That was my most recent status on Facebook. I don't status very much anyway, cuz We All Know How I Feel About That. I wish it wouldn't automatically clear, and go off your status. Cuz it's still my status, really. It's my status all the livelong day.
Let's catch up, shall we? Reboyfriend is still gone. Sounds like a stupid update but when you are me, sometimes your brain forgets for a millisecond and wonders if that changed. But yeah, he's still gone, off with grandpa Floyd and Jesus, rather than with me. I am, therefore in part of that "anger" stage. I buy unhealthy stuff at convenience stores, like grape Amp and Starbucks (Reboyfriend always lectured me about it, and only referred to it as Fivebucks, so I now purchase things he hated me consuming, and then I pop the drink open once I get behind the wheel, and say "say it to my face, Mingo" and then chug it in defiance. You know what? You want me to eat healthy so that we can "live to be 90 together"? Um, how about don't die at 32, then, dammit. (See? Anger stage). Anyway, still updating you...I am still staying with my aunt and uncle Tom & Jenni. I have slept alone FOUR nights in a row now, the first night only survivable by an experience that gets a blog post of its own (here are some pins and needles for you. Lay yourselves down upon them!).
And since my last post, I've succeeded in making an ass of myself in millions of ways like giving TMI about my love life with Reboyfriend to my patient and diligent Pain Entourage (a conservative task force but still doesn't care, and relishes in the juicy shit with me), and by qualifying it by "Hey. I just buried reboyfriend. I get a month to be the TMI queen and not apologize for it, so you just have to pretend my birth control method stories are normal conversation over milkshakes. Sorry." Like I was so tactful before. But whatever. I feel like I am getting a little out of control with it.
Like, these things I never wanted to do:
1.) Be a pill popper
2.) Exploit this loss/tragedy in order to get out of things/excuse behavior
3.) Profile someone based on their looks
So the other day, I got out of bed. Doing so, in my opinion, makes me awesome enough to absolve me of doing any of the above. Please feel free to agree with me about this, in my comments section. It will be a great way to delurk, and let me become a reader of your blog. Just enter "Agreeing with you about your awesomeness. Peace out." My first stop, after journaling that morning's dream before forgetting it, was a stop to the healing center that is Walgreen's. Controlled substances + As Seen On TV aisle? Forget it. God Bless America. So here's how the conversation went.
Me: Um, OK, yeah, mumble. Sniff. I'm here to fill a couple prescriptions. Let's see, I'm out of whatever the generic thing they've got me on for Xanax, so here's the refill Rx. Then the Ambien I'm out of is already in your system. Oh, and I might as well refill my Budeprion while I'm here. I only have a few of those left.
Extremely UberCute Young Man Across Counter At Pharmacy: Um, OK, your name or birthday?
Me: Um, oh, my gosh. I sound like a total pill popper. [/Editor's note: you sound like an airhead too now, contratulations./] OMG...ugh, sorry.
Cute Man: Oh, uh, no problem. [Uncomfortably typing in my info.]
Me: ...I just...my fiance's funeral was last week...
CM: Oh, I'm sorry. [I obviously alleviated his discomfort.]
Me: So, yeah, that's what's with all the pills, and I haven't been able to eat anything for a couple of weeks because of everything, so I have a question for the pharmacist, about a multivitamin...[Look around their little apothecary inventory area behind the counter, for man that looks like Boog's dad, who actually is, and looks like, A Real Pharmacist].
CM: [nods kindly] I'm the pharmacist.
Me: [Look down at nametag that says "Pharmacist" on his white jacket, embarrassed that I look dumb, also ashamed for assuming he was a young, adorable pharm tech, obviously too young and adorable to be a real pharmacist, and then I felt stupid becuase my friend Anna's husband is a brand new pharmacist and is both young and good-looking, duh].
Congratulations, Kirsten. Way to go. Not exploit tragedy (fail). Not profile someone based on their looks (fail). Not only on NOT be a pill popper (giant fail), but SUCH a pill popper that you get verbal diarrhea about being a pill popper to the pharmacist.
