My Dad Is Dead Volume 2

I woke up suddenly last night. I was shaken up, in more than one way.  He visited me in my sleep. I don't remember much about the dream, I just remember dreaming that he was gone. I remember that feeling (which would greet me again in a few short minutes) where every cell in your body tightens.  I dreamt that he died.  I don't remember the hows or whys of it. I just remember someone told me he was gone and my entire life crashed before my eyes.

I was relieved when I woke up. It seemed like I had been dreaming for years. It seemed like more than a century I believed my dad was gone. But I was awake now. I could hug him. I didn't have to wear that same ugly black and white bathroom robe that hands from my bathroom hook that smelled like him. I didn't have time to process all the things that knowing he was alive would mean because I was interrupted with sharp, searing pain.

"No, you were dreaming. Your dad is dead Ashlee"

And then I remembered.

I remembered again. I remembered over and over. I remembered why the pain was so familiar. I'd been feeling some form of it for more than a decade.

He was gone, and he was still gone, and I remembered.

The start of this recollection can be found here: My Dad Is Dead: Volume 1

When my dad died, as I mentioned before, I found out from the organ donation people.  I booked a flight that night for the following morning. I didn't think I'd sleep that night at all. But our body has a miraculous way of doing exactly what we need it to even if we protest. I fell asleep eventually. I didn't sleep all night, I spent that night sleeping for about 20-30 minutes, waking up to look up and Doug and ask if it was still true, and then I'd wail myself to sleep again.

Once I arrived in Michigan, I had to go directly to the funeral home.  There were decisions to be made and I was the only one to make them. You don't think about that when you are the only child of a parent, and for all intents and purposes are a child yourself. I sat at the table with my mom, and my dad's siblings and I were asked questions. I felt like I was watching it happen from afar. Once we worked through the details, the flowers, the length of service, and whether it would be a cremation or burial, the attendant asked me a cruel question.

"Would you like to see him?"

Would I like to see him? I suppose that's the way you would ask that question, it would be weird to say "Would you like to see the body" or "Would you like to view the deceased" when you are talking about your own dad.  But it felt cruel. 

I don't know if its better to  (better seems like the wrong choice, but work with me here) see your loved one passed away in the hospital or not. I've only really experienced the latter. Part of me wonders if seeing them in a medical facility would be less shocking --- but on second thought I suppose the shock of the event overshadows the location or setting.

I had never really been comfortable at funerals seeing a made over body lying there in a casket. It never truly looked like the person, and there was something about it that triggered a fear in me. I wasn't afraid of something happening, I was scared of the finality of it all. Of knowing that this was the last time I'd see the person. To look death in the eyes and know death won. 

"Miss Haggerty?"

"Yes? Oh. Yes."

I remember thinking at that moment I mostly said yes because I knew that was the appropriate response. I have had a tendency of doing that in my life. I say the things that are the most palatable answer for those around me.

I was lead through a room that was smaller than expected and I saw a mass laying on the table. I was offered privacy and mostly nodded because well, I don't really know why.  I don't remember if my family was in the room or not with me. I just remember there was a lot of space between that body and mine.  I instinctively took a step forward, I didn't have time to tell myself to be brave or to mentally remind myself that it was going to be okay.  My eyes met his face.

It felt at that moment that hours passed, although I know it was for a moment. I couldn't touch him. That was my dad. The man who made such a big deal out of all my birthdays that I grew up thinking being born on 6/26 was more special than every other day of the year. This was the man who was a physical light to every room he walked in. My dad who stayed up at night watching old black and white movies with me over the best banana splits ever made.  He called me his lucky star, he couldn't have loved my bright red hair more. There laying on the table was my lifeless dad... but yet it wasn't him.

It wasn't him of course because he wasn't singing loudly off key, or bargaining with someone about trading home decor pieces. It wasn't him because there was no smile, no grey-blue eyes staring at me, no lips calling me "Ashlee" in only the exact way he did.

But there was another reason it wasn't him.  He was small.

A few years prior to my dad passing I moved to California. I wasn't there long, although in retrospect for such a short period of time, it weirdly shaped a lot of my life after.  After I returned to Michigan from California, I stayed with my dad for a short period of time.  My dad had weight loss surgery during that time and was just beginning to lose weight as I followed my journey to Florida.  The day I left for Florida, was the last day I would ever see him. When he hugged me, he was still soft and substantial. The same bear hug I had received my whole life. While I did see a photo of him at a drastically smaller weight while in Florida, and as we talked on the phone several times a week he kept me updated on his progress, I had never seen it with my own eyes.

This man laying on this table who looked a lot like my daddy wasn't him. He was so thin.

I think psychologically that has a lot to do with the issues of it all. I saw my dad's body there --- but it was not the body I recognized.  It was him but it wasn't.

