Screaming in My Head

The screaming in my head doesn't stop. 

It drowns out reason. 

It swallows joy. 

I walk through the day with a soft pleasant smile on my face. 

A ready laugh. 

A kind word. 

But the screaming in my head doesn't stop. 

Beating against the inside of my skull. 

Incoherent raging. 

Uncontrollable madness. 

The adventure is always worth it. Step into your fear. 

Trite phrases. 

Meant to inspire. 

But the screaming in my head doesn't stop. 

A maelstrom of volatile emotions. 

Quick to laugh.

Just as quick to cry. 

Trying so hard to live with the screaming in my head, that doesn't stop. 

Until I am with you. 

Then everything in me settles. 

I calm.

Tension eases. 

Screaming quiets. 

I can rest, with my head on your chest. 

For a moment. 

Until you're gone. 

Then the screaming starts again.

When I am alone and it is very quiet I am very scared. 

Of you. 

Of us. 

Terrified of something so powerful that it can quiet the screaming in my head. 

His Name is Nick

The man who killed my son, his name is Nick. He is Romanian, divorced and he has a dog. 

It was not his plan. He was just driving along one day, doing his job. He was far from home. I can't imagine what it was like for him, to be the man who killed my son. I'm sure it happened in the blink of an eye. One moment he was driving along in a snow storm, the next moment a bone jarring crash. My son died in the blink of an eye. Instantly. 

How did he feel, the man who killed my son, in that instant? What was he thinking at
the moment of impact? How long was he there, in the middle of the road, waiting for rescue vehicles?  Did he get out of his truck? Did he look at the remains of my first born? I'm sure this man, who killed my son, was the first person to know that my Zac was never coming home again, the victim of a snowstorm, inexperience, a tractor trailer. 

The man who killed my son, his name is Nick. What did he do that evening? While I was screaming and sobbing, while I made phone calls to all those I loved, the man who killed my son was alone, in a strange city, in a hotel room. Did he sleep while I cried all night? I thought of him that night.  I wanted to talk to him. I wanted to tell him that I didn't blame him, forgave him even, for being the man who killed my son. I reached for him that night. Before all the other calls,  I called him first. He didn't answer his phone. But I thought of him. My heart hurt for him.  

A year and a half later I came home to find papers tucked in between the door knob and jam. I'd been served.  The man who killed my son is suing the estate.  He wants compensation for his pain and suffering. HIS pain and suffering. Who will compensate me for mine? I hated him in that instant. I forgave him, instantly,  for killing my son.  I do not forgive him for attempting to profit from it. He had no choice when my son's car spun out of control in a snow storm but he has a choice now. 

Conversations with insurance, a visit to the police chief to collect photos from the scene of the accident, emails and phone calls and meetings with attorneys, all to discuss the man who killed my son. I cry often. I throw up. I am sure the man who killed my son has no concept of what pain and suffering really is. 

Thanks to social media I have looked on the face of the man who killed my son. His name is Nick. He has family, friends and a dog that he loves. He is working, has bought a new truck. He states that he enjoys the simple things in life. 

I don't understand why he is pursuing this legal action.  Is it solely in pursuit of money? Does he feel legitimately wronged?  Was he grievously injured by the accident? I'm sure,  in some way, he is fundamentally changed, as I am. The whole world fundamentally changed that day, in an instant, when my son died.  But how is a legal action,  compensatory money going to make anything better?  I don't understand.  

December 18, 2017 my son lost control of his car in a snowstorm.  He was hit by a tractor trailer and died instantly.  In that moment, everything changed, my life forever tied to a stranger. 

The man who killed my son, his name is Nick. He is not a monster, just a man. 

My Kind of Crazy

Every now and then you meet someone that is the exact right kind of crazy.

They fit. Perfectly!

When you find that kind of crazy, the kind that complements your own, you grab on tight and hold on for the ride.

Life becomes an adventure.

You start at the top of the menu and work your way down.

You climb up on a chair to kiss a pirate.

You take long road trips to nowhere and eat pancakes at 1 am.

Crazy may mean drunken yoga on the beach.

It may mean matching flashy leggings.

It definitely means making friends everywhere you go.

Crazy means sharing secrets.

It means helping hide the body.

And it means no judgements.

Everyone needs a little crazy in their life. The perfect fit. The safe space to be their true self.

You never know when you'll recognize your crazy. Sometimes it sneaks up on you. Sometimes it was right in front of all along.

When you find it, cherish it. Enjoy the ride. Because the adventure is always worth it.

No One Knows

No one knows that the black sweater I wear used to lie against his skin.  

No one knows that on my left wrist is the bracelet he gave me just before he died. 

No one knows that I cling to that reminder that he left me. "you are braver than you believe, stronger than you seem and smarter than you think."

No one knows that I didn't sleep last night, dreading the morning.  

No one knows that I spent a chunk of the day sobbing on the bathroom floor. 

No one knows that I contemplate ending my life so the pain and grief will end. 

No one knows that my children took turns sitting beside me doing a jigsaw puzzle while tears silently roll down my cheeks. 

No one knows that I sat at work and listened to a child describe their fear of losing a loved one to a car accident and then went home and sobbed. 

No one knows that I didn't eat cake on his death day, because I thought that maybe if I didn't eat the last piece of cake, he wouldn't die again this year. 

No one knows that I blamed myself, because I didn't tell him to stay home. Just don't go. 

No one knows that I'm still crying. 

No one knows that there is still screaming in my head. 

No one knows. And I'm not telling. 

Irreplaceable

I saw it abandoned on the side of the road. 

It called to me.

I walked closer and closer, hesitant and fearful.  

But in my heart I knew it was mine 

And I couldn't live without it.

I scooped it from the mud and the debris of the gutter.

I tenderly wiped it clean.

I held it up to the light and admired it.

I brought it home and put it in a place of honour.

I spent part of every day with it.

I stroked it, running my fingers over every inch.

I found all the little imperfections, surface scars, from a lifetime of experiences. 

They just made it even more beautiful to me.

 

In its imperfections I found a way to accept my own imperfections. 

In its light, I found a way to accept my own darkness.

Day after day I stroked my prize.

Exploring every curve.

Tracing every seam.

Feeling every crack. 

Caressing every bump and divot.

Then one day there were cracks where there hadn't been before.

 

My devotion had strained my treasure in ways it had never been strained before 

Still beautiful to me, but now fragile.

Holding it was fraught with peril.

I tried to place it on the shelf and admire it from afar.

I tried to find a new love that I could adore in its place.

I tried.

 

But it called to me. 

It was irreplaceable. 

The only one I wanted.

New fissures appeared.  

Devotion alone was not enough to save it. 

In tears, I bowed my head, with sorrow I returned my treasure to the potter.

And prayed.