[/Editor's Obvious Note: If you ever need to buy something at the AF/Lehi Walgreens, I say do it. The pharmacist is hot./]
My wonderful friend Denzel called the other day (you'll remember Denz from my Valentine's post several months back, aww). I told him how ashamed I was that I am pretty much, well, suicidal unless I have Xanax. (Me telling you this, falls within my free month of unbridled TMI, plus this blog has always been an open book, so I'm not hiding this from you). Denzel's response to my regret over this: "F*** that. Take Xanax. That's what it's there for."
We love Denzel.
Over the years, we've helped one another make sense of very confusing things. He stepped up, once again. I love you, Denz. (Denz is blissfully in Jed/Kirsten/The Notebook love with his own sweetheart, so I mean "love" in God's way, but he knows that). I am technically in Utah County right now. So I am going to start talking out loud about the thing we're notorious for, and that's happy pills. Denz is right. F*** that. Eff the documentaries that make fun of it. You are talking about a valley full of people that never have and never been able to have wine with their dinner or a beer after work. Cut them some slack. Let's all fess up to it! Viva viva Xanax When Your Life's Love Dies! Good hell.
Ok. Got that out of the way. Next up, holy life crisis. I miss my roommates Gordo and JB. I miss our home. The house haunts me though, even though I miss the fun of being there. When their busy trucking season slows down, I know they'll have more time to get me out to house parties and fun dinners and teach me to snowboard (I am pretty sure I forgot how). Should I stay in the boys' house? I have been considering getting one single solitary vinyl Mormon minivan stick-figure sticker, for my back car window, you know, all alone. And sad-looking. With nothing in my hands, no purse or red pen or can of Grape Amp in my stick-figure-hand. Just a standalone stick figure. I'm so effing funny. **But if I stayed with the boys, I could get, like, multiple vinyl stickers. One for the three of us. Me, and two grown men holding snowboards and beer and Maxim magazines. Too much? Are you sure? Cuz I think it would be a good way to contribute to The Movement To End This Societal Problem. Who's with me? Mock them till they go away? I love you Kortni Litster, for collecting these pictures. My soul sister in quoting Friends (When Annie's baby won't let her)...and hayyyting the Vinyl Family epidemic throughout our state. (Not to be mean, but she points out that it's a pedophile's dream, and it's the SeriouslySoBlessed of the traffic jam world. I have a testimony that where Reboyfriend is, they don't have those. I'm thisclose to following him already, the vinyl is pushing me closer).** Anyway, part of me thinks that the group should stick together and power through, as a little clan, the way reboyfriend would want us to. Leaving me to his two dudebros to take care of. Like when I pulled up to the house last time, after Jiffy Lube didn't screw things on all the way after my last oil change, so stuff just fell out the bottom of my car on the freeway, and I had the boys examine the one particle I could retrieve from the off-ramp, crying. The boys came out and told me what it was, and told me they'd go kick some ass and stuff, and just wanted to make it all better for me the way boys do. I don't know if that makes it enough, though. That house is full of reboyfriend's history with them. It's already hard enough for me to have to say goodbye to my entire future with him while surrounded by his history with everyone else but me. Hence, my condo search.
Anyway, my host family just got back from church. And I may be in the bargaining stage (the anger stage has come and gone, and come, and gone, sorry to Reboyfriend's uncle Darrell for the smackdown bitch-out you got from me about how if I ever saw my family behave the way some of theirs has been I'd be so disgusted I'd effing VOMIT, so you'd better protect Jed's mom from these people, let me hear you promise. sorry Reboyfriend and God, for the pissy, smartass comments I make aloud to the both of You while in my car). So maybe anger stage is mixing with bargaining stage. Because I'm looking down at my iced Starbucks wondering if I could give it up to go be a good Mormon again. Not sure why the urge is coming to me. I don't even begin to believe half of the doctrine. I just miss it. Like, as in, I wish I'd have gotten up to go to church with my family. Being alone in the house made me scared and sad and too alone with my thoughts, and people at church soothe me, and church soothes me until I hear "lifestyle choice" or "church is true" or other unwitting ways we innocently but abrasively phrase things at church that have suddenly made it hard for me to go...but I think I can get past those. Maybe I can do that again, maybe I can be a devout LDS again. Maybe. God, if I do that, can I feel better? Can I be with Reboyfriend again?
