I feel like I should explain a few things after my post yesterday.

Last week, I hit a new stage of my grief. The, holy shit this is real part. Like forever real. This is not a dream I will wake up from one day. It’s not something that is going to change, or get easier over night. This. Is. Real. (Sorry Marinka, sometimes, a sentence just calls for being separated like that.)

It knocked me flat on my ass. It crippled me honestly. I was crippled by the grief and fear of it for four days. I did nothing except think about it and panic. It kind of scared me. I thought the initial grief was worse, that it’d be no worse than that. This was worse.

Then on Sunday, the clouds parted and unicorns shot down from the….

Okay, I’m kidding. About the unicorns at least. Sounded funny in my head. Truth is, after four days of freaking out, I got tired. I got tired of spazzing out. Tired of questioning everything I do and everything I say. Tired of crying. Tired. Just plain, tired.

So I stopped. I stopped letting my grief control me in that moment. I spent Sunday playing with my kids. I haven’t had a panic attack in a few days. Even though I haven’t slept much the past few nights weeks, I can honestly tell you, I’m doing a little better. Have I freaked out a bit, yes. Obviously. Have I had moments of panic, yes. Especially yesterday when I had to let my kids spend the night with their dad for the first time. But I did okay.

Then I heard that one of the women I care about most in this world is undergoing one of the scariest things I can think of. A double mastectomy is major surgery. It would scare me in someone my age. But my 92 year old great-auntie is not my age. It scares me.

In this moment, I am doing a little better. Do I think I’m done with any of the above? Heck no. This is hard people. This is so hard, that some days, I think it will eat me. Then I have days where I think I may just make it to the other side of this. The last couple of days have been a little better. But there always seems to be something else. Always.

I was not raised in any religion. My father is an atheist. His family was once Jewish, but not since they escaped to America from Poland. My father is first generation America. What’s left of that religion, for our family at least,  is certain phrases, curse words and the ability to make latkes. My mother was raised Baptist, but didn’t raise us in that religion. However in times of crisis, she goes back to her roots. She has faith. She prays. She does whatever she does, because it gives her peace of mind. But it’s not like she really has a religion. She doesn’t in fact, believe in organized religion. Whatever, my mom…she’s her own oxymoron.

I however was not raised that way. I was raised in Los Angeles. Our version of religion was bagels and the beach on Sundays. My experiences of church and any bit of actual religion were the three weeks we spent with my grandparents each summer.

I do not have faith. I do not have religion. However, I respect everyone who does. Honest.

Yesterday, I was angry. Yesterday, I was freaked out. Yesterday, I’d spent all night fretting, I hadn’t slept and I posted what I did, because I needed to write. This is my space to vent. My space to put my thoughts out into the world. My therapy.

I wasn’t saying that I don’t believe in the power of prayer, or that I see anything wrong with it. If it came across that way, I truly am sorry. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. Religion in any form is hard to discuss online. There is always someone who will take offense.

But I won’t lie and tell you that I get it.

What I know is this: I have hope. I have hope that I will start feeling better soon. Hey, I’ve done better this week than last, so that’s something at least. I have hope that my great-auntie is strong enough and stubborn enough to survive. I have hope. Not always, not even often in the past few weeks. I always find it eventually though.

I’ll leave the praying up to the rest of the world. I’ll leave the faith, for those of you who have it. When I say I’m thinking of you and hoping for the best, I promise you, I am. Because that’s all I’ve got.

Maybe it’s the same thing, different wording. Maybe I’m just too dam stubborn for my own good. I don’t know. That’s all I know.

Oy, one more thing…

A lot of times you all comment and say, I don’t know what to say. I adore each of you for your comments, support and love. But I want you to know that it’s okay to not know what to say. Most of the time, I don’t know what to say. I’m really bad at returning emails or responding to comments. I start to comment and then delete it before I finish. I flitter in and out of this world right now, depending on my mood. Just know, it’s okay. I won’t tell anyone what to do or not to do, but it’s okay if you don’t know what to say. Promise.

Her name is Bernice. She’s my great aunt. My mom’s aunt. She is (or well, was) my grandfather’s older sister. She’s 92 years old.

