Rediscovery

This week, I put on the Apple Watch I purchased from my sister in September. I’ve probably worn it a total of ten times since I brought it home with me from Austin. I was optimistic early in the trip, thinking the week together would set me on a better path of healing and growth. I thought the reason I was having such a hard time was because my sister and I were grieving this separately, one time zone and hundreds of miles between us. Maybe once I returned home, I could get back into my exercise routine! I could start running again! Things could get better, and the Apple Watch would be the perfect tool to help make that happen.

I was wrong – turns out I was having a hard time because my brother died, and I was beginning to sink into the deepest depression of my life thus far. Shockingly, the Apple Watch sat untouched in a drawer for almost nine months. Until this week, when I pulled it out of the drawer, charged it up, and put it on my wrist.

I’ll be honest, I am not as in tune with technology as many other people, especially those in my generation. I’m well-versed, sure, but I am not the type of person who explores every feature of a gadget as soon as they receive it. It’s actually pretty delightful to discover “new” features of something you’ve owned for years – if a little embarrassing, also. Anyways, I started tinkering with the face of the watch, curious to see the different ways the date and time could be displayed. I discovered a setting that plays a slideshow of all the photos saved to your iCloud account (presumably, that means all my photos but I’m going to be very honest – I do not understand iCloud). Every time I check the time, or go to check a message or an app notification, a different photo appears on the screen.

Hilarious photos pop up, like the screenshot of a Facebook post I have saved on my phone specifically for the times when my best friends and I get together and we want to tell a certain story about our hometown. A photo of my COVID-19 vaccine card, the password to my wifi from the first day I set up internet in Pittsburgh, one thousand photos of the cats – any and all available the second I turn my wrist!

Other photos pop up, too: pictures of me with my family, with my boyfriend, with my friends. Screenshots of the last texts we have from Connall. Every photo I could find of him in the months following his death.

Those photos are hard to see in a random moment, sure. But what surprised me the most this week was not how difficult it was to see my brother’s face smiling up at me – I can see his face whenever I close my eyes. That pain is starting to lessen, day by day. What surprised me the most was how painful it is to see photos from a beach trip I took in September 2021, about five months after I moved to Pittsburgh.

It was a very busy week. My best friends, Kayla and Darlene, and Kayla’s family headed to a quiet area in the Outer Banks. I joined them a day or so later, flying to Virginia Beach and then renting a car to drive the rest of the way down. I was to be in a wedding in Northern Virginia at the end of the week, and would drive myself up to the venue and then fly back to Pittsburgh. A whirlwind, definitely.

Kayla and her family had stayed in the same place for their beach vacation for years. They hadn’t returned since her grandmother’s death, a period away that was made even longer with the global pandemic. Kayla’s husband had never been on a beach trip with her family, so it was a first for the best friends and the husband. It was a special trip, the first of what we hope will be yearly trips together – the three of us, I think perhaps an unlikely group on paper but a trio with a steadfast friendship that continues to carry me through the hardest moments of my life.

While we were there, the three of us organized a photo shoot. We have so few photos together from our early twenties, a consequence of rarely seeing each other in person. It was a blast, all of us in matching denim and black t-shirts, gallivanting around the beach while we forced Kayla’s husband to be our photographer, A truly good sport in every sense of the word, he captured us in our element. Pure joy on our faces, happiness in our eyes as we ran around together. I remember sitting on the beach as dusk turned to night, just the four of us. Kayla’s parents had long ago gone to bed leaving us to catch up about my new life in Pittsburgh. Kayla and Darlene have been listening to me talk about Pittsburgh since I was 11, so they were heavily invested in how my newest adventure was going.

I remember saying to them, “This is the happiest I’ve ever been.”

Seeing those photos pop up on my wrist (we took SO many) breaks my heart. I am the unhappiest I’ve ever been. I feel trapped in my mind, as if I have no control over my emotions, my body, my spirit. I am sinking, slowly, slowly, and each time I feel I’m close to reaching the surface, darkness pulls me back again. People tell me it’s good, to know I have the ability to be that happy, to know it’s possible.

