by Band Back Together | Sep 11, 2013 | Grief, Sadness, September 11, 2001 |
September 11th is approaching.
It sneaks up on me every year. A quick glance at the calendar, an appointment, some kind of plans crop up. And there it is.
I worked in New York City on 9/11.
I was close enough to see it, to smell it, to sense it. For days after the attacks, it hung in the air. My heart hurt.
On the first anniversary of September 11, 2001, I went to work several hours late as I just couldn’t do it. I spent that evening creating a painted tile in memory of the terrorist attacks, thinking of those we had lost.
I didn’t know anyone personally who died on September 11, 2001. I knew of people. I hadknown people. I knew people who had lost people. It still hurt like hell.
The next year, I watched the coverage of that day. The reading of the names. The bells tolling. So horribly sad.
Each year, a little less painful, a little further away. Still stinging, less raw. I’ve been down there since That Day. I’ve held my breath. The air shifts around you when you’re there. The way it all makes you feel. Made me feel.
I haven’t gone since the rebuild. I’m still not ready.
And every year, I remember. We all do. So many thoughts, sentiments, emotions. But we move on. We go about our day. What choice do we have?
We turn off the television. How many times can we watch the towers fall?
We stop listening to the news.
We go outside and breathe fresh air.
We remember the blue sky of that day, and we feel lucky to see it again. We listen to the voices of those around us.
We remember, but we have to live. We exchange memories with those we know, those we don’t. Every year I write something. I can’t allow September 11 to go by without writing about that day. I need to remind everyone, remember myself. To think back for a few moments to That Day.
That Day, we banded together – more than most would expect. I hope we continue to do so. Every year. In honor and memory. With respect for those gone and those who remain. Lost without their loved ones. We try to remember, with the trace of time that cushions us. Let us forget just a little bit as we hold our loved ones closer, if only for the day.
Remembering as history changed forever.
And still, we go on.
*******
by Band Back Together | Sep 2, 2013 | Feelings, Sadness |
Sometimes I get in over my head. I’m a committer. I volunteer for things left and right and I love it. I love them. But sometimes, I take on too much.
I’ve been this person for a long time.
I don’t mind it so much, really.
What I mind is when I’m overlooked.
Unappreciated.
It’s hard to feel like you’re busting your hump for someone or something and then it’s not even noticed that you’re there.
I can’t really explain it. Maybe it’s my emotional state right now.
And if I “work” with you in any way, know it’s not you. Or you. Or you, either.
I wouldn’t be putting it out there if it were related like that. Or would I? heh. I don’t know.
It’s just how I’m feeling.
I’m slightly emotional. Blame PMS. Blame the almost-start of the school year?
Blame nobody and just recognize that it is what it is.
Isn’t it?
Sometimes just a small smile. Virtual or otherwise. That’s all I need.
A reminder. Not public recognition. Not at all.
But when I talk to you? Ask you questions?
Answer me.
Please.
Answer me. That’s all I’m asking for.
Because I’m just as good as them. Maybe better. If you give me the chance you’ll know. I promise you that.
Just don’t forget that I’m here. Please.
Because I’m strong, and positive, and powerful. But even I need a reminder and some encouragement now and then.
Thanks.
by Band Back Together | Aug 5, 2013 | Coping With Losing A Sibling, Grief, Loss, Sadness, Sibling Loss |
Those who grieve hardest when a sibling dies are those who are most often left to grieve alone.
This is the story of losing her precious sister:
It’s been six months since my sister died.
Already.
How is that even possible? February seems so freaking long ago.
Originally as I started his post, I was at a low low point and after some thought, I hit delete. Because I wanted to start this post over. Like I wish I could do to my life, well, most of the time.
I will say my grief has been better. A couple times, the grief hit me like a tons of bricks. It happened once when I’d gone to visit a friend who’s expecting her first child which is wonderful. We had a great time, but during the drive home, I felt sad – I’m 30, and still don’t have those “joys” that everyone else around me seems to have.
It really hurts.
I cried on the drive home.
Not long after, Dad had the last of my sister’s belongings from storage. Stuff I hadn’t seen in ages; stuff long-forgotten – cue water works. It was over just like that. How do you deal with that?
Then, Mom’s wound – the one she’d had surgery on a month before Jenny died – re-opened. She’s having ANOTHER surgery right before the six-month anniversary of Jenny’s death.