Tom, Jenni, Tommy and Allie have the power to instantly soothe me, cheer me up, as they walk in through the garage door in their Sunday best from church. ("Hiyee!!!" Jenni shriekds. They are excited to see me in my widow-girl dreadlocks, drinking my iced coffee and blogging rather than respectfully joining them at church. They don't care! Look who's up and at it! Yayyy!). Their voices and jokes and stuff instantly have me laughing. I'm laughing out loud with them. They are filled with love and hilarity. I know the Book of Mormon didn't make them start talking about how nerdy the dorm rules are at Meems' new college home at BYU, which is causing giggles, real ones, to re-debut back into the world, up from my belly, which hasn't pushed up a good laugh in so long. But whatever it is in them, it takes away the pain. It is a joy and a comfort I can't explain.
This makes me scared, terrifed, to "move out" (not that I live here, just staying here, but I'm realizing that I am only OK when I'm around them), and OMG it's been a fricking like 3 weeks that he's been dead. Oh, and I hate that word. I used the title "Jed moving forward" on my computer folder that holds his obituaries, funeral pix, the FAA report of his accident investigation, etc., so that it feels less negative. So that it is kind of like all the paperwork I will need to be storing out when a kid graduates from high school. I am just sayin. Three weeks sounds like a long time. But it feels like I just got here. They're probably ready for me to be gone. I'm trying not to bring down the party, on a continual basis. I can't help but worry that I'm a cloud they wish would pass.
So that's why I looked at a condo/townhome yesterday. It's overpriced. It would be a huge payment every month. It's beautiful and I love it though, because I have some feng shui-ish requirements that are non-negotiable, if I want to be able to move into my own place without getting so depressed and lonely that I off myself. This condo fits those requirements, and it is close to Tom & Jenni and the comfort and joy and glee. I don't think I'll do it, but I am proud of myself for looking.
Now, to address something else with you guys.
To Nahl, who left the most striking comment I've gotten so far, in my last comment section:
"Life scares me":
Don't let it. Please.
Wanna know something creepy? [You: "Um, no, but you're going to write it anyway, aren't you"]. Well, days before reboyfriend died, we were talking about death. I asked because I suddenly got scared he would. **It was funny. We joked about it. I said "OMG, what would you do with my stuff? There is so MUCH of it! What a nightmare for you. Look at this mess. It would slay my mom, I don't think she could go through it." And he said indignantly, "Um, Kir, I'd keep it. These would become my things. Your mom could help me go through it, if she wanted, but it would be my stuff Kir. I'd give your jeans to Meems. But the rest would stay with me until I decided what to do with it." (Another reason his family and mine are very, very different). And then he then pointed out that it wouldn't matter though, because if I died, he'd probably end his own life too. (Um, the reason for the Xanax I think I'm so edgy and brave for talking about, is because this comment haunted me for the first week, drawing me closer and closer to the option of following suit). He didn't mean it, and I would never do to my family and friends what this has done to me. So that settles it. But my compromise is that I need to be able to do it. Hence the pill popping and idiotic pharmacy experiences.**
But back to the FEAR thing. Man, I can't stay on task today. That thing, Nahl's thing, about Life Scaring Us. I'm right there with you. And Nahl, I WAS right there with you. I was convinced that God had overgiven, and would realize He gave me too much, and then take it back. My aunt and I were joking about how like, on accident, the bank sometimes puts too much money in your account and you know they're going to figure it out (my mom works at a bank, and they just do. They figure it out and hurry and take it back out, or they get fired so yeah)...and then take it away, so you're not going to just go enjoy it.
Well I didn't act that carefully. I spent it all. I hurried to spend it before it got taken back. I actually relished in every moment with Reboyfriend. I spent more time than was probably healthy, preparing for his returns from the road. When he was home, I soaked in every bit of him. Every bit. I never took him for granted. So I have no regrets there. (Well, there's that regret where I didn't whine and beg him to stay home from The Trip. That would have saved us all a little but of this bullshit. I also bitterly resent that we didn't say "I love you" before he left. But I never took him for granted because I FEARED God would take away this happiness. And would'ya look at that...He did.
I actually didn't think death would be the way. Reboyfriend was invincible. He was cut from stone and smelled like diesel fuel and sweat and would come home from snowboarding with a concussion and then go back out the next day and land the stupid move he was trying. His friends seethed with jealousy when they watched him wakeboard. He was untouchable, unbreakable, sturdy. Solid.
