I just never know which direction my mind is going to go.
The gate.
I never thought about it like this before, but my brain has built a gate. I haven’t been able to write about Corban in over a year. I intend to sit down and write a letter, a blog, a journal entry. And then I can’t. I can type a quick social media post. But I just haven’t been able to write--to really write. I remember explaining to a friend that I have grief brain, a result of PTSD. It’s an endless cycle. If the gate opens even just a little, I’ll start asking questions.
Was he scared? Was he in pain?
Did he feel alone? Did he call out to us?
Is it true that people who are leaving, suddenly see their lives scroll before them? Did he see me? Was I there? Was he happy? Did he feel loved? Did I do my best? I’m so sorry for the things I missed.
And inevitably my brain steps in. “No. Not today. Maybe not ever. You are in dangerous territory.”
Fences.
I do not think it’s weakness. We have been stronger—I mean I know I have been stronger than I ever expected I could be. I know this only because I couldn’t keep
going without strength. My spirit fences me in. My mind slams doors. That’s the gate.
One time soon after our son left, an acquaintance approached me in the grocery store to talk. In an effort to show compassion and empathy, he began to compare my situation to a close relative’s situation, (a very different situation), and my mind began searching for a connection---and as it happens so often, people in their own discomfort (because few people know how to deal with those in our situation), they are suddenly besieged by what can best be described as word vomit.
They don’t know what to say. So out of anxiety they say it all. That’s another time my brain shuts things off. Their brains flush it all out. It’s almost like: “I am so sorry. Here are some words, lots of words, words that are meant for good but lots of words nevertheless. Oh, so many words, take these words and these and these…” ---And before you know it, they’ve said so much that my brain goes into protective mode and whispers “Um, yeah, we’re not gonna hear all that today. We don’t have the space to process that, so we’ll just let all that go. Just breathe.”
And the pounding in my heart, and the blood that is coursing so quickly begins to slow. And just like that, their words, and their faces, and their names begin to vanish because it’s not just them it’s a lot of well-meaning people. It’s the gate. The gate closes. My brain somehow tucks it aside. This topic is off-limits for now. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone home and crashed out or become zombified, sleeping it off or staring into nothing just from exhaustion over those situations.
A little over three years out, and my psyche has a death-grip on an emergency brake. My entire nervous system reacts and says, “If we go down this road, we lose control. So, it "reroutes me.” It reroutes me so I can function. I have my own built-in GPS. "Rerouting. Rerouting". This is so I can teach. So I can lead. So I can love and serve.
The Edges.
In a sense my survival is dependent on emotional guardrails. Lately, I’ve been starting to feel pulled toward writing again. My soul is allowing me to visit the edges, or at least acknowledging there are places that exist beyond the edges. I think for now I am still thankful for the gate and for love that is temporarily (I think) still fencing certain things in, and for boundaries that for now, keep certain things out.
The Attic.
While Corban is never far from me, there also exists an attic filled with memories. Within the attic are carefully tucked away memories. The best ones--along with a wealth of unrealized milestones and unfulfilled dreams.
For a time, I found it very easy to talk about him. Don’t get me wrong, I still want to talk about him, but the further we get away from Corban, who is still 21 to us, the more challenging it is to navigate the new world without him. A world where family and friends continue living here experiencing life and celebrating events that he will never experience here. It’s becoming harder to make connections that feel fresh and relevant.
So just know that if a grieving parent shares something with you, it may have taken grit to open the gate, some fortitude to scale the fences. It may sometimes be a heavy, painful climb upstairs to the attic, in order to brush off that memory, and connect it to an unfulfilled dream, or an unmet milestone---so they can talk about the person they love who left. They’re choosing all of that just to share with you and connect with your story, and they are filled with gratitude every time you listen—even if you’ve heard that story before—because until we’re reunited someday, the stories in the attic are the only ones left they have to share. And getting so close to the edges—well, trust is the only thing that makes that possible.
Thanks for listening to the ramblings of a dad who only just today has been to the attic and back a few times and who always lives pretty close to the edges.
--CorbansDad
“The Lord is my strength and my shield; my heart trusts in Him, and He helps me.” Psalm 28:7
"When my heart is overwhelmed, lead me to the rock that is higher than I.” Ps. 61:2
To learn more about me visit www.chesterg.com or to read more of my writing, articles, published work, other blogs or thoughts visit: www.chestergwrites.com
To learn more about Corban visit www.servestrong.us (note that's .us and not .com)
