chase the joy

My business and more or less life motto is "Chase the joy." Through the years and different stages of life, I've always been trying to capture and document the things that make me happy.

I've been chasing the joy since that one fateful September afternoon in 2006 when my mom handed me her shiny digital point and shoot camera and told me to go keep myself occupied so she could visit with her friends. That tiny camera in my hand made me feel like maybe my world wasn't crumbling around me so much in a world where my sexual assault had happened and the only people who knew at that point were my boyfriend at the time and my two best friends. At least when I was taking pictures, I heard the quiet whisper of joy in my ear urging me to keep going, there is still hope for you here.

Chasing the joy for me has always involved a camera in some form or another, whether it's digital or film or just the camera on my phone. 2008 was a dark year for me. The defining moments were when all of my cameras were broken and so I picked up a pen and started writing. I applied to writing camp in Illinois the next summer and always brought the Minolta 35mm camera my Uncle Bill picked up for me at a rummage sale with me everywhere. Dropping off a dozen rolls of film at Walgreens became a defining moment of my teenage years. Eventually, I started shooting less and less film and saved up to buy my own (kind of) nice digital camera. I started a 365-day self-portrait challenge on November 6, 2009, and I uploaded every image to Flickr. My dad bought me my first Canon camera on eBay for Christmas that year. I could never express how grateful I am to my dad for spending money I'm still not really sure he had to spend to allow me to pursue my dreams.

I am still bury-me-with-that-camera attached to it, even though shooting with it is more or less impossible now. Nothing will ever be able to replace the sense of self I found just by picking up that camera and turning it on myself for the last decade. Everything—my business, this blog, my entire online presence, and community—that I have built in the last ten years, I owe to that camera and my dad's willingness to help his kid chase after the very thing that put the light back into her eyes and made her heart soar with joy again. This new chapter in my business and in my life is all for him, as the only way I have left to say to him, "Thanks, dad, for always believing in me."

I am inspired to chase the joy more than ever before, just me and my camera around my neck (and maybe some coffee for good measure).

two years

Friday is the two year anniversary of my dad’s death. I'm stuck in the in-between of "It's only been two years" and "It's already been two years." I can still remember the day he died like it was yesterday. Hearing that your father has cancer is difficult in and of itself. Add in the words, "Stage Four" and "Mets to the liver and spine" and all of a sudden you feel like you're in an episode of Grey's Anatomy. His doctors had called me a few days prior to set up an appointment with me so that I could sign and go over power of attorney paperwork and get all the legal things squared away. He died before I even got the chance to see any of it.

It was a normal Wednesday, like any other day. Depression claimed my days. I was stuck in a fog since my dad had told me about his cancer. All I could think about was when we found out my grandma had cancer, and six weeks later she was gone. We only got eight weeks with my dad. Sleeping the day away before going to work and then coming home and sleeping more was how I was dealing with it. I woke up at 1 pm to 5 missed calls and 2 voicemails from my dad's doctors.

The first voicemail was time-stamped 11:36 AM.

"Good morning Anna, your dad isn't doing so well. You should really think about getting down here."

The second voicemail was time-stamped 12:11 PM.

"I'm so sorry to inform you that your dad passed away at 12:05 PM this afternoon."

All I could do was cry. I could barely choke out the words, "Dad's gone" when I called my mom sobbing hysterically. "He's gone, he's dead, and I can't stop crying."

The sadness still is enough to stop me in my tracks sometimes. The gaping dad-sized hole in my heart will never quite be filled. I have achieved varying levels of acceptance in my grieving, but there are still moments in my life when I wish more than anything I could just pick up the phone, dial the same phone number he had for fifteen years, and hear his voice one more time. I wish we had more time. More laughter, more road trips, more driving around "just because." More. Always more.

At the same time, I can't believe two years have already passed since he died. It feels like I have done so much with my life in the last two years. I started taking pictures again. I reopened my business last year. I quit my crappy fast food job. I am no longer the same person I was when my father was alive. His death taught me to look fear in the eyes and tell it, "No." Losing him was my wake up call. My dad ran his own business from his late-twenties until I was in pre-school. If he could get his shit together enough to do that, what the hell was stopping me?

My dad lived his life on his own terms. He didn't really care what anyone else thought. I'm still inspired and awe-struck by him every single day. I am my father's daughter, through and through. I look just like him. I am the quiet, introverted, very private and sensitive person in my family. I am the creative one. I am the memory-keeper. I believe I inherited all of this from him, and now part of me is keeping his legacy alive within me by following my passion just like he did.

