Changed

Losing someone changes you. It's not this conscious effort to change yourself that happens, it just happens. You change. This might sound a little "Captain Obvious" to most people, and even as I write it, it sounds so logical to me. But man, I was not aware just what that would mean for me once Dad passed away.

Nearly a year ago, I reached out to someone who I knew would understand the murmurings I was hearing in my heart. I was at a point when I really couldn't pinpoint what was wrong, but I just had this feeling that I was "off." I took a chance and rambled in my message to her and I finally unraveled what I was feeling, had been feeling. What I typed out [in part] was this: "I miss him. And I miss who I was when he was here. And I'm not sure that I can get back to that person no matter how hard I try because I am changed." Later I admitted that I was just "going through the motions of days that are just driven to pass by based on tasks I have to complete...a series of days strung together as one day [leads] to the next as I [mark] it off the calendar... just time passing. ... A feeling of stagnancy, of nothing, of 'blah.'" I rambled about how the "blah" feeling was overflowing into nearly every facet of my life. I no longer found passion for things I once loved, no longer found the motivation to do things I needed to start doing to make myself better, no longer felt the same connections with people and didn't want to feel those connections because they all felt so hollow. In part, it seemed they felt hollow because who I was had shifted. I guess it was just me feeling hollow and that sentiment just came pouring out into every crevice of my life. I rambled a bit more in saying, "He thought I was funny. I'd say things to intentionally make him laugh. He thought I was smart. And I didn't have to say or do anything special for him to think that. I just had to be me." Me. I continued in my message saying: "I'm not who I was when he was here. And I think I have no idea who I am anymore. I think it's why so many things feel unfulfilling." I look in the mirror every day and see me, but some days I have no idea who is staring back in the reflection. I see through her. She is sad, searching, and growing more frustrated each day. And she is aching to hear his voice to tell her to snap out of it.

No matter how many times I hear him in my head, I can't bring those words of his, those words I know he would say – maybe even is saying in some other world – to me.

But I am not me anymore. Not the me he knew. It makes me feel as though I have to take this journey to figure out who I am and where I fit, but in every other phase of my life when I had to do just that, he was the primary person giving me the encouragement and confidence to claim myself. I realize that sounds overly glorified to some people, but if you knew him and how he was capable of inspiring and reassuring me and others who he loved, you wouldn't hesitate to believe that.

It's frustrating. Painful even. To know on a daily basis that something inside you is searching to find a way to reestablish who you are based on who you were. The strange thing is I have had to do this before. Life has brought so many resets; it's not like this is novel territory. But every reset before featured Dad in my corner - with support, advice, an understanding gaze, a firm wake-up, a good story, a profound commentary, or even just a necessary presence. This time is different. Though I firmly believe he was trying to do all these things throughout my life so I would know what to do when he was gone, it's just different. Could I guide someone else? You bet. I would just channel him and all I learned from him. Am I able to turn that around and give myself the same, Dad-created guidance? Not a chance. Not yet, anyway. Maybe one day that will come, but I am not convinced. I've been "not me" before. I've changed so many times. But he saw those changes, helped mold them. What's really strange is there are some components of the "old" me that I wish I could reignite, yet I haven't found the way to do that.

Before his passing, I was an avid runner. I was running five times a week and each day I was anxious to get home, change into running clothes, and hit the streets. Weekends meant longer runs could happen. If I was in the middle of a run and feeling fatigue, sometimes I would solicit help from him via text message. Just about every day he would ask, "Did you get your run in yet, babe?" and on days when I was feeling a little sluggish about the run, he would say, "Lizzie, get out there; you know you feel better when you do it." As of November 5, 2019, I had logged 248 running miles for the year up to that point on my Nike Run Club app. I kept running to close out 2019; had a great [personal] time for a 10k race I entered in early December. The year came to a close, things seemed right with the world, and I kept running welcoming 2020. I was still going for runs in the spring and when the world was put on pause [due to COVID] and in the summer when Dad started his treatments for cancer. Admittedly, though, the runs weren't as driven. I blamed the heat, avoided leaving the house to train Waylon as a new puppy – runs that were solo converted to walks with a young puppy. But most of all, I told myself then that my lag in making a run happen was because running served as my thinking time, and there was too much going on with Dad that I just didn't want to think about. Once he was gone, I couldn't find the reason to run. It didn't matter that I knew for health reasons that I should. It didn't matter that he had been proud of me for running and using it as a way to keep my heart healthy. Even now I don't get it, but I presume it's an excuse to avoid the thoughts that would likely come crashing into my brain when there is nothing else to hold an aspect of mental conversation other than being alone with my own thoughts. [Then I think] Isn't that what this blog is, Stella? You alone with your thoughts, logging them, reacting to them, attempting to find reflection, revelation, acceptance, and peace. I, of course, answer myself: "Yes, you dumbass; get out there... walk, jog, and one day run again. It's already on your mind, so make it happen."

