to heartbreak. When a trait runs that strongly in your genes, it’s hard not to wonder if you will have it too, like blue eyes or a long nose. It begins to seem inevitable.

But then, that thing happened, the thing that threatened to give me my own list of “if only’s,” the event that threatened to toss me into a pit of bitterness without a means to climb back out. And in the brokenness, anger, and heartache that followed, I somehow decided that I didn’t want any part in this legacy of bitterness.

I chose to disinherit myself.

I chose to forgive.

Putting this decision into action hasn’t been the simplest thing I’ve ever done. Sometimes when your heart is smashed into a million pieces, you have to dig pretty deep to collect all of them again, and along the way, anger and bitterness and resentment rear their ugly heads and try to convince you that it will be easier to just give in to them.

And sometimes, that’s a pretty tempting idea.

Those are the days when you have to take a deep breath and choose, again, the path to forgiveness. And if that’s not enough, those are the days when you find someone who will help you want forgiveness, and you sit with them and cry about how unfair it all is until you settle down and realize that what you’re doing feels terrible and the forgiveness thing is just a better idea anyway.

And after enough days, and maybe months, of deciding again and again to forgive, it suddenly becomes easy. And you’re finally not angry any longer.

Here’s the thing: harboring bitterness against someone else ultimately doesn’t affect them very much. But it could destroy you. That bitterness will seep into your thoughts, words, and actions, and it will affect your relationships with the people you love. So, forgive—if not for them, then for you.

In the end, no matter how your plans turn out, no matter how others treat you, you get to choose what your life looks like. I’m choosing fullness, joy, and forgiveness.

It’s a legacy that I hope will live on for many, many years.

Emmi

I hope I gave the proper credit to the writer. I seem to be having a hard time writing my own stuff these days. I keep sharing other peoples ideas. Anyway, I found this on the Facebook Page To Write Love on Her Arms.  Other people are so much better writers than I am. I don't even realize this is how I feel, until I see someone else write it. One reason I am working so hard on getting over this grief, is because I want to be emotionally healthy. I want to come out on the other side a better person. I don't want to feel anger, hate, depression. One day, I won't feel that anymore. So, please bear with me.



 

Lari Teresa

 The following is what my sister, Teresa, wrote for Daddy's Memorial Service. And since I knew her when she was younger, I still call her Teresa.

How do I do this?  How do I put into words what my dad means to me?  Words can’t possibly convey all the intricacies of our relationship.

I was named after my dad.  Larry.  Who names a girl Lari?  I really hated having a boy’s name when I was growing up.  I couldn’t understand why my parents did that to me. I used my middle name when I was younger.  After I graduated from high school, I starting using the name Lari because I liked being unique. But as I get older I understand why my parents gave me that name.  My dad gives meaning to my name.  He’s the reason I’m proud to be named Lari.  My husband and I gave our oldest son the middle name of Lawrence in honor of my dad.  He reminds me of my dad.  He’s a strong, honorable man. 

I’m not sure how my dad survived living with 5 women.  It was usually loud and emotional.  But somehow he supported us all.  I never appreciated the pressure he must have felt being the sole support for a family of six until I had a family of my own. 

I remember lots of weekends spent at the lake water skiing or just playing in the water.  He taught us all how to water ski.  He spent hours driving the boat pulling one or the other of us on skis or the boogie board he built for us to ride on.  Sometimes the trip there and back was an adventure in and of itself.  There was the time the car almost didn’t make it a big hill.  By the time we got to the top we were only going about 10mph.  We had a flat tire on the boat trailer, got the car stuck in a small ravine where we were camping, and frequently had difficulty getting the boat back on the trailer and out of the water.  But I don’t remember him ever letting those problems beat him.  That may have been the best lesson he taught me.  You just put your head down and keep moving forward to fix the problem. 

I used to love going to visit his office, especially when he worked at IBM.  They always had some cool machine for us to play with.  He took us down there one day to let us play with this new machine called an ATM.  It was a prototype that issued play money.  I don’t know how long we stayed there getting money out of that ATM.  Too bad it wasn’t real money.

I was listening to George Strait while I was driving back to St. Louis after telling him goodbye a couple of weeks ago and one of my favorite songs came on.  It’s a song about how Dads love their children no matter what.  “Daddies don’t just love their children every now and then.  It’s a love without end.”  It was so true with him.  He could be mad or disappointed with us but we always knew he loved us. 