She was the seventh child in a family of ten children. She watched her parents try to save her oldest sister from brain cancer and lived with the way that changed them after, when they weren’t able to save her. They grew up very poor on a farm in Texas. She watched helplessly as her youngest sister died as a young teenager from Typhoid Fever. She helped her mother, nurse my grandpa back to health from the same thing.

She was always the solid one. The girl who would help anyone.

When she was right out of high school, she married and quickly had two daughters. When the younger one was maybe four months old, her husband left her. All alone in a state with no family. She found a job and took care of her girls. Four years later she remarried. That one left after three years. Beat her, drained their savings, left her in debt and with two more kids to feed. A single mom with four kids to feed. She moved to be closer to her parents, eventually taking care of them as well.

She started working for the electric company, as some form of a secretary. She went to work for them, because she knew, they’d always be able to pay her. She eventually got out of debt and bought a house.

She’s a survivor.

She survived loosing her youngest son. He was in some kind of a boating accident at nineteen years old. When asked, she says this was the one that would have knocked her over for good, if she’d let it. Says it came close. Nothing before it or after it can ever compare she once told me. Of course now, thirty something years later, she says she only cries every third time he is brought up in conversation.

She’s outlived her parents and all but one sibling. (The remaining sister, four years younger than her is slowly loosing her battle with Alzheimer’s.) She’s done the unthinkable, she’s buried a child. She always says, you aren’t supposed to have to bury your children. That she has some choice words to say to god one day about that.

I don’t doubt that she will.

She’s volunteered in children’s wards of hospitals for my entire life. She reads to kids at the library. She does math in her great-grand-children’s classrooms. She teaches Sunday School and cooks at soup kitchens.

When she retired, she started going on trips. She’s seen the world, one trip at a time. Sometimes with friends. Sometimes with children or grandchildren. Sometimes alone. Picture if you will, a 92 year old woman, who still decides on the spur of the moment to go to Arizona for the weekend. Or Florida. Or Minnesota. Because there is an exhibit she heard is going to be in some gallery there that she’d like to see. Or because she got tired of the heat where she lives. She calls one of her family members and says, hey, I’m going to come visit you this weekend. I’ll be there in three hours. This is when my plane gets in. I can take a taxi, if you are busy.

She does this often.

She’s ornery like that. That’s what her oldest daughter calls her. Of course that’s because Aunt Bernice only calls her daughter and tells her where she’s going, after she’s already there. Ha.

92 years old and she still does what she wants, when she wants. She gave up her house about five years ago and moved into a little apartment in a retirement community, mostly to make her daughters shut up, not because she felt like she needed too. She really does like it though. She’s a mean pinnacle player. She calls all the other people there, the little old people. She loves to say, I may be old, but I’ll never be little.

When she gets bored, she takes a trip. She has three children, 12 grandchildren and numerous nieces and nephews and great nieces and nephews who will always welcome her into their home. She’s helpful. She’s funny. She tells great stories. She bakes. When Morgan was a baby she came to our house for a week. I had to check her suit case when she left to make sure my baby wasn’t in it. She never put the girl down the entire week she was visiting.

In December she had a pacemaker put in. She’d had a few “episodes” and her doctor told her this would help. She said it like it was nothing. In fact, she told everyone about in her Christmas letter. One sentence was, oh my grand-daughter is pregnant with twins and I’m so thrilled and the next sentence was, oh and I’ll be having a pacemaker put in after Christmas…but no one get all worried, because I am only doing this so I can live to see 115.

She was back on her feet in days. 115 years old is her goal. 115 years old. Can you imagine?

Last week, she found a lump in her breast. Unfortunately cancer runs heavily in that side of the family, so we’ll see. It could, obviously be nothing. She has told everyone, no worries. If it’s cancerous, I’ll deal with it. She already told her doctor and kids, she’ll do whatever they think she needs to do. But she also told her doctor in no uncertain terms that she’s planning on going on a cruise in spring 2012 with her grand-daughter and family, so please to be remembering she must be healed by then.

I can’t plan next week and she’s planning spring 2012.

A woman born in 1917. A 92 year old woman. One of the strongest, most amazing ladies you could ever hope to meet. My great aunt Bernice. I just hope one day, I can even be half as strong as she is.

