If It's The Fourth of July, It Must Be Time For Flashback Fireworks. It. Must. Be.

Four years ago, in 2009, Mr. J was in the midst of a hellacious chemotherapy protocol and I wrote one of my favorite posts. It captured the essence of pre-cancer TeamWedding and, better yet, how Samuel L. Chemo not only couldn't ruin TW's spirits but also how they were strengthened.

Three years ago, I reposted it, full of post-chemo TW joy and all of the things that were right in 2010 Halfglassistan, particularly in TWHQ. Jamie with no signs of cancer, officially in observation. I was happily and productively working full-time in my chosen field. 

And I also stated I'd post it again the next year, and the year after that. And I'm quite certain I thought at the time, I'd post it the year after that.

Which brings us to now. I've looked back in the archives.

I didn't repost it in 2011. I didn't repost it in 2012. Because as right as every thing was in my world in July 2010, it ended on November 1 of that same year. Mr J died. And the biggest part of me did, too.

Two years ago I was still in such a state of denial I pretended to everyone else that I was okay. I was anything but okay. 

One year ago, I was so far from okay, I had to look up to see rock bottom.

After espousing hope, gratitude, living in the moment, embracing how short life might be and after being praised for so much strength and positivity, it was hard as hell -- no it was impossible -- to put out here what I was really feeling.  

Because there is another half of the glass, and I've been living there an awful lot of the time. Out of control. Lost. Failing. 

Yeah. A self-admitted, overachieving, control freak. Failing. And falling, deeper and deeper.

Yet, in a single moment, exactly 379 days ago, I realized I didn't want to drown there. I wanted to fight. I needed to fight. And I had no idea where the woman I once was--the woman MrJ fell in love with--had gone.

The past year has been a lot of hard work climbing out of the bottom of that glass. A lot of hard work. Glass is slippery. And just because I decided I was ready to re-enter the real world, the real world wasn't exactly waiting with for me with open arms. So I've had to work that much harder.

Right now the hardest thing is actually accepting that Mr J is dead. Never coming back. Life will never be the same as it was. Crazy, huh? He's been gone two and a half years -- of course he's not coming back. 

Cray. Zee. Maybe. But I'm fixing it. And one way I'm doing it is replacing the scary, obsessive, I'm-never-going-to-feel-normal-again feelings with memories. Joyful memories. 

Which brings us (if you're still with me, and I hope you are) to the flashback fireworks.

FROM JULY 4, 2009: 

Saturday. In The Yard. Think It Was The Fourth of July.

I am an Army brat. A proud one. And I love the Fourth of July.  

This year, it will be a relatively quiet celebration, except for any neighbors in good-old-fireworks-legal-South Carolina who may be putting on a show. We can usually count on a few teens nearby to pop off more than a few sizzlers, and Jamie and I will venture into the backyard, beers or sodas (or bourbon) in hand, to watch the show. 

Remembering our first July in this house, I think that the kids thought we were coming out to complain about the playing-with-matches-and-what-not already in progress: 

A round goes off, we take our swigs and holler a hearty "WOO-HOO!" their way. They think (or so I like to think), "OK, those old farts are gonna be cool." Then a real old fart (who, surprisingly, is younger than we are) comes outside and throws off a few passive-aggressive huffs and puffs, only to be ignored. She (it's always a she) even walks over and says something to the teenagers, and then arms crossed, head down, still huffing and puffing, she radiates bitch-energy as she skulks back to her house.  

There's a pause in the show and we think that maybe the kids have bowed to young-old-fartista's will. Now I know they're thinking,"Crabby old fart," because we're saying, um, thinking, it, too.  

But, no. They're just stockpiling whatever mini-munitions they have left in a pile in the center of the cul-de-sac. One by one, their cars fill up and drive away. We notice, however, they've only barely driven outside the neighborhood gate and pulled over to the side of the main thoroughfare, still a good vantage point.  

When just one vehicle and two kids are left, our suspicions are confirmed. Ready ... driver starts the engine. Set ... passenger is poised at the end of a fuseline of sparklers. GO! Match is lit, dropped to the sparklers, and passenger hops in car, which pulls up even with our yard (I told you they knew we were cool) to watch the fuseline burn toward the pile'o'pops.  

And ... BOOM! HISS! CRACKLE! SNAP! POPOPOPOPOPOP! SSSHHHHCCCCOWWWW-OW-OW-0W! (that's what it sounds like to me; feel free to suggest alternate spellings below ...)  

The finale!  

We cheer! The kids beside us cheer! The kids on the road cheer! 

Just as it ends, a chorus of car horns starts up and they speedily retreat ... probably to buy more fireworks (it's only 10 p.m.) and go to someone else's neighborhood (the night is young) and piss off some other old fart (they're everywhere, you know). 

Our one-time "new" neighborhood is filled with homes now, with no more open cul-de-sacs in which to host impromptu sky shows. Not sure where Ms. Young Old-Fart is. She didn't venture out and complain much anymore after that night. She still may be huffing and puffing, peeking out her window every time someone's music is too loud, someone's dog barks, or someone laughs just a little too heartily. I feel sorry for her, and she doesn't even know why. 

Those same kids have grown up and have better things to do than hang around someone's yard on a hot summer night, drink beer or soda (or bourbon) and shoot off fireworks. They won't ask, but if they did, I'd tell them that one day they'll learn. 