The world feels colder, darker and less safe now.  I wish he was still fighting but I know he was so tired of being sick.  He hated being sick.  He loved life.  I love you and miss you Dad.  I hope you’re up there somewhere playing with Sam. 

 The world does indeed feel colder, darker, and less safe now. And Sam was Daddy's dog. 

"That is a type of murder"

http://freethoughtblogs.com/bluecollaratheist/2012/01/04/how-to-kill-the-dead/

There’s the physical death of the person, and it’s something everybody has to do. No matter how much we love someone, their death will happen and there’s no way to prevent it.
But there’s the possibility of this second death, the death of their memory and legacy as it exists in our heads. The death of their story, the true story of who and what they were, as it might be told to others to help them know the person as you did.
THIS death, in these cases is no accident.
People die because they die. But when you destroy the memory of them, that’s a type of murder.


The above is an excerpt from the blogger.

This is what happened to us. I should say part of what happened to us. This is so hard to explain. I have been trying to blog about my anger. Trying to paint the picture of my anger. Trying to get through the anger phase of grief for my Dad. I have been trying to really understand why I am so angry. I'm going to try to break down these three paragraphs. Here is how I relate to them.

Paragraph one - the physical death.  Basic fact. I have stated before, unless you are a werewolf or vampire, you will not live forever. You, me, all of us are going to die one day. Basic fact.

In our case, our Dad did not have to die when he did. Yes, stage four cancer. He was going to die. He was going to lose the war. But he did not have to lose this particular battle. He could have lived to see Jes graduate. It was impossible to count how many grandparents there were at her graduation ceremony. I was told by my brother and sister-in-law that when their only child graduated college, they were only allowed two tickets for the ceremony. They gave those two tickets to their only child's grandparents.  Daddy could have lived long enough to be at Jes' graduation. It was only two months and 4 days away. March 14, 2012 Daddy died. May 18, 2012 Jes graduated college. This is what I cannot comprehend. Daddy's wife was absolutely sure Daddy was dying any day. She convinced him he was dying, then and there. Nothing to do about it. Doctors said Larry is dying, according to his wife. Larry can go home on Wednesday, is what the doctors actually said. In this case, that was no accident. That is a type of murder. She convinced our Dad that it was time to die. Daddy trusted her, and believed her. And died.

Paragraph two - the death of their memory and legacy. I'm not sure if I can do this right now. I think I can do snippets. I can get past paragraph one - the physical death. That I can accept. I can accept the physical death. I can't  get to the death of Daddy's memory. I'm just going to throw out sentences. I can't look at the whole picture yet.

We were only told Daddy was cremated when our sister, Teresa, asked our aunt Linda about it. About a week after the memorial service. Which was two weeks after his death. No one thought to tell us about his cremation until we asked.

I vaguely remember hearing something about the organ donation. But it is only vague. No one bothered to tell us the facts. I vaguely remember Teresa had to ask Linda about it as well.  Vague memories of our father's organ donation.

The first time we asked for some ashes, we were told no. We couldn't have any. The second time we asked, no we can't have any. The third time we asked for ashes, the answer was, again from Linda, "We thought it was understood that you would get some." The fourth time we asked, was actually not done in the form of a question. It was done in the form of public humiliating his wife on Facebook. For all of her friends to see. I have touched on this in a previous post. A picture of my Dad's headstone showed up on my newsfeed. I made the comment "It is so nice of you to respect the wishes of Daddy's dead parents, while continuing to ignore the request of his live children." Two hours later, we all got an e-mail from Stacy saying she was mailing us some ashes the next day. We had to ASK for ashes. Not ask once, ask FOUR times. Denied his memory in the form of ashes.

Only one of Daddy's children could even bear to go to one of the two memorial services. We were invited to attend. If we couldn't attend, we could write a paper to be read. We were not invited to help select music. We were not invited to speak. We were not invited to help plan the services. We were not allowed any input into our own father's memorial service. We were invited to attend. We were not allowed to show the world, the attendees....  We were not allowed to show the Daddy side of Larry Bonner, to the world, to his friends. The world was denied the memories and legacy of Daddy as told by his children. His children. Not one single person has reached out to us. I take that back. Daddy's sister Linda tried. But, she was only trying to show us Stacy's side. She was not willing to look anything from our point of view.

I can't even talk about us being denied any material items that were Daddy's. For us, these items would represent his life. His legacy. His memory that we could touch and hold and look at.