As his girlfriend, I never tried making him jealous, and there were a couple times when he should have been, and just wasn't. I only once or twice ever hurt his feelings, in all of nine years, and it was so cute I could cry. He was invincible. You wouldn't believe the freak-accident stories that exist of him escaping death and/or dismemeberment.
The abundance of these stories convinced us all he'd live to be old like his idolized grandpa Floyd who lived to 90 and died only from slipping off the wing of that godforsaken plane. (I hope the FAA burns the cursed remains of it all so it can't suck any more joy out of this world, although I won't attempt to diminish the joy that plane pumped into it through Reboyfriend's passion for it, so much so in fact, that the funeral was not censored of pictures of that damn thing, pictures of it everywhere. It was one of the four pieces of preciousness that were lost that day, but I'm rambling).
I'm just saying, I didn't think death would be the way God would repo my unwarranted happiness. I figured ReBF would get drunk at xGames and dust off his old beer goggles (you should have seen some of the cum dumpsters he "knew" in the past. Hell. I literally feel bad for him. Nothing like a hangover AND that sight to wake up to. Ugh. No wonder he was waiting for me, sorry, I'm a bitch and can get a little catty) and thrown it all away in a dark corner of a night club. I figured that would be the way God would cut me off.
I turned paranoid, waking him up in the middle of the night saying "Jed, wake up. I can't deal, I need to just tell you." Him: "I could tell you were mad all day, what did I do?" Then I'd tell him the minor infraction he committed, or the prince-charming act he failed to commit, and why it irritated me or made me feel disrespected or jealous. Then he'd lean up on his elbows in bed and rub his eyes and say "Well, OK. that's fair. I'm sorry, I need to be more sensitive. But next time don't be mad at me all day. Just say 'Jed, I am having a problem. Will you help me with it?' And then just talk to me about it, and you won't have to hold it in all day." He would deal with my paranoia so adorably. But Life Scared Me. Like it's scaring you. And it soured so many things for me. Why did I let it?
To Nahl and others: The only thing between Reboyfriend and me right now, is some veil separating two temporal planes. The only thing between you and me is this tragedy. We're both peering at this barrier, worrying about it. I don't know what's on the other side of it, and that scares me.
You can't control if it happens to you. You can't outrun, predict, and certainly can't prepare for it. I wish Reboyfriend could reach through that barrier of what I don't know, and demystify this thing that separates us. Wizard of Oz curtain metaphors abound. I'll spare you, because you're not an idiot and this is already long enough. He can't do that for me. I get to sit and wonder, for the rest of my life.
But regarding that thing between you and me, the fact that I'm going through this and you're not, what if didn't have to be something I know that you don't? The only thing separating you and me is this horrible experience, which could happen to you as easily as it did happen to me, but through this writing, I'm trying to reach through it to you, in case it can make it real enough for someone else that it's less scary to them. The unknown part of it, is what's unnerving and disturbing. Here, my pain is known. The part of the pain that I feel humans weren't designed to endure (another one of my suspicions that God made a mistake...in this case, by giving me more pain than I was built for, just like I knew somehow that he had accidentally given me too much happiness for my own heart's capacity). I'm spilling it. Here you go, and it's not a mystery. I am doing my best to let you in on how it feels, so it's less scary to you. So if you ever get here, you don't have to question whether it's something you can do.
I have had the weakest moments, the lowest, the darkest, the bitterest. In the past few weeks. More than words, more than 5,000 wordcount blog posts can even begin to sum up. I'm reduced to a fraction of who I am right now. Don't tell me I'm being strengthened, because all that does is freak me about. "What the hell for? Seriously? There's a bigger blow coming I am being prepared for? Are you F***ING KIDDING ME?"
But here's the secret: I am OK. If I'm not OK, then I am at least going to be OK. Nahl, and those silent ones of you she is inevitably speaking for, please know that this is doable. I'm not going to lie, this is bigger than me. I am afraid of it every day. But I need to tell you not to be. Not just cuz it ruins the bliss of everything you love, but because you should know that you can be OK if this happens to you. If I can explain my life to you well enough, you can feel like you're here with me. And if this happens to you, you can be all, like "Shit yeah, bring it. I've been there."