I'd tell them:

"Twenty, 30 — hell, if you're lucky enough to keep a laugh in your heart, 40 or 50 — years from now, you'll learn that walking into your backyard, holding hands, sipping on beer or soda (or bourbon); watching fearless teenage boys impress breathless teenage girls; oohing, ahhing, and woo-hooing while the grumpy neighbors harrumph wa-a-a-a-a-y before their time; telling each other stories of summers long ago, stories you've heard already, but love to hear again and again because of the twinkle in the eyes and dimples in the cheek of your storyteller; kissing in the moonlight before going back in the house  ... You'll learn. You'll learn there is nothing better to do than just that."

But they won't ask. And they wouldn't listen. I wouldn't have.

And I was right. There really was nothing better than just that. And as short as it was, I wouldn't trade a moment of it.

If anyone is still with me (and I really, really, really hope someone is), I hope you stick around. I have asked that before and have said before that I was ready to write again. The thing is, the things I truly needed to write, I couldn't. The things I thought I needed to write just weren't true--at least not much of the time.

I launched this blog when I was going through a significant life experience. By sharing it here, I was told, more than once, that it gave people hope. Even if just a few people. If I can share this subsequent experience, perhaps it can help someone else. Even if just one person.

Even if just one person is me.

A Special Burn On Sunsets

"There are days when solitude is a heady wine

 that intoxicates you with freedom, 

others when it is a bitter tonic, 

and still others when it is a poison that makes 

you beat your head against the wall." 

-Sidonie Gabrielle

I have not always been a loner. In fact, another quote describes quite well my emotional evolution into solitude. From Albert Einstein: "I live in that solitude which is painful in youth, but delicious in the years of maturity."

In my youth, particularly adolescence, I feared nothing more than to be alone. While my sisters slammed their doors and sulked with typical teen angst, I chose to remain in the most populous rooms. Oh, there was angst aplenty, no doubt; in fact I was probably angsty enough for the two of them combined, and then some. (Credit that strike-through above to my typing fingers becoming possessed by one or both of my sisters. Or parents. Or our childhood dog.) I. Hated. To. Be. Alone.

It wasn't until post-college graduation, upon moving into my first solo apartment after a multitude of roommates (known and unknown; sibling and stranger), that I developed a passion for privacy that was as unexpected as it was unquenchable. But it was glorious. Everything was mine. Mine to do with what I wanted, how I wanted, when I wanted. Silly as it may sound, the first night I realized I could go to bed without doing the dishes, picking up the magazines or straightening throw pillows was a major turning point. I'm not kidding; we are talking a fucking life event.

At least five years passed before I ever contemplated sharing space with anyone. In fact, I was in an intimate relationship with someone for the better part of a year. He never once stepped foot in my home. Part of the reason was a devastating end to my all-through-college romance. I trusted no one. Part of the reason, especially at this point, no one had proven themselves worthy enough to share my space.

Until Jamie. It took less than a month for me to give him a key. My hands were shaking and he asked if I was certain I wanted him to have it. I replied that they were shaking because I'd never been more certain. By summer of that same year, we were planning a wedding and I was giving up my lease so we only had one rent to pay. And we were nervous as hell.

Both of us treasured our solo havens. Sleepovers, weekends, vacations together -- none can prepare you for this-is-it-we're-both-stuck-here-even-if-we-run-away-eventually-we-have-to-come-back-here. To you.

I hope none of you reading are looking for tips on how we made it work. I don't know how we made it work. But it did. It wasn't perfect. It wasn't always easy. It was sometimes ugly. But it worked. And it worked very, very well.

So well that my first voiced fear (The biggest ones went unsaid. They were obvious and unsolvable and not worth wasting the precious days and hours we had left.) when I knew for certain his death was imminent was, to my sisters, "Who am I going to talk to? Oh my God. Who am I going to talk to?"

They responded, as they held me, "Us. You'll always have us." I cried out,"No-o-o... who am I going to talk to about you?"

And that's the worst thing. The absolute worst. The one person on the planet who knew me better than anyone else, who knew just what every little look, tone of voice or lack of it meant, is gone.

And I have never felt more alone. It's unyielding. I have so many people who love me. I do. And I know well how very blessed I am to have them. But even in the most comforting, safe, loving moments -- I have never felt more alone.

It's been almost 18 months since Mr J died. There is no more coming-back-to-you.

I praise God for whatever strength with which he infused me that prepared me to be on my own. I also praise God for the beautiful gift of the 10+ years he gave me when I wasn't.

I praise God for my darling Jamie no longer being in pain, and I praise him for the strength, the love, the support and the many people with which he's blessed me thus far.

But I also raise my cracked voice, my wet eyes and my pained heart to the Lord and ask for more. 

For more strength when I feel I can't go on.

For the strength to speak up during the times I'm not okay with being alone and I'm too proud to admit it.

For the strength to understand why the people who have silently left my life have done so.

And for the strength to forgive those whom I never thought would leave, but have.

But mostly, to keep the strength of solitude with which He's blessed me more freeing than bitter, more comfortable than tormented, and more understanding than anguished.

And yet ...

"Loneliness adds beauty to life.

It puts a special burn on sunsets

and makes night air smell better." 

-Henry Rollins

... is still true, too.