Not only did Daddy's wife hurry his death along, she continues to murder his legacy and memory of being a Dad.

Dear Daddy

I have been told a few times that a helpful exercise is to write a letter to my lost loved one. I should tell them everything I would want to say if they were still alive. The next step in the exercise is to write a letter from them, to me. What? How am I suppose to do that? That is why I haven't really done it yet. I can't wrap my mind around the letter John and Daddy would write to me. Too fucking painful to even think about. Can't go there. No way. No how.

I have "talked" to them both in my private journal. It is like talking to myself though. Helpful sometimes, but not usually.

I apparently am still having very serious anger issues. I almost went off on the postal worker today. I didn't because I really like her. She is the nicest postal worker we have in this little town. Anyway, my anger de-railed me for hours. I went back to bed. Tossed. Turned. Slept a little. I didn't want it to ruin my whole day because I had things that needed to get done. Today was not the day to stay in bed. I worked through it with a lot of help from Betsy and Jes.

I pulled myself together and got the lawn mower started. (You know how hard that is when it hasn't been started all year?) While I was mowing the grass, I was writing a mental letter to Daddy. Before I knew it, the yard was almost done. Go me.

And then I started thinking about what Daddy would say to me. What he would have to say about what I want to tell him. I want to tell him all of my pain and anger. I picture him listening, then giving me a big Daddy hug, and kissing the top of my head, saying Wow, thanks for telling me that. Then he would tell me what he really thought. He would try his very best to get me to understand his side of the story. And I would listen, and I would cry. And he would cry.

I still cannot figure out what he would say to get me to understand his side of the story. I'm not there yet. I don't even want to go there yet. I just want to tell my side. I'm too mad to listen to his side.

Unfortunately, this thought - Daddy wouldn't want you to act like this - is in my head. I know he wouldn't. That is why I never told him this stuff when he was alive. I had way to much respect for him and his feelings. But, and it's a big one, he is dead. I wouldn't feel this bad if he was alive. I wouldn't be acting like this if he was alive. He is dead and cannot tell me I am wrong.

So, all of you people that don't want to hear this. Everyone that is not comfortable with anger. Everyone that is not comfortable with death. Everyone that just wants me to feel better. Everyone that doesn't know what to say. Everyone that wants to bury their head in the sand. .... It hurts.....

Oh, Facebook

Oh, Facebook, why do you torture me so???

I love Facebook. I love keeping up with friends and family. I "chat" with nieces, nephews, sisters, sister-in-laws. I have political debates. I get to see what is going on with friends. This is stupid, but I get a lot of news from Facebook. I follow lots of pages. The page admins read tons of articles and post ones they feel are relevant. So, I get to read interesting articles without having to read a bunch of un-interesting ones. I have found internet news websites, that I would have normally not found. Anyway, I love Facebook.

BUT. It's a big butt. My anger gets fed via Facebook as well. I know, I know, just unfriend them. Why don't I do that? Good question. Maybe because I like my anger? No, I don't like it. I think it is because I have unresolved issues. I don't want to just bury them. Or let them go. I want to feel better about the person/people I am angry at. I just can't see that burying it, or letting it go is going to help. I feel like I need to work through the anger. If I just bury it in the backyard, I will always know that it is there. I can always go dig it back up again. Or, it could crawl right back out of the hole I put it in. Does that sound helpful? It doesn't sound helpful to me. I have to keep passing around this football until it wears out. I cannot put it in the closet, never to look at it again. If I stick the football in the closet, I can never move (move out, move forward). Moving would mean I had to clean or empty the closet. There's the football again.

I started this blog because of my anger. So, here is what made me mad today.

My Facebook profile picture is of John. This was one of the last pictures ever taken of him. John is not smiling, he is not posing. He was just standing there, and I snapped the picture. He just look so good to me then. He looked so John. So strong, so manly. So real. I have seen other pictures that I thought would make good/cute profile pics. But, I can't change the one I have now. Not yet, maybe one day.

My dad's wife, on the other hand, just changed her profile picture from one of them both, to one of just herself. I didn't go look at her page. It popped up on my newsfeed that she changed her profile picture. My husband died 4 months ago. Her husband died 2 months ago. Yes, I know, everyone grieves differently. But this is MY DAD!!!!! Everything having to do with her, has to do with me and my grief. I just got an email from her giving her new contact information. What? At this point, what the fuck do I want with that information? Unless she is ready to acknowledge my existence, my pain, my loss, fuck her. Unless she is willing to acknowledge that WE lost DADDY, fuck her. If she cannot understand what she did to us, in Corpus, when Daddy was in the hospital, fuck her.