I wanted to be strong. I was the one who was supposed to be strong. The decision maker.

But I couldn't. I couldn't be in that room. I couldn't speak to him one last time and tell him all the things my heart ached. I couldn't look at his face and hands, the only recognizable parts and bid my dad goodbye.

All I could do was run.
One could argue this as a running theme in my life. Run to marriage. Run from marriage into the arms of new love. Run from that love to the arms of pain. Run from pain to the love of my Dad.  I've run a lot.

So I ran. I ran out of the room and up the olive green carpeted stairs. I ran through the memorial room, out the door to fresh air. My lungs burned. Not from running, from not breathing. I don't know how long I didn't breathe, but it was enough to hurt. When I got to the parking lot, I intended to run to my mom's car, but quickly made a turn around the corner when I saw more family members approaching the building needing desperately to wrap their arms around me.

Typical Ashlee would have piled on their needs and succumb to the hugs, ignoring the instinct to run. But in this instance, I was no longer in control of what was happening. I ran. I ran so long and far. We were in MY town. The town I grew up in. I knew the streets, and buildings, and people. So I ran. And when I couldn't run anymore, I walked.

Somehow the running gave me enough energy to get back to the funeral home. An out of body experience of signing contracts and going over finances ensued.  I made it through.

My Aunt asked me if I was staying at the house.
She meant his house.
I never thought this far ahead.  But surely I would be comforted by it so I nodded.

As we pulled up to the house and got out of the car my cousin Scott, the oldest of my two cousins saw me and ran to me as he yelled out "Ashlee".  He knew this pain too. Him and his sister, my beloved cousin Lisa.  They lost their dad too. When he said Ashlee, it was in such a way that he understood the pain I experienced. This was an embrace that I too embraced.  I feel like seeing him and Lisa gave me the strength I didn't know I needed as I walked through the door.

I walked in and the house was as I expected it would be. It was perfectly him. The smell of his house was always the same. There wasn't an emptiness you might expect. It was just as if he ran to the store and he would be right back. There was milk in the fridge,  rye bread by the toaster, and coffee still left in the coffee pot.  For a moment I was fine.

Maybe not fine.

For a moment I was protected?

I walked into the bedroom, the bed was unmade. You could see the outline of where he laid and I collapsed. I collapsed into the bed and cried for hours.

My best friend Andrea came over after work, and she crawled into the bed because I couldn't move as I just cried and cried and told her I couldn't do it. She said two words that were probably more comforting to me than any of the others in the coming days. She said, "I know".  She didn't try to pacify me, she didn't tell me it would be okay, she didn't ask me questions about how I was doing or what happened or anything like that. She knew. She hadn't lost a parent, but she knew my dad. She knew that me losing him was impossible. That there was nothing that any person could ever say. She just knew.  She laid with me and I slept.

The next few days were hard. I had to make calls to people. I had to see sides of people I didn't expect. Ugly sides. Mostly I had to comfort. That is the weird thing about funerals... you go to honor the person sure, but you also want to support and comfort the loved ones... but so often they end up supporting you.

So many conversations. So many tears.

I packed up his home and had to sort through the things that I wanted to keep. How do you narrow down what is important and what isn't? I couldn't I kept a bulk of the things in a storage facility for 3 years, paying monthly, until I brought them all to Florida.

That was part 2, of him passing. I never have written it out but the dream triggered my need to.

| Speaking My Truth | "What do you want?"

One of the things in therapy that I am working on is speaking my truth. What does that mean? Well I suppose it could mean a lot of different things for different people, but for me it is exactly how it sounds. 

Speaking my truth means sharing what I'm thinking, what my opinion is, or making choices based solely on what I want and not considering the million other elements that that truth will influence. 

It sounds so simple doesn't it? Say what you want? If you are a people pleaser, with anxiety, and a lack of confidence... this can be INCREDIBLY difficult. Throw on top of that, not actually knowing what you like anymore....oof...tough stuff. It is for me. Let's break it down to the simplest form. 


Doug: Hey, what would you like for dinner? 

Me: *instant panic* I don't care.

Doug: Okay, but what sounds good?

Ashlee: Ummm *immediately I start thinking of places I know Doug wouldn't hate to eat at* I don't know, we could get Chinese or maybe burgers?

Let's pause. So I can tell you what is happening there. 
1. My mind goes completely blank. I don't truly know what I want. And on the rare occasion I do, I feel scared to tell him because I don't think it's what he will want and I don't want an argument or to have to debate why I would like X. 

2. To avoid any type of conflict, or even just negative body language, I quickly (with feelings of anxiety) think of something he will like. 

3. Then when we eat at said place, I feel pressure to enjoy the food because after all it's what I picked. And if i say I didn't care for it -- it will be a disagreement about why I choose that place. 