It’s torturous. I have no idea who I am, and everyone says I’ll never be the same as before. I don’t like the version of me that exists now, so broken and bent I have to deconstruct every feeling, every emotion, every conversation, just so I can maintain the tenuous balance inside me. The girl in those photos doesn’t exist anymore. I can’t relate to the feelings she expressed, the hope she felt, the pride she had in her decisions and her strength. I am a fragile thing, desperate to feel strong, drowning in weakness, anxiety, and pain.

On the anniversary of Connall’s death, I wrote an open letter to him expressing my worry that he wouldn’t be proud of how I’ve handled losing him. Many people said kind words, many people who have not seen me in years or who have never met the version of me that exists now. My oldest cousin’s wife sent me a message that felt most true to my experience. She said, “You’re still here, and I’m proud of you for that.”

I’m still here. That’s going to have to be enough for today.

Getting on the same page

Content warning: I am deeply in love with my boyfriend

Grief changed me. I started grieving very early in my relationship with Jimmy. Intense grief can become a make or break thing for a couple. I remember driving to Virginia the day we found out Connall was gone; I kept wishing I could better prepare him for who he was going to meet, but I had no idea what to expect. The pain was only just beginning to rip me apart. But damn if that boy didn’t charm every member of my family, extended family, and pretty much everyone I’ve ever met. He had my family laughing deep, long, belly laughs not 24 hours after we lost such a bright and intense light.

At some point during that week, my uncle John asked Jimmy how long we had been together. When Jimmy told him it had only been a few months, I believe John uttered a shocked “Jesus Christ.”

I mean, it IS insane. In our one year together, we’ve gone through more than I ever thought I would go through with a partner. This weekend I told him I didn’t know this was what I should have been dreaming about – a true, deeply supportive partnership.

But, uh, this year has been HARD. The hardest year of my life, the days only getting harder, darker, scarier. At some point this winter, we just got off. We were both struggling to process our emotions amidst our new life together. We each come with our own traumas, for lack of a better word. We weren’t fighting, we weren’t unhappy – we were in survival mode. It took a dark weekend, therapy, and a LOT of processing on my part to come to a place where I could see what had been happening. It took another two weeks of me trying to put some new habits in place to help climb out of the darkness. We’ve had family obligations and busy schedules – and then this weekend, we had the opportunity to be together and be ourselves.

Funny enough, we started this weekend separately. We consciously planned time apart to recharge with friends we haven’t seen in a while. When we came together, I felt full of energy in a way I haven’t in months. We were spontaneous, playing pool in a dive bar with close friends, going to a small rave-like dance party at a bar we’ve been wanting to visit with two newer friends. We did this with open communication about how each other was feeling – after all, drinking amidst emotional processing can be a dangerous thing (and has been for me several times this year). We had open conversation with our friends about what we’ve been navigating and how we are making decisions about how we spend our time together and apart. It felt like we were a team again, on the same page in a way that I didn’t even know was possible anymore.

I didn’t know how much harder this would get. I didn’t know how much I would change – that I would forget what it felt like to feel truly happy with my life.. Once I started feeling so badly, I panicked that it would mean the end of our relationship. After all, he didn’t sign on for this version of me, did he?

I listened to a podcast last week where the hosts, a young married couple, answered questions from listeners, primarily asking for relationship advice. While answering a question, the husband said something along the lines of, “Choosing a spouse is choosing their problems. It’s choosing to be with that person on their darkest of days.” Now, I’ve been to about a thousand weddings (hi, PK). I’ve heard vows exchanged that include this very sentiment. But when it’s YOU, when it’s YOUR set of problems and trauma, when YOU are going through the darkest days of your life…it’s hard to remember that’s what partnership is.

We aren’t married. We aren’t engaged. We are building our future on a timeline that makes sense for us, our families, and our relationship. But Jimmy already chose my problems, my darkest days. And I chose his. Going through this has been terrifying, but on the other side I am discovering a love I never dreamed of, partner who truly knows me and loves me deeply. Taking things one day at a time is much easier if you know you’re going to laugh each day with your best friend.

My First Funeral

This weekend, I attended my first funeral since my brother’s last May. At first, I thought it was the worst timing possible. A FUNERAL the weekend after my darkest moment? What kind of karma is this? In reality, I think the anticipation of the funeral gave me the drive I needed to put my focus on my emotions, my grief, and ultimately my life. I spent the week processing every feeling that passed through me. I took each day as they came and I worked through my emotions so that I could articulate my thoughts and feelings to my loved ones. I made a plan and started making manageable changes to my daily life. I felt happier than I had in about four months.