It was not a fucking miracle that Daddy wasn't dead when Linda arrived at the hospital that day. Or that he was still alive when we arrived the day before. At that point, on that day, he wasn't dying. He still had a chance!!!!!!!!!!! Dr. Gregory and Dr. S (the cancer doctor) said it on Friday morning. The morning Stacy INSISTED Betsy and I be there to hear the doctors. Well, Stacy, we heard the doctors. I don't know what the fuck you heard, but I do know what we heard. The doctors were planning on Daddy going home the next Wednesday. Going home, not "going home to Jesus". Going HOME!!!! Stacy fucking called us down there because Daddy was dying!!!!!!! Our Dad. He wasn't dying then. I may never be able to forgive her for that. My daughter and nephew brought funeral clothes. And he still had a fighting chance.

I am not letting go of Facebook. It is a few hours of the day that I can just "check out". Why should I give that up? I am not "unfriending" Stacy. I have to work this out. I'm not going to hide. I'm not putting on blinders. I'm facing up.

John's stuff

John drove an 18-wheeler for a living. We actually got to team drive together for about 2 1/2 years. "It was the best of times, it was the worst of times".

The day after he died, I called his company to let them know what happened. They cleaned his truck out that day. I thought that was too quick, but, it wasn't my truck, so, whatever. There was absolutely no way I could go get John's stuff, at that time. No problem, they said.

Two months later, I thought I was ready to get his things. I had been running around the country, visiting family, running away basically. I felt closer to John when I was on the interstates with the big trucks. I wished I had his CB to just listen to the truckers talk. Maybe chat with some of them. I also wanted his trucker's maps. And there was one little piece of paper, a little score card we kept in the truck for months. I wanted that little piece of paper.

I mentally prepared myself to go get it. It was very hard calling Tim (the dispatcher). I felt physically sick to my stomach driving to the yard. I kept telling myself  "Don't cry. Don't cry. John would hate that. Don't cry!!!!!"

(Ouch, telling this story, hurts. Hurts big.)

Anyway, I walk to the receptionist and ask for Tim. I stand against the wall, trying to be invisible. Don't look at me. Don't talk to me. Act like you don't even see me. I didn't even see the boxes sitting there. Tim comes out, and says "The boxes are here. I'll help you carry them out." He grabs one box, and I grab one box, and burst into tears. Loud crying. Not the silent tears. The loud sobbing. I say "I'm sorry, I thought I was ready for this." I cannot go back into that building. All I can do is stand by my truck and cry. Three ladies come out to help. They were very nice and helpful. They helped calm me down. Good women.

When I got home, I just put the boxes in Jes' room. I couldn't really look at them. I would try to look, then quickly turn my head. The boxes are still sitting there because I left town again a couple of days later. That was almost two months ago. I haven't been home in about two months.

I am going home tomorrow to get the house ready for Jes to come home. Those boxes are waiting for me. Ouch.

Anger Football

My anger is like a football. My family and I pass the football around and around. I feel like, if I can pass the ball to other people, maybe I can get rid of it. I tried and tried. One of Daddy's friends helped a little. She took my insults, cussing, my caps lock messaging (with exclamation marks). She took them repeatedly, and kept talking with me. I finally heard something that helped.

My aunt, on the other hand, didn't. We tried and tried with her, too. She didn't listen. She dropped the ball, and we had to pick it up again. This is our aunt. Our Dad's sister. You would think she would have listened and helped. She lived through the same thing we did. Why does she see it in such a different way than we do? Our/my anger only got worse. The football got dirty.

I finally got to tell the whole story of why I was so angry. I told it to my grief counselor. Finally, someone understood. What a relief. She understood and listened. She was not uncomfortable with anger. She understood. She also validated it. Our/my anger IS justified. Wow. I have been trying to tell people that since Daddy died.

Renee, my counselor, went through the same thing we did when her mom died. She was minimized, disrespected, told to "get over it". Her feelings were "diminished". That was her description of what happened to her. She didn't have anyone to listen either, except her husband, her sister, and her brother-in-law. No one would listen to their anger either. They passed the anger football around and around as well.

