Jillian: Scrolling Through Instagram

The following are a series of poems I wrote to accompany pictures that documented grieving. I do not know why I felt the need to take pictures of the grieving process. All I know is that loss changed me.

Jillian:

Scrolling through Instagram

by emily grace

April 24, 2018

I bought this shirt today

I saw it and I thought of you

and the days we used to sip rose.

do you remember those times

in our flimsy summer dresses

lounging on your balcony drinking pink wine?

you smoked your cigarettes

with the filters torn off

we laughed about our love regrets

it's been a while since we have spoken

years have passed since then 

life as left us both a little heartbroken

you always answer when I call

you see my heart, when so few do

I’m bonded to you by more than girly alcohol

April 29, 2018

you live in the gravel ocean

American prairie is your home

steady, windblown, yet unchanging

for me, my life has stayed in motion

flitting from one place to the next

across oceans, states, and far away

in search of dreams which always break

I might be coming to you, but I won’t text

I want to surprise you when I know it's true

I am flying back from a job interview

in the land gravel, plain, and prairie

May 4, 2018 - no picture

you died today. you walked down

the basement stairs, in your flimsy

worn-out robe.  I remember it was

covered in cat hair and smelled

like you. it was the early morning

hours after a night of drinking. you

came home and picked a fight with

your lover. you took the thin fabric belt

from your waist and wrapped it around a pipe and

fastened it around the neck you

were afraid was starting to show

signs of age. you put a rickety stool

under your feet and kicked it out.

the drop was short and the fabric

must have tightened, restricting your

airflow and pinching your vagus nerve.

how many minutes did you

hang there dying in pain?

did you wish you could take it back? eventually,

you gasped your last. your lips turned

a ghastly blue. he found you there

the next morning, that man that

lived with you. he screamed and

tried to bring you to life. but you

were dead beneath his hands. gone from

the land of the living.

in this anguish, nobody to knew to tell your distant friend you were gone.

I did not know that if I rang, 

I would never hear your voice again.

May 8, 2018

a car full of trader joes and malaise.

I mindless browed my phone and

saw a mysterious post. 

someone was wishing you well

on your journey.

had you finally had the courage to move?

more scrolling, more stories, then the pieces

came crashing down place.

I gasped in horror and told my husband

“Jillian committed suicide”

he sucked in his breath in horror

I started to cry.

my daughter asked why mommy was upset

I had no comfort to give her. at two years

of age, she watched her mother grieve.

my husband tried to quiet her and

her innocent screams anguish

rang out from the back seat

silently I sat in sorrow

mired in confusion

snuffing out

tears

may 9, 2018

“aaghh! lonely is this city that once bustled with life;

cheer is empty; like a widow, she is abandoned

    and oh, so lonely.

she who was a princess, great among the nations,

as lost everything and been forced to serve as a slave.

bawling, she weeps without constraint every night,

cries herself to sleep, bitter tears streaming down her cheeks.

her former friends ignore her;

there is no one there to share her sorrow;

companions contend and have betrayed her;

friends have been unfaithful and turned against her as enemies.”

lamentations 1: 1-2 (the voice translation)

my shirt is full of lies

“grl pwr-peace sign”

the cheap fabric deceives

time has healed nothing

no one calls to comfort me

especially not her

damn my impossible hope

I do not know if her soul

has found any rest

fuck your bad theology

I know physics and I’ll deal

with quantum realities

neither dead nor alive

neither at peace nor in torment

May 10, 2018

a phone call came from the plains

I got the job. it would have brought

me closer to you. you are not

there.

so I sat numbly in this stupid blue chair

whimpering softly. smudging the makeup

I so carefully applied that morning.

I knew it was a fruitless task. I just

wanted to be human.

that night I made love just to feel

anything else. the tears feel slowly

on the pillow and he held me close.

then I slept, dreading waking up.

more picture of grief and a flight out west

May 11, 2018

May 12, 2018

May 13, 2018

May 16, 2018

I know how to fake structure

I have reached this juncture

where I’ll ignore my heart rupture

I returned on a jet plane from the west

I know not mourning is not best

I will go forward and feel this regret

knowing my needs to be held are not met

breath and let a shadow cast on my face

I’ll go home and close the car door in its place

swallow and refuse the tears to stain my face

May 5, 2019

one 

(breath)

year 

(breath)

later 

(breath)

26.2

 (breath)

I ran 

(breath)

still 

(breath)

no 

(breath)

sobs 

(breath)

Was I the friend to you that were to me?

