Julie Achterhoff's Blog

His confessions fell upon me like rain, in sultry, heavy drops and scattered showers. I opened myself to them, swallowing them up as if in doing so I could take their burden from him, or at least shrink them down to a size that he could bear.

It was, of course, his way of asking forgiveness for what he was sure he must have done to deserve this new reality that lent him so little joy- this great test of human endurance that few among us had it in us to pass, myself included.

I could have simply said, “You didn’t do anything to deserve this, honey.” But I never did. The words swarmed in my throat like bees, but I sensed that the only one who could absolve him of his perceived sins was he, himself.

So I quietly listened, deep into those many dark nights, as he bared himself to me, wondering if this terrible punishment fit his crimes. This internal battle was his own to fight. I kept my ears and my heart open.

My role, I suppose, was only to love him, to stand by him, and to stay. In the end I only accomplished the first. As for the two latter, well, it was my own sins that ended up tearing me away, leaving him to face the demons alone.

Maybe I did what I did for a higher good, as I’d reasoned at the time. Or maybe it was to show him that his trespasses were small compared to what I was apparently capable of, and still no gods struck me down. I couldn’t really say now, to be honest. I can still walk and breathe freely, though, with an ache where my heart once lived that only his forgiveness can remedy. Cause and effect is such a funny thing, and so often hard to decipher.

From my new book in progress,
“Birth Can Be A Messy Adventure”

He’d driven a snazzy, newer model Dodge Charger that now sat in the driveway, covered in leaves and little sticks that fell from the trees above, along with a mysterious sticky substance I finally found out was produced by these tiny, fuzzy bugs that infested one of the trees. It was called honeydew, the same stuff that some ants drink from their pet aphids. I imagined that there were probably ants up there, too, taking care of their flock, but the tree had grown so tall that it would have taken too much trouble to do a proper investigation. Besides, now that he couldn’t feel his legs none of it seemed all that important anymore- the tree, the bugs, the car covered in honeydew that he would never drive again.

He used to joke, referring to himself as a ’95 Ford Taurus. I’d look askance at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to guage how far up the joke meter he was shooting for. I remained vigilant in detecting how much self-loathing might be oozing out in the form of dark humor at any given time, ever ready with some impromptu distraction, usually in the form of jokes of my own I knew he couldn’t resist, but sometimes descending along with him into those dark crevasses where the real pain lived, perhaps to show him he didn’t have to go there alone as long as I was there.

One night after he’d brought up the Taurus yet again, I asked him,

“Why a ’95 Ford Taurus? That’s not even the right year.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Just seems about right.”

“Well,” I said, seriously, “That doesn’t seem quite right to me.”

I wondered if he was catching on to the new joke I was laying on him. He was pretty sharp, and if I was going to do this right I had to sound completely serious or I’d blow it. I waited a couple beats and took my time, as if I were deep in thought.

“Nope. That’s not it. You’re a Ferrari, brand new out of the showroom. That’s what you are.”

And there it landed exactly as I’d hoped. He broke his gaze from the wide-screen TV and looked at me staring straight ahead, serious as a heart attack, with not a flicker of a smile to be seen. It was at that moment I knew I had him. I knew what it would take.

From then on the new version of the joke was always followed by me saying those words, with the very same sincerity. I came to feel that he looked forward to that part in a way. In fact, I ended up calling him Ferrari on a regular basis because something about how deeply it seemed to touch his tender heart somehow meant so much more than telling him how much I loved him. And so it stuck.

It worked its magic especially the many times when there simply were no words of comfort or humor that would do, like on Monday nights when I’d alert him that I was taking out the trash so he’d know the front door would be opening. When he was feeling down, which was often, he’d ask me to wheel him out and leave him on the curb with the trash. For a while I just plain didn’t know how to respond to that. But that was before the new Ferrari joke. So when he’d start his “trash” talk I’d ask him,

“Why would anybody in their right mind put a Ferrari out with the trash?” in the most incredulous tone possible.

He couldn’t help but smile. He understood it meant more than how much I loved him; I cherished him. And that was the kind of rhythm we got going with each other, something he could vibe with. It was a way to say things that wanted or needed to be said without exactly saying them- a secret language between the two of us that no one else would understand, that we made up as we pleased.

And, heaven help us, we had all the time in the world to perfect it, and to forget about the outside world with its junky cars and honeydew that wouldn’t wash off and strangers who shoot outstanding young men, like him.

From the future book
Birth Can Be A Messy Adventure

Last February marked 12 years of living with being the mother of a child no longer on this earth. You somehow get used to living with this pain. I imagine it’s somewhat similar to becoming disabled in some way that will never heal, but you learn to work around it. I still don’t know how to answer when asked how many children I have. I say five, but feel like I’m lying. But if I said anything else I’d be damned by the pity. So I say five.

  I try to believe that Jason is still with me like they say, but that seems poor compensation. What is a relationship without interaction? He may be at my side all the time, watching and listening, maybe trying to comfort me. But this scenario would only be frustrating to us both in my mind. He could be screaming and I’d never hear a sound. I could scream at him and never really know if he could hear it.

The senselessness of it never goes away. You can never forget – the most mundane things pop him right back into my head.

The guilt is the worst part I think. I am wrapped up in a cocoon of it. I am the judge and the jury and have sentenced myself to life.

  Not that I haven’t wanted to die many times. But 12 years ago when my oldest son took his life I still had had his sisters and brother aged 19,16,13, and 8. But I don’t think I did them any favors because my whole world was shattered, my spirituality was in tatters, and for a very long time the mother who was always there for them might as well have been dead.

