Six Years ago when I started blogging I was going struggling through my days parenting 2 kids under 4, in some weird way I felt at that time I had a lot to prove. Life had led me to that moment, I needed an outlet, something to call my own, this blog became a safe place for me, a security blanket even.
Through blogging, I have nursed my own broken heart, become stronger, and exposed my deepest fears. I have gained friendships and grown up a lot. As I have changed I have shared all my ups and downs here and I no longer felt like I had anything to prove to anyone. The heart behind the blog changed.
The girl behind her computer screen changed.
In the last 5 months I pulled back a lot. I dreaded facing the feelings and judgments from people who don’t know all the details of my situation and Dads illness. I still felt the gentle nudge to be a voice for others who also walk in my shoes.
So as I sit here, typing and stumbling to share more of my story, the more losses I experience the more vulnerable I am. This is part of my story and here I am, sharing again and putting out my life and my hurt for those of you who understand.
I share this part of my story for those of you who scroll through your social media everyday and rejoice at all the seemingly perfect lives around us, all the while weeping for the losses your are experiencing in your own life.
I never had a perfect relationship with my Dad, I don’t believe anything in life is easy and being around him and his issues certainly wasn’t and the Dementia stole the small part of him I could still relate too – it was all that I had left of him. I didn’t see this coming, it was so sudden.
The isolation I felt was unbelievable. It’s one of those life experiences that as you walk through it, you feel as though you’re the only one who can walk it. I honestly was completely shocked when we realized that the odds are against us and this is more likely then not permanent. And then I got him settled in at a home and I thought that was my story, visiting Dad on a Sunday, taking him out for walks.
But then it hit me again.
He was found unconscious.
I was standing in the shower after I had spent the night with him at the hospital. The hot water was raining over me as I my eyes stay fixed on a mark on the wall, barely able to move or process the gravity of what my life had become. The bigger picture- what does this even mean for me? Yet again having to be the one that goes to him, is there for him always.
Weeks later I was driving to see him. I had been strong, I had kept it all together, kept positive, kept it all bottled up in a nice pretty package. Nice pretty packages can often get messy, explode even. And as I drove down those streets it all started to unravel. And the more I tried to hold it in, the faster and harder it came. I pulled over just quick enough to let out my cries. A heave of loss that weighs so heavy you think you won’t be able to take the next breath.
I carry this every day.
As cliche as it sounds, I believe I am going through this journey for a reason, wherever this road leads, I stand steadfast and storing in my belief that my Dad still lives and the part of him that is still here deserves to be nurtured. As others around me move on and forget, I will be strong.