Grieving the Loss of Career Dreams: Prologue

I used to love to write. How I loved feel of lined paper as I dragged the tip of my graphite pencil against the surface. Noticing that paper must not be a smooth as it appeared. There must be roughness that would hold the flecks of pencil in place. This dance of friction and creativity held what I considered to be the voice of my soul.
I composed self-reflective essays, short stories, persuasive pieces, and poetry. Oh did I write so much poetry. When I find old school notebooks, I can find on the backs of pages a variety of poems. This started in grade school and continued through two different undergraduate degrees and a masters program. Eventually, I moved my composition online. I was never prolific, but the attempt at the art form brought me joy.
I will not say that everything I wrote was quality. Much of it was full of the angst of youth and certainly more than a few pieces were self indulgent. Occasionally, I would argue that my words would form and meaningful idea. I have few poems in which I take pride. (Naturally, anything I write in raw form shows embarrsing evidence of my learning disability - missing and mispelled words not all of which are caught.) If ever I found myself particularly passionate about a topic, the word almost seemed to compose themselves. Writing become as instinctive as breathing. I could scare contain the story or essay.
I am speaking of course of past events. I have not been able to write like that in years. I am not sure exactly when it transpired or the exact cause. Though I suspect, it was the weight of many things. Some time during my Ph.D. I developed a writers block that I could no seem to shake. I attemped a blog piece for RHUL. I finished it, but it lacked something.  Perhaps it was the rejection of my first scholarly piece. It had been a struggle to write, every thought a hardship and hours of labor proved insufficent. Maybe it was the schedule. The uninpired thesis. I am not sure. I have written during and since, but loath nearly every composition.
If I go do the dark places, I think I know why. The process of getting a Ph.D. was a slow death. I began my graduate program full of hope and exhuberance. It has been a challenge to earn a second undergraduate degree in physics. I had overcome my naysayers and I had finished. I was acceppted to my first chocie school. I had fulfilled a dream of not only studying science, but now I had the chance to research at the elite level. Late nights studying driven by a passion for the field had brought me here. I was so excited.
I remember the day I finally heard back on my corrections. The process was finally over. There were no celebrations. There was no hope. My dreams lay drowned in a shallow pool at my feet. My naysayers never left and I joined their ranks.
I had recently left a position where those in power took advantage of how easily those climbing the rungs could be silenced to use me as a vessel for abuse stemming from there own frustrations. This after a lengthy process of navigating other insecurities in the form of insults. After being treated as though my purpose was to further the careers of others. If I only had more passion, I could do more for them. I had proven nothing.
Life progressess forward and so did I. So a job found me and I began the impossible task of making amends. Amends for the years wasted. Amends for the suffering I caused. In the process, I am cognisent of the emtional draining I am be to be around. Especially in the moments when I am energy is so depleted I can longer lift my hands up to secure a mask in place to cry behind.
This project is to grieve the lost of career dreams and passions. I will be following the 5 stages of grieving death. Perhaps it is a nothing more that self indulgent angst. Or perhaps through sorrow, I can find my voice again. Maybe there is freedom from guilt. Or at least, I might get a little better a wearing masks so as to be more pleasent to be around.

 

Why I Race

Last year I made a goal that I would write more often and I completely failed in that object. Instead, I fell into deep despair. The thing about despair is that it robs of you of time. Days and weeks slipped by with hardly a memory to be formed. Life was cruel. I watched my efforts and dreams rot before me. I lost a friend who loved me unconditionally and gave me a safe place to have emotions. My life was uprooted again.

So here I am now, starting over, rebuilding, with an uncertain future. Many days are dark and often filled with pervading hopelessness. I am weary of cliches and truisms. These bring no comfort and often cause further decent. I am self-aware of the drain this has placed on my family and on the friends who have chosen to stand by me. They deserve better. So I must race again. I have signed up for Gravel Worlds, 150-mile gravel bike race and I will be signing up this Saturday for the Lincoln marathon.

This spring, I will spend the hours needed training each week. I will savor the process.

I do not race because I am fast. In truth, I am quite slow. I do not race because I am a natural athlete, in fact, I am quite the opposite. I do not race for my figure. Exercise sometimes has the side effect of a reduced size, but not always. I have previously written on this subject.