  I had been a single mom for two years, going to college to become a nurse. After 20 years of being married to a jerk I finally felt happy and in control of my life.

  Most of the guilt I feel is from emotionally abandoning the rest of my kids. But if one of them could actually die, then couldn’t any of them? I could feel that truth so deeply that my formerly deeply felt connection with them snapped. I grieved that and felt the guilt eating at me from the inside out. I was completely alone. No one understood. I didn’t want them to anyway. It would hurt them too much.

  My memories are scrambled. I am a whole other woman from the naive one before 12 years ago. I barely remember her now. My kids unfortunately don’t remember her either. They only remember the one they met after.      When I was finally able to work on getting that precious connection back, the one that had previously meant the most in the world to me, it was too little too late. My oldest daughter doesn’t tolerate me. Although we live in the same town we don’t see each other much. She’s too busy. This year she was even too busy to do anything but text me on my birthday. No gift, no card. Just a text on my phone saying happy birthday. She won’t tell me why she wants nothing to do with me. But I know.

  My second daughter lives 6 hours away. She doesn’t speak to me anymore. I call her now and then to leave a message on her phone that I love her, but her heart has turned to ice. And not just towards me. The coldness she showed her two little ones broke my heart. Of course I feel responsible. I showed her the way. She also stopped speaking to her younger sister, her closest friend, because the man she lives with is a pathological rager who can only feel relief through control of everyone in his environment, especially my daughter and grandchildren.

  My youngest daughter talks to me on a regular basis. We are pretty close. But she suffers from acute anxiety. But I do too, so we have a lot in common. She came back home last summer, but I couldn’t make her and my two grandchildren stay. She moved back where her estranged sister lives only a few miles away. Their children, who were once very close don’t see each other. Her older sister’s husband has done what his kind do and isolated their family from anyone close enough to upset his home where there are holes in the wall from his outbursts and doors ripped from their hinges. Both of their children are on anxiety medications. 

  One Halloween I was walking a step behind this person and my grandson when out of the blue he pushed him down to the ground. I was so shocked I couldn’t speak until I brought it up to my daughter later. She tried to cover it up saying that’s how they played. Normally I’m pretty good at letting things go and not interfering, but not this time. I told her that was NOT playing. When I returned home from that visit she didn’t speak to me for months. I had gotten too close to the truth. I worked hard to get back into her good graces somehow and we were close once again for a while. But it didn’t last and I don’t know how to get there again with him still in the picture.

  My youngest son was still pretty young 12 years ago and very easy going. But he kept me grounded by getting into mischief constantly. He never speed moving when he was awake and I could never take my eyes off of him for a minute. It was a blessing that he seemed so unaffected by our family tragedy and brought life and light to us all with all his craziness.

  As he grew up he kept his sweet disposition, even through his teens. I could always trust him and he made great friends in high school, who always ended up at our house. None of them got into drinking or drugs, and I became their second mom. They’re awesome kids!

  But I had to quit the nursing program. Couldn’t do it. Couldn’t take care of myself or my kids properly, much less other people. Something good inside me was gone. I’d had depression my whole life, but kept it in check until that one day when the police officer called me and said the unthinkable. My son? Suicide? A garbage bag? Suffocated? No! Impossible! We just got back from visiting him. He was fine. I thought. Better than ever, or so he led me to believe. But before I drove away from him for the last time, something whispered in my ear. The other kids were eager to go, but I made time to sit in his room with him before I would leave so we could talk alone. It was my final gift from Jason.

  As I was about to pull out of the drive, I jumped out of the car and hugged and kissed him a second time. He knew I loved him. He was 23 years old and we understood each other like no one else. He took what I had taught him and flew so high with it. He amazed me. He was the most beautiful soul.

  I’ve been working so hard on myself lately. If I’m not gonna die then I need to live. The thought crossed my mind recently that I got to live 41 years before this changed everything. That’s something I want to be thankful for. A lot of people don’t even live that long. Jason didn’t.

  I used to feel guilty for any happiness I felt after he passed. It felt horribly wrong. But I can’t really live if I’m feeling sorry all the time. I have to change my way of looking at things. If he is around me I’m only making him miserable being sad. I just wish it hadn’t taken me so long to figure that out.

As you watch this performance think about what grace does for you in your own life.

LeAnn Rimes – Amazing Grace (Acapella), posted with vodpod

The sacred prophecies of the Hopi people have been kept in secret for many generations- until now, when these wise ones share what is to come for the people of the Earth.

HOPI BLUE STAR PROPHECY, posted with vodpod

This is some killer art from my dear friend, Kiler Davenport. Please consider supporting his work by buying something.

Here’s the link:

Kiler Davenport’s Original Digital Art – squirmypantsproduction’s posterous.

This is some killer art from my dear friend, Kiler Davenport. Please consider supporting his work by buying something.

Here's the link:

Kiler Davenport's Original Digital Art – squirmypantsproduction's posterous.

This series of beautiful art of the Earth are mesmerizing and enchanting. Art like this is rare.

Mary Youngblood – “Above the Mother Earth”, posted with vodpod

This series of beautiful art of the Earth are mesmerizing and enchanting. Art like this is rare.

Mary Youngblood – "Above the Mother Earth", posted with vodpod

This is an amazing video with Gregg Braden, who shows a video of a woman being cured of bladder cancer right in front of your eyes!

Gregg Braden on Curing Cancer using our own Tec…, posted with vodpod