The way she described her experience was so in line with ours. I asked her "So, ya'll just passed the football between yourselves until it fell apart? Till there was nothing left to pass around?" She said, "Yes". The football slowly fell apart. The leather started thinning, the air leaked out. All that was left were the "ties that bind." You can't pass around a ball like that.

One day, our anger football will fall apart. It will.

Anyway, Renee liked my football analogy and asked if she can use it in the future. She is the one that gave me the popcorn analogy. She gave me another analogy about taking the top off of a soda that you just shook up, too. But, that is for another post.

I know that anger is very uncomfortable for people who don't share your anger. You just want them to not be angry anymore. I remember John calling me, from the road, being very angry at his boss/job/other drivers, etc. All I would want for him, is to let it go. It was only hurting him. But, I let him vent. I listened. I understood. That is what grieving people need. We need people to listen. We don't need advice. We don't need to "get over it". We need to get through it. Not over, under, around. But through it. We need people to listen. Just listen.

Four months today

Four months ago, today, was the worst possible day.

What can I say about it? How much I miss John? How much John has missed? How do I get used to my "new normal"? What is going to happen next? Etc, etc, etc......

Grief has been described as a bag of popcorn in the microwave. Your thoughts just pop. Pop, pop, pop. Eventually they will settle down and quit popping. It may be a protective thing. I cannot focus on one thought. How much I miss John? That is way too sad to even think about. I don't want to go there right now. How much has John missed? That is even more painful. How do I get used to my "new normal"? Good freaking question. No answer for that one. May as well not even think about it. What is going to happen next? Well, I hope it is good, but still afraid of a bad thing happening.

Pop, pop, pop.

I started this blog entry with the intent of thinking about John. Honoring his memory. But, pop, pop, pop, I can't focus on anything.

Pop, pop, pop.....

I will finish with this thought. WTF am I supposed to do?

Emotional Cleansing

I have a one-on-one counseling session this morning. I call the sessions my emotional cleansing. Grief is a complicated thing. (Understatement).

A friend of my sister's said "Stay away from the black hole". I call it my dark place. I spent 4 days last week in my dark place. I started this blog while in my dark place. I made it to Jes' house, and my dark place receded. The last 4 days have been spent living a regular life. Thank goodness for that.

The thing about therapy (especially group) is for that one or two hours, grief is the focus. I try to imagine what the other members are like outside of the group. It is hard to imagine them going to work, cooking dinner, laughing at jokes. But we do. Sometimes/usually.

Last night, we were watching TV, and the people on the show (reality show), were angry, yelling, cussing, fighting with each other, and my anger started. Jes changed the channel, and my anger subsided. There was no thought or plan. I wasn't even really paying close attention to the show. But, I got angry. Anger sneaked right up on me.

I need to tell my story this morning. I need someone to listen. Hopefully, I can make some progress today.

Respect or Expect

Everyone that knows me, knows I am a supporter of the Occupy Movement. This picture is from one of the Occupy Facebook pages.

This statement has another meaning for me, as well. Please remember this is my personal blog. This is my story, and my feelings. Of course, I know other people have different stories, and different feelings, but this is how I feel.

Daddy was 73 years old when he died. Him and his wife had celebrated their 10th anniversary in the summer of 2011. They were married 10 years! (For the record, John and I were married for 11 years).  So, for 63 years in the life of Larry Bonner, his wife did not know he even existed.  Okay, make that 62 years. They did date for a little while. I am 50 years old. I was in Daddy's life for all of those. 50 years. That's a long time.  I will make the assumption that when they got married, his wife knew he had children. It was her choice to marry him, knowing he had kids (4 of them). It was not the kids choice to marry her. It was her's and Daddy's. We didn't get to choose her. (Of course, it is Daddy's choice to marry whoever he wants, that is not the point I'm trying to make). The point I am trying to make is that she needs to respect our existence. Or expect resistance.

John died 7 weeks before Daddy. John, my husband. 7 weeks. I know what it feels like to lose your husband. 7 weeks. My John. I know what it feels like. It feels BIG. I am hurt. Hurt big. I KNOW what she is feeling. Been there. Done that.

As big as my loss is, I am not the only one that lost a loved one. John's mother is alive and well. He has three sisters, and multiple nieces and nephews. I am not alone in the loss. I respect their existence. I respect their loss. I made the telephone call to tell them about John. I made the telephone call.

