this Ain't NO Fairy Tale

I’ve written before about how “one day, I will emerge…a phoenix rising…beautiful and rare and forged from the fires of the pain and the privilege of love”.

I’d like to be able to write here now about how, a year later, I’ve risen. The ashes left behind, soaring with colors streaming behind me. How beautiful that would be. How demure, how thoughtful, how cutsie. It would also be at the very least what my grandpa used to call a tall tale or a fib. (“Mandy Jo, you’re telling me a tall tale, now this ain’t no fairy tale”) But the absolute truth is that it would be a bold-faced lie. In fact, the fire still smolders. We’re not even down to ashes to rise from yet.

We’ve done a very bad job. I know everyone says there is no wrong way to grieve, but I disagree. We did it wrong. One of us lived in denial and disconnection for a year. One of us found an escape hatch. I won’t go into detail here as they are deeply personal. But what I will share is that a year’s worth of denial, resentment, disconnection, loneliness, misunderstandings, and living in survival mode is coming down like the berlin wall. It feels good. It feels bad. It is necessary. It takes dedication to stay in the pain. But here I am again, hopeful that when the fire finally chokes out, we will emerge from the ashes once again bonded, forged from the fire we chose to walk through together rather than letting it burn us out.

I look back now, and I realize…I needed to compartmentalize so that I could survive. I put pain into boxes. I was incredibly naïve. I thought I’d conquered it and put into a box with a nice bow. That pain festered in those pretty boxes. Now I’m dealing with quiet a mess. Chris never put his in boxes, he never looked, he never felt. He pushed it down and to the side and into he corners and the closets and the nooks and crannies and now that pain is coming to the top like a volcano once dormant, now erupting.

I don’t think I’ve ever shared in my writings that I am three on the enneagram. Things like that fascinate me. A three thrives on success. ACHIEVEMENT. We must achieve. Gooooaaallllss…all the goals. So, as you might imagine, my achieving brain says…” what a waste of time”; “you failed”; “you could be so much farther along if you’d done it right”. And some days I feel it. Some days I feel that failure. But I’m trying to listen to my heart more. My heart says…” you survived”; “you fell so you could rise higher”; “give yourself and others grace, it’s the only thing to do now”.

I don’t have any boxes left and you can’t stop a volcano once it’s active. One year ago, today our lives changed forever. Zach had a bad day and relapsed. He accepted ONE counterfeit Xanax from a “friend”. In my mind there is a forever reel playing. It starts on a Sunday, September 10th, 2023. It’s the afternoon, I am snuggling with our puppy on the couch and snapping photos to share on social media. Zach is struggling with something we don’t know about. Chris is returning from golf and swapping laundry out. Zach is making a decision we will never have the chance to understand. Chris is dropping a freshly laundered blanket on my head while I play around on my phone, and we laugh. Zach is in his apartment playing a video game but struggling with depression. We go about our evening, making dinner and winding down watching TV. Zach is accepting a vice back into his life that he has successfully fought off for almost three full years. Chris and I get ready for bed and while we are brushing our teeth, washing our faces, putting on our pajamas, and turning out the lights for bed, our child is dying. Alone. Slipping into darkness. And just like if I were watching this on a screen, I scream out. I’m yelling at the images playing in my mind “SAVE HIM!!!!” “CALL SOMEONE!!!!”. I’ve never felt more helpless in my life. Knowing, as these images play out how it all ends. Like grasping at water…it all slips through my fingers. We will not know until Monday, September 11th, 2023, that Zach is gone.

I had not planned on writing this. But today is hard. For so many reasons. And it will never not be hard. As I write this, it is not lost on me that one year ago today at this time…we were whole. Zach was still here. My grandfather was still here. Loss of the magnitude we now feel it is not yet known to us. You’re not supposed to want to go back. But of course, that doesn't apply here. I know I don’t need to say it…but of course it doesn't.

It’s weird to pray for ashes. But ashes come at the end of the fire. The fire brings pain and scars, ashes bring hope of someday rising. The scars will remain, and I no longer imagine myself as a beautiful phoenix. (How ridiculous that was) Now I know, the scars will remain, the colors will be a mixture of beautiful and charred. Still rising, but in true form. After all, this ain’t no fairy tale.