I race because:

It gives me mental clarity.
My mind is often a muddled place. I am trying to recover from several different past traumas. I am trying to be excellent in my work. I am trying to ask interesting questions. I am trying to be a good friend. I am trying to be a caring wife. I am trying to give my child what she needs. I am trying to perform at an acceptable level knowing I can always get better. My thoughts languish and become molasses. When I run or ride, I have nothing but time and myself. I am draining no one but myself. My thoughts are allowed to ebb and flow. To endure a long session, one must release impending deadlines and focus only on the task at hand. I am free to think and feel. The emotions I have buried come to the surface. I am left to face them and then leave them on the trail. I have the time to have ideas. I have the time to see beauty. I often return with the ability to have fierce concentration. Even though training takes time, I am often more productive.

It gives me a safe identity.
On dark days, I find the deceit involved in polite social interactions tiresome. I struggle to find a safe topic of conversation. I will not talk about politics as it causes too much rage. I rarely engage in pop culture. I am bad a mommy conversation and as a full time working mom with a husband who takes on the caretaking in the household, I often cannot relate. The training involved in distance training gives me something to talk about. I can escape painful questions of my origins and instead discuss the merits of different shoes. I can seem friendly and sociable. I can make friends. Sometimes seemingly shallow talk provides a respite.

It is cheaper than therapy.
This is related to the first point. I know I need professional help to heal. However, this is not something I can do right now. Whether I am getting help or not, I still need to persist. I have to do something to survive. Training doses my brain in endorphins. The time to process brings me closer to better mental health. The cost of entry is the cost of one therapy session. This will give me 8 months of dedicated training and thus 8 months of effective therapy I can afford.

It brings me joy.
I need joy. I need to have happy reasons to wake up. I am so grateful for my husband and my friends. I know these relationships have been emotionally unbalanced as of late. I need to find some exuberance so I can be better friend and wife.

The 10th Good thing About Jillian

Jillian. The way I will remember her.

I am still in shock. Today I learned that I lost one of my best friends. I will never hear her laughter on the other side of my phone again. So many shared jokes now have only one person to laugh over them.

I met Jillian when I moved to Nebraska for that fateful winter/spring/summer that would change my life forever. Fresh out of a divorce, with an uncertain future, I had packed everything I had and moved west to research in a laser lab. She worked as a grant writer in that lab. My first impression is that she was quiet. I was not sure what to think. She told me later I did not look like physics. Instead of the mousey quiet girl she was expecting, she met outspoken woman fresh off of 3 months of weight lifting. We were slow to talk but quick to become good friends once we started. Once we become friends, we were almost inseparable during my short time in Lincoln.

That summer we spent together is one of the best summers of my life. We spent many evenings drinking pink wine on her balcony as she smoked cigarettes with the filters torn off. We spent many morning sneaking out of work together to take coffee breaks that may have lasted as much two hours. We ate tacos at the food truck almost every Thursday. We were both hurting people who had grown up to fast. For a summer, we got to be young. We both needed it. She was the first person I told about reconnecting with the love my life.

After that summer, I moved to England to get a PhD. We talked almost weekly. The following summer she flew out to Portland to come my wedding. She was the friend who stayed with me in my hotel room the night before the event. She was there when I woke up the next morning. She was there as I got ready. I went back to England, and our friendship continued through my research and the birth of my daughter. I moved to Kansas when my visa expired. I started writing a thesis. She edited my work. As the end of my program grew closer and I was spending late nights in my office writing. She would take my calls at 2am in the morning to ensure I could walk safely back to my house.

Now, the tears are clouding my vision. I could say so much more, but I am weary. So in memory of the first book I read to help me deal with death The Tenth Good Thing About Barney, here are 10 good things about Jillian.