This is a hard time in my life. Very hard. In my trying to make it through each day, I find that I’m forgetting things. Small things. Things like, I’ve needed to buy more Tums for a week. (Can someone explain to me why I still get heartburn when the boy is nearly 16 months old?) Things like, my printer has needed ink for three weeks. Have I been places where I could buy these things? Oh yes, many times over. But I forget when I’m there, because my brain is on overdrive trying to figure out things, that it just doesn’t understand yet.

Where is my plug for my iPod? Why can’t I find my 2008 taxes? Did I give Morgan, Bailey’s lunch today? All very good questions. Things I’d normally be able to give you answers for. Right now though? You guess would be as good as mine.

Anyway, I have a few things that I wanted to remember. In case I forget later. I thought it may be good to write them down here.

-I’ve been having trouble getting Bailey to eat. It’s slowly getting better. She’ll eat for me, but she’s still not eating much when she’s with her dad. It’s the stress, it just makes her un-hungry. Also, she’s a complete mama’s girl. However, when you are only in the 4th percentile for weight, you can’t afford to miss many meals.

Anyway, last Thursday she came into my bedroom in the morning and we had this conversation:

Bailey: Mama, guess what?

Me: noticing that she is butt nekkid. Um, I don’t know, you forgot how to put clothes on?

Bailey: No.

Me: An alien ate all of your clothes while you were sleeping.

Bailey: NO MAMA.

Me: It’s nekkid day at school and I missed the memo?

Bailey: laughing. No silly.

Me: I give up love. What?

Bailey: I’M HUNGRY. Like super-dup really hungry mommy. I NEED pancakes.

Me: cries.

I took them to ihop for breakfast and then took them to school an hour late. Sometimes, it’s just the right thing to do.

- Harrison does this thing where he makes you get up from where you are sitting to follow him. He pulls on your finger and makes you follow him around. Sometimes it’s to retrieve his Mater car from someplace where he can’t get it. Sometimes it’s to show you the fridge. Or the mess he made of the dog food again. Sometimes, he wants you sit somewhere else. Like two spots over on the couch. Or on the other side of his train table. It’s very adorable. We call it, Harrison’s adventures. He’s taking us on an adventure. When he’s done with you, he lets go of your finger, but not until he is done. He’s a very cute little dictator.

-The girls and I have been watching American Idol. Although I’m a mean mom and I make them watch it the next night. I can’t handle watching it live. Commercials and I don’t really get along. I also need to able to fast forward during some of it. The other night, we were watching the second episode from last week. Morgan and I were both covering our face and plugging our ears at the same things. Go past this mom, she kept saying. It’s too painful. This person shouldn’t be on the show. Agreed baby girl. Agreed. Last year, she made me suffer through it all. This year? She’s come over to the dark side. The, I can’t stand to watch people make fools of themselves on TV side. It’s about dang time.

-I have posts that I’ve written. Posts that I’m unsure if I’ll post. Or if I do, I will try to give you guys some other stuff to read as well. I adore you all. But I know, that you worry. That I worry you. I know that I’m depressing to read these days. That honestly may not change for awhile. But I need you to know that I am okay. This space is my outlet. It always has been. I write things here, that I’d only say out loud to my mom, my best friend and my shrink. I promise you all, I am okay. Not great, not even good, but okay. I am taking care of myself and my kids. We are surviving. One day, we will get used to this. We’re not there yet. But we’re all taking the right steps.

-In other news, I’m going to be working on my blogroll for the next few days. It will be on the page marked friends. Right now if you hit the friends button, it just has the post I wrote about 31 unknown bloggers in it.

If you’d like to be on my blogroll let me know and I’ll make sure to add you.

I never used to be a crier. I mean I did cry. On occasion. Normally when I finally did, I’d cry for hours, because it was 8 months worth of bottled up tears.  That’s just the way I was. Not so much anymore. Now? I cry a lot.

I’m emotional. I’m depressed. My life has crumbled and I’m trying to pick up the pieces. I’m doing okay despite it. However, I cry at everything right now. Yes, I have good reason too cry. Yes, it is helpful. In fact, some days I’m convinced it’s actually making me feel better. But I cry at EVERYTHING right now. It’s kinda my thing. I’m a crier.

I’d really like to find a new thing. My eyes hurt. All the dam time. It’s tiring to cry all day.

So this is where I ask for your help. See, I have this problem….I listen to the same three songs all day long. Yes, I do mean ALL DAY LONG. Ahem. I told you, I have a problem.