I feel like screaming.
However, there is healing.
I recently accepted a co-chair position for my local Relay For Life – I’ll be one of two in charge of the whole event. I felt taking this on would give some kind of purpose in my life. I have such a huge hole I have to fill.
I don’t let the grief consume me, I get up every night (I’m night owl), go to work, then a walk or workout. After that I’m off – I eat, spend time with my family and friends, I laugh, I smile. I keep going because it’s what Jenny would want.
It’s not easy – then again, nothing ever is. There is a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. You just have to get through it.
Not a day goes by where I don’t miss her smile, her giggles, her fluffly brown hair, her sparkling eyes – the way she’d squeeze my fingers.
I end this post with a quote from Winne the Pooh by A.A. Milne:
“If there ever comes a day when we can’t be together keep me in your heart. I’ll stay there forever”
by Band Back Together | Jul 31, 2013 | Abuse, Fear, Panic Disorder, Sadness, Unemployment, Workplace Bullying |
Starting over fresh can be one of the scariest and most exhilarating things we can do.
This is her story:
“You need to get out of here. Now. While your self-esteem is still intact,” my nurse hissed at me as we pretended to be conferring over a particularly challenging medication pass.
I simply stared at her, my eyes threatening to fill with tears.
“I mean it. This place will chew you up and shred you into a zillion tiny pieces. Get out now!”
I nodded, afraid my voice would give my distress away.
“You okay, Boss?” another nurse came by our “difficult” medication pass.
I shook my head no.
“I saw what just happened – the whole dining room did. What she did was NOT okay, Boss. You deserve better. You’re a good lady,” she continued.
The tears spilled down my cheeks.
“I saw her hit you,” a CNA, also “conferring” on the “difficult” medication pass crept over to chime in. “That’s abuse.”
I nodded, trying to cling to the last vestiges of my leadership. They were right. I just didn’t know what to do: I loved my job, my staff, my building. It was just her.
“Why the hell did she hit you?” yet another CNA pressed some Kleenex into my clutched hand as she wandered up to see how I was doing. “That’s just NOT okay. You can’t work with an abusive boss. Why do you think so many of us leave? We can’t take her.”
“I-I-I,” I stammered trying to wrap my brain around it. “She’s mad at me. There was a misunderstanding.”
“Misunderstandings don’t constitute abuse. I heard her yell at you last week about being a “failure,” for something that was my fault,” the second nurse chimed in. “I’m really sorry.”
“It’s okay,” I replied. “I’m trying to be the buffer between you and her.”
They all looked at me sympathetically. “That’s not your job,” the CNA stated flatly after a moment of silence.
“I know it’s not,” I replied. “But if I don’t, you’ll all walk out and you’re some of the best staff I’ve ever met. And I love my job…. when I can actually do it.” I smiled wanly.
They clucked around sympathetically before I gathered myself together, hugged them, then walked back into the fire, my head high.
“Get in here,” she yelled across a dining room full of staff, residents and family the moment she saw me. “And shut the door.”
I did.
I sat perched on the edge of her chair, waiting for the onslaught of insults and character assassination that I knew would follow. I loved my job, but I hated this part of it.
Nurses I’d noted, more than most professions, are more likely to accept abuse and ill-treatment thanks to the way they’re treated on the job. I knew this, and still I stayed, loyal to my ethically-challenged boss, or, at the very least, my amazing staff and the residents whom I adored.
Sure, I’d taken to vomiting on my drive to work from the stress of working with my boss. Sure, my anxiety about being even five minutes late because I dared stop for gas often led me to weep in the car. Yeah, I spent most days walking on eggshells and taking the abuse she loved to dole out. But I had a job! And I loved it! How many people could say that?
I sat there and listened to her berate me, my face impassive, as I allowed the words my coworkers had said to wash over me. Carefully, she’d documented any transgression I’d made from not signing my name on a particular document to daring to be several minutes late following a routine doctor’s appointment. It was all bullshit and I knew it.
I also knew from watching her do this in the past that she was building a case to ensure I wouldn’t see a dime of unemployment. That was her way. I’d been waiting, like the rest of the staff, to be fired during one of her outbursts. We often joked, when she wasn’t around, that we stashed boxes in our office to quickly pack our things because we never knew when the ax would fall.