The other day I was driving to our house to get some things I needed, scared as shit. I asked, out loud, "Jed, I'm having a problem. Will you help me?" First, I screamed his name in my car, like a horror flick. Sobbing. Maybe he'd hear me if it was loud. I'm logical like that. But I didn't care. He promised me that night, if I were laying in quiet torment, not to let it eat me alive or drive me to destructive behavior. But just to reach out to him sleeping next to me and quietly tell him I had a problem, and ask if he will help me. I screamed in my car, hot tears welling over my under-eye bags, tears of pain, and of embarrassment about how silly it felt..."Jed. I'm scared, and this hurts. I need you to be with me as I walk through our house because it's empty and scary. I am having a problem, will you please help me?" I laughed when a silvery slate-colored longbed Dodge Ram diesel, identical to his, turned a corner and drove by me. I don't really believe that was his answer, but I laughed anyway. I walked in the door of our house. Into his bedroom. It had been emptied. His things were gone. The family had people pack it all up and take it. I walked into my room where his office had been. All of his items had been taken. It seared in my mind. I felt a little violated. But I was OK. I got my yoga mat and a couple of things, and left in one piece.
This past Fourth of July, Reboyfriend took me up in the plane. We circled over the miles and miles of farms that seemed never to end, the place he was born and raised. It's called the magic valley because of all the many different things that could be farmed there. By the time we could get plane fuel and "our" chores done (yeah, he gave me chores when we got to the farm. Some stuff is only cute after they die, like snoring), the afternoon was almost over. We took off on his dirt runway and he rose the plane into the sky. I trusted him with my life - eleven years of logbooks, meticulous maintenance on the plane, his earnest expressions of adoration that stayed consistent every day since our reunion. He'd earned the trust.
The sun was setting and he zoomed low over the Snake river, hovering above the waverunners and boats, everyone waving up at us. Then he said "I think Floyd's sitting in here with us. Hey grandpa." I thought it was cute. I never gave much thought to whether a spirit might join you sometimes. I'm so glad now, that he thought that way. That he thinks that way. Reboyfriend decided to do a quick dip over the cemetery where he'd buried his grandpa Floyd a year earlier. Hey grandpa, we quietly said as the plane zoomed low over the plot.
It was a gorgeous experience. People talk about beautiful experiences. This was a gorgeous one. Because of the sunset. Because of what the Minidoka-Cassia area looks like from the sky. Because of the fun of being flown around by your reboyfriend in his vintage plane, you and the plane - the two things he most loved in the world. Because of the wonder of seeing an entirely new, amazing talent in someone you've known nine years. Because it was Independence Day. And because you learned that his expectation of the deceased was to sit with you during perfect moments.
I've gotten comfort, not just from family and Walgreens and Priesthood Blessings I didn't even know I believed in until now, but from knowing what my deceased thinks about the deceased.
Nahl, just like I'm trying to reach through the barrier that separates me from you, this passage written by Reboyfriend some time ago, does the same for me. It provides a parallel relief. From the life sketch Reboyfriend wrote and delivered at the funeral for his dear grandpa Floyd:
“I feel blessed to have such a positive outlook and sound understanding of death. My testimony of the gospel and my service to God has brought that about. Life and our Existence is simply a ladder of progressive steps to becoming a God! We each take a different path and experience different levels of progression, which go on for eternity. There is no end, only something to look forward to. I love you Grandpa and I’m right behind you. See you soon!”
Jedron
Reboyfriend never stopped surprising me. Jake read this quote from his journal, revealing this eloquent side he rarely showed me. I love that reboyfriend can keep surprising me, even today.
"It is crazy how easy it is to be consumed in this generation. It’s tough being single during your 20’s. The older generations cannot experience it how we do. Technology is progression and progression creates more temptation. Lucifer is a clever strategist. He isolates his victims by our free will if he can. Man is not governed by instinct; he is governed by free will. Animals - on the other hand - are protected from slavery for their present appetites, by instinct. You don’t see fat house pets in the wild. So our protection from our appetites is a larger context, it is time. God's gift to us is time, our gift to Him is holiness.”
--Jed Mingo
