Life after Holly’s murder has been harder than I realized it would be. At first, I was living on adrenaline and rage. And my sorrow was a friend, a constant comfort. The depth of your love, blah blah blah.

Yeah, well, I would be crushed to death with the grief then, because I adored Holly and she was a part of me. We shared a difficult and impossible childhood. Only we weren’t to discuss it. My father’s rages were private for only our immediate family to endure. My mom’s job became protecting his reputation so four baby girls were simply extra. We banded together in our fear and shame. In different ways we survived. Holly and I became friends and mates because we genuinely liked each other.

Life isn’t easy. There will be trials. She had a difficult marriage. But loved life, her kids, her job. She had so much passion for life. I had depression, alcoholism, my kid’s educational challenges with our school system, kid’s mental health struggles, my own workaholism. We talked about it all. She stopped my negativity with joy. She laughed at me. I liked that. Most people are too afraid of my displeasure.

Honestly what I miss the most is our laughter. And she was an inquisitive listener. The longer she’s gone, the quieter I’ve become. I won’t tell you my pain if you meet me. I won’t say how angry I am. And if you disappoint me, your loss.

After the murder though, I was a mama lion and I’d do anything for Holly’s kids and mine. And that protection, a shield against anything else hurting them, buoyed me on top of the stormy ocean of getting on with life, when I might have been collapsing, or screaming, or drowning.

We had so much happening, including my mom’s poor health, caring for her with her dementia, and when mom’s body finally quit five months after Holly’s death, well, I was strong. I’m always strong in crisis.

But I’ve been in a boiling rage. My fury is bottomless. Unforgiving. All consuming. When I open the container where I keep it, it frightens me. 

But life is going on. The need to be normal for everyone is ongoing. I’m on autopilot. Dead inside. I don’t know if I’ve lost my faith or if it was never real. I get no comfort from the idea of God. My character, if I have any, comes from a commitment to not hurt others.

What drives me now is the belief being here makes a difference in all these kids lives.

Our family keeps expanding and that brings small joys. A grandchild. A son-in-law. A fiancé. Boys and girls, she, he, they/them, coming and going, friends and lovers, college, jobs, all the things that are rooted and important to a good life. Our home has become a gathering place. I couldn’t be more pleased in that regard.

So I don’t wish for death every day. But there is just so much sadness and struggling, still inside me. The loss is eternal and as deep and broad as the Grand Canyon.

How does one go on? How do you wake up every day with a desire to be alive? In my experience, it’s one step after another. That I learned from the AA principle one day at a time.

You go through the motions. You act normal. You don’t scream. You breathe in. Out. And it slowly trains your psyche to stop screaming inside. When grief seizes, your throat closes, bile rises, you can feel your cells dying, what then?

I developed migraines after the murder. After my mom died. After my sister walked away from me for her own self-preservation. Or maybe in the middle. The timing is immaterial. Slowly, thankfully, they have stopped. There were many interventions, specialists, much personal labor, lifestyle changes including quitting my job. Perhaps my brain is ok now. I quit my neurologist so who knows. That’s a part of dying inside. 

Now I have the rest of my life looming before me. I have no hopes or dreams. The future is forboding. I’m still catastrophic in my thinking. Waiting for the next horrid thing. Braced for it. It’s no way to live but tell that to my body. Anxiety still wakes me more days than not.

One thing that’s caught me by surprise is aging. The old adage “use it or lose it” is simple and a startling realization. I’ve sat in my chair, literally and figuratively, absorbed by physical and emotional pain. And lonliness.

Meanwhile, I got old. I’m turning 60 this year and suddenly I feel like I’m dying. I’ve lost tons of strength in my body. I’ve put on pounds.

And I realize if I’m going to live, I must wake up. I won’t become my mother. She gave up.

I guess I don’t want to do that.

So, I’m getting up. Walking around the block. Eventually I’ll have to do more to preserve this vessel. I’m torn between giving up and getting on.

See you in the trail.