I’ll give you a little sample of the songs and lyrics and you’ll be able to tell why I need new songs.

No this ain’t how it was suppose to be, If you’re out chasin’ all your dreams, Tell me where does that leave me….What about the promise that you made, To stay with me till your dying day, Said you’d never go away, Are they just things that people say…Could I have loved a little deeper, Or did I hold on too strong. – Things People Say by Lady Antebellum

I know there are no guarantees, In love you take your chances, But somehow it seems unfair to me, Look at the circumstances,Through sickness and health, ’till death do us part, Those were the words that we said from our heart, So now that you say that you’re leaving me, I don’t get that part….Well I’m not gonna cry, I’m not gonna cry, I’m not gonna shed no tears, No, I’m not gonna cry, it’s not the time. Not gonna cry by Mary J. Blige

(Even funnier is that half of those lyrics are I’m not gonna cry and I still do, every dam time.)

What about now? What about today? What if you’re making me all that I was meant to be? What if our love had never went away? What if it’s lost behind words we could never find? Baby, before it’s too late, What about now?  – What About Now by Daughtry

Yeah, see, hai. Issa NEEDS NEW SONGS. Badly.

Today is National Delurking Day. I understand some of you will still lurk. I love lurkers. My best friend is a lurker. Sadly, right now, I am kind of a lurker as well. But for those of you willing to help me out, I’d really appreciate it. I though maybe if I asked for something specific, it may be a little easier to delurk. It’s a thought at least.

What I need is this:

1. A song that makes you cry, because I’m not done crying yet. I wish I was, but I know I’m not. Not yet. One day. Maybe even soon-ish, but not yet.

2. A song that makes you happy, because I’d like to make a happy song playlist for times when I really need to STOP all the dang crying for a bit.

3. Your current favorite song. Just because I’m curious.

That’s it. If you are willing, I’d love the help. If not? That’s okay too. I still love you for reading here.

I have always been good at faking it. Faking being fine. Faking having fun. Faking, faking, faking. I am gifted at it. It’s a life long thing for me. I am so great at it, that sometimes? Sometimes I even fool myself. It was how I got through childhood. It was easier for me to be like that then to deal with my emotions. I was the good kid. Invisible when need be. The voice of reason. The peace maker. The responsible one. Always.

The problem is, I am tired of faking it. It’s too much work. Way more energy then I have right now. I am struggling to just make it. To make sure my kids make it. To get out of bed each day. I have nothing left.

I get up every day and do what I need to do. I take care of myself. I take care of my kids. My house is mostly clean, the laundry is done, the dog is fed and well cared for and there are meals made each day. I have showered each day. I have been and will keep going to therapy. I swear, I am taking my meds. I haven’t fallen of any cliffs.

But I’m tired of faking it.

You want to know the truth? The truth is my husband says he hasn’t loved me in over a year and a half. Our son isn’t even that old yet. I thought he needed space, time, to grow up or something. I was going to suggest he move out for a few weeks. He has already brought up divorce.

The truth is, I had to tell my girls about this myself, because he couldn’t be bothered to find a time to do so. He thought I’d just lie to them about where he was, until he made time for it. While it might have been easier, it wasn’t the right thing to do. Telling them, helping them deal, giving them space to rage and cry and be angry, is the right thing to do.

The truth is, I don’t have it in me to read posts, to comment, to play on Twitter or even really to play bejeweled. Instead of that? I spent half the day making a ‘Best Of’ page on this blog. Not that it was really any easier to read old happy posts of my own either. But that’s what I did today.

The truth is that I’m overwhelmed. That I started crying last Friday night at Liz’s house and haven’t fully stopped since then. I know I CAN do this. I know I WILL do this. But it’s scary. And big. And hard.

Somehow I have to learn to deal with the fact that the life I’ve had since I was fourteen years old, the life I had with him is over. My life, my kids life isn’t over. But that life, that true love that I had, or thought I had, is over.

All that’s left is my pain and my inability to fake it. Sadly, that is one of his main issues with me. I guess I have become to real. Too real for him. So here we are. This is my new life. That’s my truths and I just can’t fake it anymore.

The truth is that I’m heart broken. My heart is crushed. Gone. I can’t fake otherwise. Instead? I’m going to try to deal with it. To be sad. To grieve. To try to rebuild my broken heart. Because that seems somehow easier than faking it.