I of course know all 3 of these steps will occur from the moment he asks, "Hey what would you like for dinner" and I have thought of multiple scenarios and how things will go. Based on all the scenarios I choose to one I feel like will have the best results. And by the way, results means the other person (Doug in this case is happy) not that I had a meal I enjoyed. 

This my friends is anxiety, people pleasing, and a lack of confidence via depression. 

That was the most simple example I could come up with that didn't carry a lot of big meaning. I mean we are talking about a silly meal. Imagine bigger questions. Questions from people who aren't my husband that I don't have a level of confidence with? 

So when my therapist tells me to work on speaking my truth --- it's not a small thing. It's not something I can do once and have conquered. Speaking my truth is a key piece of my puzzle and it's a hard one at that. 

But I'm up for the challenge. I think. 

Be patient with us who deal with this. Sometimes we know exactly what we want but are afraid to express it. We don't want to upset, inconvenience, or annoy you. We like to go with the flow and keep the waters smooth sailing. Other times we have absolutely no idea what we want. We has spent years and years keeping those waters smooth that we have completely forgotten what kind of food we like in the first place. 

Speaking my truth is an essential part of my recovery journey. And both my truth about what food I'd like and my truth about how someone is making me feel are both important for me to express. 

So what is my truth in this moment?
My truth in this moment is I'm worried that I am the only person who deals with this, that anyone reading it might think... wow she is really crazy. That instead of exposing myself as a means to help me heal AND as a way to help others... I will come across just sounding stupid. 

Do I think my truth is reality in this situation? No. But if i'm honest, it what crossed my mind.


Anyone else have any issues like this? What is your truth today in this moment?

Ashlee

Depression - Anxiety. Let's talk.

Depression.

I sat at my computer for quite awhile with nothing but the title, “Depression.” glaring at me. It’s pretty telling to what depression is really like.  It’s a whole blank page of intentions, but the inability to see them through.

I wasn’t sure if I was going to share this publicly or not, but I talked with Doug and decided that I needed to share it - to put it out there - because I’ve been hiding things, hiding myself for years and I want more than anything to step into who I know I can be.

The first time I think I ever was truly truly depressed was when I lost my dad suddenly. At the time I thought it was just grief and I would get back to the old me eventually -- but what I didn’t account for was that losing him changed me at a near cellular level. I’ve never been the same, but I don’t expect to be. I didn’t allow myself to feel the pain. I didn’t walk through the pain, i avoided it. The sting was far too great.  I went back to Florida and somewhere in my mind, it felt as if he was just still in Michigan. Sure I went through days of utter devastation but I guarded myself to not feel too much. I don’t suggest it.

Fast forward years and years later. To what I believe was the tipping point of my mental health. One month prior to getting pregnant for Charlotte, I experienced a twin miscarriage.  It was scary and awful and I was alone. Miraculously, (despite the doctors saying I would not have a successful pregnancy with Charlotte), I got pregnant with Charlotte and that stubborn little girl we all love stuck on against the odds. A time to be elated? Yes. But I was still silently dealing with my loss, and several months into the pregnancy I developed Psoriasis. I had to go in hiding. The pain was unbearable. Charlotte’s birth was very complicated and scary. Because of my Psoriasis all the doctors on my team agreed that the baby needed to come a few weeks early. So what was intended as a scheduled c-section turned into hell.  My spinal block stopped working mid surgery and I began to feel the searing pain of the surgery happening. I will save details but know that it was both the Hand of God and the skill of my surgeon to thank for me being here. I’ve never officially been diagnosed, but I believe I experienced some PTSD from the event.

I think the final yet ongoing part of my depression was the moment I stopped busying myself with Liam’s therapy, school, extracurriculars etc and sat down and quieted myself and allowed myself to feel the facts: I have a disabled child.  Of course you may be thinking that shouldn’t be news to me right? Liam was diagnosed over 5 years ago -- and although i’ve known he is autistic.. Part of me, I think, thought i could outsmart - out therapy - out busy autism.  Liam has made amazing progress -- but I don’t know what the future looks like for him.  Our child is disabled.  Once I allowed myself to really feel and experience that -- darkness began to creep in.  And I promise you that when you find that you are depressed about your child, once the depression hits, mom guilt is just as strong. I’ve had to allow myself to feel the feelings and know that it isn’t my child that triggered my depression -- it was the experience he is having to go through. It’s the experience I’ve had to go through too. I could write a book on the things that as an Autism family we have experienced. Something as simple as figuring out a babysitter is difficult. There would be a lot of joyful pages, but there will be even more struggle.

About 12 months ago my depression started to reach new levels. I didn’t know myself. I didn’t smile. I was closed off. I hurt people I love. I began to question my worth, my value, and what I contributed to the people in my life. When you are in the thick of the depression bubble, your vision is so clouded with self judgement/self hatred that you quickly now see a distorted version of reality. This will affect every part of you. Relationships. Self-awareness. Parenting. Marriage. Faith. Decisions. I ignored all the symptoms of depression and pressed forward.