She offered me probation, a salary cut, and various other indignities, all over being unreachable by my cell for several hours on my weekend, even though I hadn’t gotten a single call on my land-line. She, I knew from experience, didn’t have any desire to listen to me; she was in punishment mode.
And sitting there in her office, I stared outside at the bright blue sky as she continued insulting everything she could think of, then began to lie to fill in the gaps, tuning her out.
A lightning bolt hit me as clear as a bell: this was it. I could sit there and take her shit, continue vomiting into a plastic bag on my way to work and panicking every time my phone rang, or I could start over. I was a grown adult and I was damn good at my job. Certainly this wasn’t the only place I’d be able to work. If I’d learned anything in the past year, it’s that life is too short to be miserable all the time.
When she was done assassinating everything from my dislike of sandwiches to my coffee habit, I stood, shook her hand and looked her in the eye.
“Thank you,” I said, my eyes hardened and cold, momentarily knocking her off balance with my response, as I held out my hand to shake hers. She didn’t take it.
She stammered something cruel as I turned my back, opened her door and walked out, ready for the next chapter of my life to begin.
by Band Back Together | Jul 8, 2013 | Adult Children of Addicts, Adult Children of Mentally Ill Parents, Alcohol Addiction, Compulsive Eating Disorders, Guilt, Sadness, Shame |
Addiction is a beast that spins yarns of lies that we often believe.
These are the struggles an addict faces:
Encased in a swishing bell jar of beer, my brain screams at me. Hungover. Again.
I am a professional. It would astonish my co-workers to know that I am holding back vomit while they talk to me, that I was awake mere hours ago, drinking, drinking, drinking.
My body is almost used to this dull feeling of the next day. I used to take a day off when I felt this shitty, but now it’s more often than not, so I am accustomed to this silver fish headache razoring my head.
Addiction is the root of my family tree, and I tell myself, I am no where near as bad as most everyone else in my family. I justify the excess even though I know this is not healthy.
Healthy should be my goal… But, I poison myself.
When it’s not alcohol, it’s food. Consumption is key for me, it seems.
My beautiful friend has been working on her dissertation for years. She explained to me once that her inner voice tells her only smart people deserve a Ph.D., so she doesn’t deserve this distinction. She is brilliant, but her mind lies to her.
I feel like I don’t deserve to be healthy. To be sober. To be thin.
If I wanted those things, wouldn’t I just achieve them? I have always achieved everything I have set my sights on.
Instead, it seems, I’m content to wallow in the murky bottle, to deny myself nutrients and instead eat processed garbage.
I have worked so hard on so many areas of my life that I feel like I just need a break. My breaks include booze and fried food. Why?
Comfort food makes me feel very uncomfortable. And yet, I choose to eat this way every day.
I want to be my best self, and yet, maybe this is it.
Maybe this is who I always will be.
by Band Back Together | Dec 23, 2010 | Healing From A Rape or Sexual Asault, How To Cope With A Suicide, Rape/Sexual Assault, Sadness, Shame, Stress, Suicide, Trauma |
You had been my friend for 13 long years when you raped me.
You were my best friend’s husband, my son’s god-father.
You were someone I always trusted and could count on.
That one fateful night we were hanging out at Downtown Disney and I got drunk I told you I didn’t want any more, but you kept buying shots. Looking back now, I see this was your plan. I passed out on the way home, only to wake up with you on top of me. I tried to push you off, screaming NO and fighting to push you off me, but you just covered my mouth and told me to shut the fuck up and that you knew I wanted it too.
I passed out again.
The next thing I knew, I woke up in the morning next to my husband. I knew what had happened the night before. I heard your wife out in the kitchen with your kids and my son.
I tried to forget, tried to pretend nothing happened. I tried to go on with my life, but my marriage fell apart for various reasons.
Years have gone by. Six to be exact.
Then I get a phone call from your wife. She is crying and upset. She fills me in on the past year, that you guys were having problems. Then she drops the bomb – you had killed yourself.
Now I feel like I can’t tell anyone what happened. To tell your wife, one of my closest friends, would ruin her and tear apart our friendship. It has been too long to tell anyone else. So now I must live with this.
You have forever changed me. I can’t trust people anymore, even those closest to me. I am glad you are gone. As selfish as it is, I am glad you are not a constant reminder of that bad moment in my life.