We have not been given the respect of our existence. Therefore, I am giving her resistance.

I could possibly regret it later. Or not. It feels right, right now.

"Your Dad wouldn't want you to act this way". My dad is dead. I would love nothing more than for him to tell me I am wrong.

Larry was my friend

I cherish the relationship I have with John's family. We are respectful, loving, caring to each other. We share each others pain. We talk about John. I have tried my best to keep them informed of what is going on. I told them when he died. I told them about his organ donation. I told them about the autopsy. I told them when I received the ashes. I offered them some ashes. (If any of the Horrocks family are reading this, and I have not told you something, please let me know. And I apologize if I have left something out). What I have not been able to tell them is what happened during the 48 hours leading up to his death. I have only told that story beginning to end three times. Once to Jes, once to the lawyer, and once to the grief support group. I can't bring myself to re-live that pain to them. It is unfair to them, I know. I will be able to tell them one day.

The relationship I have with my dad's wife is the total opposite. It is toxic. It is hurtful. It is filled with hate and anger. It is intense. I believe this goes both ways. I'm sure she feels the same about us.

The contrast between the two families is one of the things I am so incredibly angry about. But, I got a little relief today. Here is the story of how that happened.

I posted a snarky comment on a picture on Facebook. The picture was of my dad's head-stone. One of Daddy's wife's friends, Norma, also posted saying that I was being disrespectful and Daddy would not be happy with me. Well, me being very angry and hard headed, let her have it. I showed her how disrespectful I can be. Norma apologized to me in a private Facebook message. I let her have it again. I cussed, I insulted. I was very angry.

Tonight, I got another private message from Norma. (And she publicly apologized, very much to her credit). This message was one that touched me. Touched my tender heart. She said a few things, but the most important one was...

Larry was my friend.


I cannot express how much that one sentence means to me.

Someone was finally listening. And responding. Responding with love for Daddy.

It is funny how I can feel so much better and so sad at the same time.

Blame and Anger

"You are angry and need someone to blame."

No, I do not need someone to blame. I already have something or someone to blame.

I blame CANCER.
I blame Disease.
I blame nature. If you are not a vampire or werewolf, you die.
I blame the cruise line.

I blame myself for going on that cruise. I blame myself for eating on the cruise. I blame myself for not taking John to the hospital. I blame myself for not doing the right thing. I blame myself for not knowing what he was going through was going to kill him. The list goes on and on and on and on.

I blame myself for not helping Daddy. I blame myself for not being there.

There you go. I don't blame any person but myself.

I blame "things", not any other person, but myself.

My advice, don't ever tell any grieving person that they need someone to blame. Unless their loved one was a crime victim, there is no one to blame.

And yes, I am angry. If you can't accept the fact that I am angry, fuck you. Your problem, not mine. Get out of my business. Get out of my life.

Blank pages

Blank pages of a journal. I have been told a healthy "grief" exercise is to write in a journal. It helps the left and right sides of the brain build healthy connections. I sure need some of those. I have been writing in a journal, but the problem is, it is private. I don't get to give anything away. I have to keep it all for myself. It is helpful, but only to a certain extent.

I am having serious anger issues. Keeping them to myself is not helping. I need to give it away. I need real, live people to receive it, empathize, sympathize, understand, listen, absorb, learn, accept, but most importantly, I need help. I need feedback. Please give thoughtful feedback.

This club/circle, whatever, of people who have lost a close loved-one, is very hard to understand if you are not in it. Please don't give me cliche's, i.e. "they are in a better place", "you are angry and need someone to blame."  That shit is sooooo not helpful. (Excuse my language. Warning: it will be used frequently.) If you don't know what to say, try "that sucks", or that fucking sucks. Or, "I hear you", or "keep on keeping on", "or hang in there".  If you can relate to what I am saying, GREAT! I would love to hear your stories! I would love to hear your experiences. That is helpful.

The best piece of advice I have gotten was from the lady that runs the Facebook page  - Grief Beyond Belief. She said sometimes anger spurs you into action. And she was right. I got into counseling because of my anger. I meet with a counselor one-on-one. And I go to a grief support group. I am trying. I am hoping this "phase" doesn't last long. I don't get a "break" from it. This is day three of no good, terrible, horrible, very bad days. I don't get to "back away".

John and Daddy are dead. Nothing will ever change that. That is with me every second of every day.