1. Jillian loved nature. When we talked I heard about blue bird trails and different kinds of plants. As a student of the physical world, I delighted in the education she provided me in understanding the natural world.
2. Jillian was a great conversationalist. Throughout the time I knew her, we talked at least once a month and often once a week. (A few times twice in one day.) No matter the states, or oceans, or time zones or countries that separated us we found time to talk and laugh.
3. Jillian was a great editor. I am sure she would have found many flaws in this post that she would have non-judgementally correct. As a sufferer of dysgraphia, she read my papers, my PhD thesis, my important emails to find the words I had left out or misspelled. She never shamed me for my struggles.
4. Jillian had a wonderful sense of humour. She could always find ways to make me laugh in even the most trying of circumstances.
5. Jillian was the best bandmate I could ever ask for. Yes, we were in a band together. Yes it was called Chains of Humping Snails. No, we never played a show. If we had, it would have featured, the triangle, the open chord of the guitar and science power points. Also lots of silly banter and inside jokes. We would have been a hit. You are all jealous that you never got to see us live.
6. Jillian was kind and knew how to show me she cared. She sent me jeans for my birthday. She sent my daughter a knitted fox. She made me a scarf from the yarn I bought for a project I would never finish. She saved clothing for me from her wardrobe that she knew I would love.
7. Jillian taught me how to make borscht. I know I basically lived on this sour cold soup the summer I spent riding bikes.
8. Jillian believed in me when I could not believe in myself. Even as she was suffering, she still encouraged me.
9. Jillian had a great sense of fashion and wealth of wisdom on skin care. The summer we spent together, we wore each others clothes. When one of us found we could not cope with the trials of life the other would distract by discussing skin care in greater detail than was likely healthy.
10. Jillian was my best friend. I will hold her memories close to my heart. I loved her and she loved me. Friendship is sweetest gift between two people on this side of infinity.

Reblog: It's Time to Have Controversial, Intellectual Conversations in Christian Classrooms

One of my dear friends who also happens to be a brilliant theologian recently shared the following article. In this piece the author describes the theological weakness they have encountered among the Christians with their social group. It opens with a story of a coffee shop barista, who is a professing Christian and attends a Christian university, being approached by an atheist customer who proceeds to ask several questions about how a university can possible incorporate Christianity into classes such as scientist. The barista is quickly overwhelmed and flounders. The author suggests this indicates that she was to as studied in her belief as was her questioner. Based on the details given of this third hand account I am inclined to agree.

You can read the rest of this post on my other blog:

http://stumblingaftermysavior.blogspot.com/2018/03/its-time-to-have-controversial.html

Short Story: Rapunzel - Prologue

The mothers arms clung to her small child. The little girl, not quite two, within her arms stroked her mother face and felt the tears the were wetting the cheeks. Her mother always seems sad. The songs that she sang were melancholy. Even her smile was tinged with sorrow. The child breathed her mothers scent in deeply, feeling secure and loved. The child's father was cold and distant, but her mother could never seem to get enough of holding her.

There was a sharp rap at the door and a woman with glistening white hair held rigidly in place with a hair stick entered the house. The child's mother clung to her more tightly. Her father entered and remained silent. The adults spoke to each other in strained voices. The child did not understand what was being said but sensed that something was amiss.

Her father pulled her from her mother and placed her with this new woman. The woman collected the child, turned heel an immediately left the house. The little girl heard her mother's screams and began to cry. This new woman took no notice, and faster than a human could move they were out of earshot of the only home the child had ever known. They seemed to travel through miles of woods. The child cried herself to sleep. When she awoke she found herself in a small circular room with walls comprised of cold stones. In the years that followed, Rapunzel never forgot her mother and cherished those early memories always.

Reflection: This year I resolve to write more

The morning of New Years Eve 2017, I checked my Facebook and saw the following status from a year ago

"I think I am supposed to reflect on the past year today. What can I say, for me this is has been a cold, harsh year of realities, emptiness, and personal failure. I have my health, my family, some wonderful friends, and shelter and for that I am grateful. I have learned to embrace the lessons in Ecclesiastes. I think that is enough to reflect on."


Last year I began the new year bleak and despondent. This year I feel even more hopeless. Life just has turned out well. My plans have crumbled to dust. Dreams are shattered at my feet. The path I was once following has been obscured by the blowing sands of the desert of life leaving me utterly lost. Each day is a chore and the evenings are filled with sadness. Platitudes have left me weary and nearly inconsolable.

So I have decided to resolve to do something. This year my resolution to write more. Perhaps along the way, maybe I'll eventually write something good. Doing so will not change my circumstances, but  it will provide an outlet to explore meaning. I used to be creative and I need to create again. Even if what I produce is the writing equivalent of a stick figure with a head and no body.

My resolution is try to produce at least 4 post a week. I expect many posts will be less than stellar but as I write more, I might get better. I will not be writing exclusively "blog" style posts. I want to explore writing short stories and poetry as well. So here are the types of posts I will be writing. The labels will be in the title.

Reflection: A standard personal blog post.
Health: A post on fitness or mental health, also written in a blog style
Short Story: Self explanatory
Poetry: Self explanatory
Response: Responding to another post or article
Prompt: A day I feel uninspired and need a journal prompt.
Spiritual: I will not write these here but these can be found at my other blog. I will include links.

When I was a little girl I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. So here one step towards that discipline.