Then in my mind's eye, I see Dad. Just sitting there - maybe in his broken, leather recliner or maybe at his desk chair sitting at the desk to match... Most of the time, I see him at his desk in the kitchen – the desk and chair that were once my sister's, sanded and repainted and became mine, and then came full circle by being Dad's in his retirement years. I see him sitting there, finding his next YouTube video of some great unknown singer on the brink of being famous (or at least winning "Britain's Got Talent;" those were his favorite videos to share). I see him pausing his internet search to pick up his phone and answer my call that came every afternoon. I hear his voice, "Hey Lizzie," singing through the air on the phone. I can even hear Mom in the background, rummaging in the kitchen and hollering, "Hi Stella!" I smile to myself as I can imagine his arm rising up in the air in her direction as he purses his lips and gives a slight eye roll as a way to signal her to stop talking so he can hear me. I can hear him defend me as I recant a story of my day regarding someone who made me angry. I can hear him suggest how I should handle a situation with some parent. I can hear him beam with pride regarding some situation he believes I handled well, handled professionally. And I can even hear, "You going running when you get home?"

I should. I can. One day I will, Dad.

Taken from one of my social media posts: August 26, 2018

"Most days I smile. Most days I do my best to improve anyone else's day - I make an effort to do so anyway. This morning was not my best morning. I must have been warring with myself in my dreams and the sentiment lingered when I woke. Angry. Frustrated. Disappointed. Stressed. Sad. Defeated. Very short-tempered. Uncommunicative. Apathetic. I made myself go for a run. Partly out of guilt. Telling myself it's the only way I can come closer to even tolerating what I see when I look in a mirror. The run means I won't have to grade papers for an hour. Taking a run means I don't have to read for work right now. Running means not thinking about my bank account. Negative thoughts about myself, work, and finances. That's where I was this morning. I don't know yet if a run helped. But I did stumble across a reminder of something. I was running down the sidewalk on Government, and Mom and Dad drove by....it was a little over the halfway point in my 50-minute run, and I heard the horn honking wildly and saw an ecstatic hand waving vigorously; I waved back and to my surprise, felt a lump in my throat and tears in my eyes. I turned the corner and had to take a minute to just cry. Overwhelmed. At my best and at my very worst, they are always there. Cheering me on. Never allowing me to give up. Picking me up when I can't do it myself and pushing me harder when I want to walk away. Not everyone is lucky to have parents like that. Not everyone takes on that role to be so supportive when I am at my worst. Not everyone is willing to be perceptive enough to see that something is wrong when I work so hard to conceal it. They have always been there. They always see the full picture."

On August 26, 2018 I went for a run. I had no idea I was on the brink of my life shifting yet again. It was shortly after this run/day that I had to regroup and redefine. I had to find my footing again and dig in and find some strength to do a little rebuilding. Dad was there that time. He helped. I just have to hold onto the thought that he still can give, maybe already has given, the strength to survive another shift. Even if the new perspective doesn't include him, my foundation of everything I am does.

Grief is an ugly beast. It stalks silently. It lies cloaked in the darkness and emerges when we least expect it. It sits beside us so obtrusively that we cannot shift our state of being. It ravages the heart and screams menacingly in our ears. It ransacks our peace. Grief also warns us of the pain of love. It beckons us to hang on and to let go. It forces us to remember. It pushes us to need others. It comforts the mind. It revels in our joy of memories. It asks us to continue living. Even on the days you don't feel yourself and don't know how, we know we have to keep going. So we do. I do.

He's here. Always will be. Running alongside me.