So, did the funeral set me back? Did witnessing other people’s grief remind me of the depths of mine?

Highly recommend taking some time outside to unwind after an intense weekend.

It did not.

I’m not going to say it was easy. Crying at the funeral of a man you’ve never met is supremely uncomfortable and I can’t say I recommend it. I tried not to push down the emotions and memories I felt as I held my boyfriend’s hand and said goodbye to his grandfather. But I also worked to not let it overwhelm me, to not succumb to the darkness. Instead, I tried to reflect on the enormity of death, overwhelming at any age. I sat surrounded by people who exist because of the man we were saying goodbye to and felt the depths of their emotions, their sadness over the loss of a man whose life was well-lived. It turns out, grief can be complicated, stressful, and overwhelming no matter how long the person you loved lived. It made me feel less alone to be among people who were also grieving.

It was a long weekend full of meeting new people. I made it almost 24 full hours before someone asked how many siblings I have and, upon learning about Connall, how he died. I received comments from people about how I am handling my grief, about how strong and brave I am. I don’t feel brave, and I certainly didn’t feel brave in that moment, a mere one week past a scary and dark night when grief overtook me. But I did feel proud in that moment, to share about his loss and not hide from his memory. Throughout the weekend, I focused on supporting my boyfriend and processing my emotions. When I had a tough moment and worried I might spiral over something small, I called my parents and had a five minute conversation to reorient myself. It took one minute of hearing their voices to re-center and move forward in my brain.

So here I am, four days past my first funeral and still processing. I’m taking things one day at a time, making plans to help me feel fulfilled. I feel like myself again but I can still feel the grief inside. It will grow strong again and I will be ready to face it, move forward, and keep living.

Making it through the day

Spoiler: confronting your darkness is not very fun.

I find myself questioning my choices. Am I doing the right work or am I putting on a mask again? I don’t think I’m putting a mask back on, I feel different – more raw, maybe? It takes work to live one day at a time. This week, I want to get some things done at work, take a walk in the sunshine, and volunteer at youth group. Playing games with the kids and hearing their conversations recharges me in a way I didn’t expect. I missed a few weeks because I was worried I was too sad, that I would bring too much darkness into their space for fun and openness. I know now that I was avoiding the emotions that come with needing to recharge. I was identifying the emptiness as exhaustion, claiming I needed space to myself to relax.

It’s hard to know what will recharge me on a daily basis. Everyone around me seems to know how to rest and relax so they feel refreshed, but I don’t know how to figure that out for myself. If I’m home alone, I feel antsy and end up cleaning or working on finances or meal planning. If I’m out with friends, I worry about the things I need to get done. If I’m with my boyfriend’s friends or family, I worry about being the right version of myself, making sure I live up to the idea they have in their heads.

I had worked through this in therapy, and it feels like all my progress is gone. It’s so disheartening to move backwards, to second-guess everything; it gives the darkness space to seep in and take hold of me. I had a few good days but today feels like an opportunity to practice my plan. Breathe in, breathe out. Go outside and feel the sunshine. Listen to music, go for a run, talk to someone I love. Fill the emptiness not with anxiety but with joy, even if it’s simply gratitude for a sunny day and a fantastic salad for lunch. One day at a time.

Starting fresh

It was a scary weekend. I had been feeling low for a few days but our life required us to be busy and distracted, so I felt it had passed. Of course, once the wrong amount of alcohol comes into the picture, everything changes. I lost control of my emotions; the darkness took hold and pushed my rational self out, leaving my loved ones to pick up the pieces. I am not proud of this part of myself. The part of myself that needs an entire team of people to get through the night. The version of me who makes the wrong decisions, calls the wrong people, leaves destruction in their wake.

I know it’s best not to dwell on these things, that it’s better to learn from the situation and move forward with knowledge and grace. That’s what I’m doing today – making lists, journaling, reflecting. What do I want my life to look like? What do I need to get there?

It’s a lot to tackle in one day. Instead of overwhelming myself with sweeping life changes, I am going to work on getting through today. Just today. And that will lead into tomorrow. Perhaps one day I will go into detail about my brother, his life, our life, our bond. But for today, I will reflect and take a deep breath for myself.