One day, about six months ago,  I was sitting at home and I started getting warm. My arms and legs started nervously twitching and my whole body began to move in slow motion. I got so warm and fuzzy I knew I was going to get sick. This was the first anxiety attack I ever experienced. I thought I was dying, to be honest, for a moment. The whole world came crashing in and I felt all the things. Unfortunately the Anxiety got worse and worse. It influenced what I did, what I said, who I was close with -- and who I wasn’t. I began moving in and out of the days and nights utterly broken. There were days where I wanted to die.  It was not the kind of anxiety that financial or relationship issues bring. It was different. It was being afraid to speak, it was leaving the grocery store with a full cart of groceries because all of a sudden you cannot be there, it’s locking your bedroom door while the kids are banging on it and sitting in a freezing cold shower crying out to God. For me, anxiety is worrying about what I say and how it will be interpreted, it’s pushing away those who love me in an effort to not hurt them which hurts them anyways. My anxiety kept me at home. It kept me secluded. I told myself that at least if I was alone I couldn't be hurtful and I wouldn’t worry anyone. But that’s just part of the lies I told myself.

3 months ago I was pretty brave and I went to the doctors for help. It came to a point where the pain of staying the same was so much greater pain than any work I would need to participate in to get help. Many of you know how much I prefer the natural pathways to things. I am not quick to medicate.  But medicine is there for a reason. I am thankful. My doctor skillfully listened to me and we have worked together to find a regimen that works for me.

I am now at a place where I have more good days then bad. A good day doesn’t always mean I feel great -- it means I’ve cared for myself in some way. Bad days happen -- but they don’t ruin me. I am not crawled up in a ball on the floor. It more looks like, a lack of self care . I began therapy 2 months ago as well.

Why am I writing all this? What is the point? The point is that my instagram perfect looking family wasn’t as strong as it appeared. I never meant to paint a lie -- because there were so many truths intertwined, but we are struggling.  Doug and I are in marriage counseling, as we were on the verge of divorce. I am in individual counseling.

My selfie game was strong, and Instagram’s amazing filters helped to disguise the pain, shame, and fear. But the thing is, life is messy. Mental health is messy. Childhood and past traumas affect us.

I am no longer willing to cover up, hide, disguise, or surrender who I am deep inside to make it more palatable for others. I’m no longer willing to let my mental health stop me from authentic connections.  I am no willing to buy into the diet culture that tells me I should not love myself until I fit into it’s definition of beauty. I am willing to accept goodness, joy, acceptance in my life. I am learning that for me, self-love is the most difficult journey I have ever been on.

Recently, I’ve been forcing myself to get out and do things that terrify me. To others it is not a big deal to go into the ocean where there are a bajillion fish with goggles on and look at them.  To others packing up your kids for a beach day may not take the same effort it does for me. Going to a Yoga class. Talking about problems. Writing a post that exposes so much. These are all elements of bravery for me. They are exceedingly difficult.

But i’m not willing to spend any more time hiding. I won’t hide from the world and all it has to offer. I refuse to live my life in fear. I am so loved. I know that I have a lot to offer the world and those around me and I have to believe that by honoring myself and presenting the real unfiltered me, I will continue to grow into a woman I long to become.

I do not believe my story is just mine. I know there are others struggling too. Struggling to appear like the perfect family, mother, wife, or girlfriend. Someone out there also cares far too much for others and not nearly enough for themselves. Maybe depression and anxiety are dirty words that you can’t bring yourself to utter. Maybe you want to go to the doctor but you a stone cold frozen in fear.  

I am not an expert. Hell no. I’m just learning about this stuff as I go. I’m determined to be authentic. That might upset some. It might cause some relationships to suffer or end. It might bring others closer to me. I have to be okay with that. I’m doing me for the first time in 37 years.

I want to say thank you to my amazing family and friends. The ones who listened to me wail. Who talked me down when I was being crazy. The ones who didn’t take offense when I cancelled plans for the billionth time. The ones who loved me and prayed for me despite my radio silence. To anyone who has helped me out with the kids. To my husband for trying to see things from my perspective even though every bit of him just wants to be a fixer.  To anyone who didn’t know about any of this? Consider it nothing more than my wanting to protect you, to preserve your love. Which I now know -- isn’t necessary. <3

A dear friend asked me last weekend, “What's your outlook?”. I was totally thrown back by the question. My outlook? I immediately said I didn’t know, I don’t know what's going to happen. But he wasn’t truly asking for a specific answer --- he simply was curious if I saw positivity or negativity moving forward.

I choose positivity. I choose to move into light and love. What a great question.

Ashlee.