All I ever wanted was for him to be proud of me, and I think he really would be.

self portrait therapy

Today would have been my dad's 60th birthday. I should have been planning him a big surprise party with all of his friends. That's another dimension of grief I am leaning into: everything he misses now that he is gone. I am trying to still celebrate without him because I know he's here in spirit, in golden hour sunlight and the breeze that ran through my hair while I was taking these pictures in the backyard tonight. He said, "Thank you for honoring me on my birthday by doing something you love."

I'll always have my dad to thank for teaching me the value of chasing after your dreams and the things that bring you joy in life. He started learning how to fix cars at twelve years old and ran with it his entire life, eventually branching out to elevators and even airplanes right before he died. His death was my wake up call. I spent too much time neglecting the things I love, and life is too damn short to not chase your joy.

A lot of people spend so much time trying to not turn out like their parents, but in this case, I don't think it would be such a bad thing. My dad lived his life on his terms and didn't really give a crap about what anyone else thought. That's something I'm still inspired by every day. I'm still uncovering bits of his legacy left behind and that feels like the biggest joy of them all today.

Happy birthday, dad.

i think i'm having an existential crisis

What has been on my mind lately? Everyone wants to know. Facebook. Twitter. I am even unable to compose anything beyond a string of emojis for my Instagram captions lately. I've been neglecting you too, Blogland, and the fog in my brain is starting to make itself more and more apparent. I keep wondering when it's going to click in my head that I need to write like I need to breathe. I need to write for the catharsis it brings. I need to write to make room in my head. I need to write everything down so that I do not forget, and I have not been writing. I have been working. And scrolling. And reading. And watching stuff on Netflix. And playing with the cats. I have been doing everything but writing.

Today I finished reading Devotion: A Memoir by Dani Shapiro. Her story hit sort of close to home for me. The chapter in her book when she learned how to put on her father's tefillin left me in tears. Took me back to me and Justin, cleaning clothes out of my dad's closets in his empty apartment. At one point, I was just standing there, smelling everything, trying to remember his scent. Clean laundry, the stuff hanging in his closets and tucked away in drawers smelled like soap. The same generic soap he used when he lived in Zion after the divorce was still tucked in laundry hamper, anxiously awaiting his return.

Two baskets of dirty laundry overflowed alongside the bed. Weeks worth of work jeans with dirty knees, oil stained t-shirts and the occasional Dad Flannel. All of it had that same soap smell with a garage smell tang. The smell of gasoline and motor oil will always remind me of my father. I grabbed a highlighter yellow Miller High Life t-shirt out of the bottom of one of baskets and threw it in my duffel bag, promising myself I would never forget what he smelled like.

I'm realizing that it's okay to be sad once in a while. It's okay to miss your dad. It's okay to have those days when you just need to curl up in one of his sweatshirts and cry with the sleeves wrapped around you as a surrogate hug that isn't even a fraction of being close to the real thing. I've never felt a loss this huge in my life before. Everyone else we either knew it was coming  so I had time to prepare myself for it, or I was too young and immature to really see and understand the gravity of how much it sucks to lose someone.

For comfort, I have been trying to immerse myself in the lives of other people with the feeble hope that being able to live in 10 second snippets of their lives will somehow compensate for the giant gaping hole that my dad left behind in mine. I watch something on Netflix to stop the compulsive scrolling, but then I just feel even more alone and isolated because Justin and I have vastly different taste in TV shows. Then I can't focus on TV anymore so I pick up a book, and while I'm reading I feel calm and content as can be. I'm focused on something. I'm engaged with whatever story is being told between those pages. But as soon as the last page turns, I'm restless again and unable to focus on another book.

The restlessness is what gets me. It's when the anxiety creeps in at 7:30 on a Wednesday night and says, "When is the last time you hung out with your friends?" Realize how much I miss being in high school, when all of my friends were 10 minutes away and always down to hang out. The fear of rejection didn't sting as hard at seventeen. I feel so disconnected from everyone, and I can't tell if I've done it to myself, or if time has just created a distance between me and my friends that just feels too overwhelming to bridge right now.

I'm waiting, stuck in a perpetual period of limbo that I can't wait to be out of. Justin and I have big plans for our future, but we're stuck at the starting line until those teeth come out of his mouth. I know it's only nine more days, but it feels like an eternity because of all the baby steps we have to take. Teeth out, new jobs, get our finances in check, get married, move out of our in-law's house. Each box is penciled in, waiting to be checked off. The restlessness is clouding my mind, making each day seem impossibly longer than the next.

I'm sick of taking every day as it comes, one day at a time, counting down to one thing or another. I want a sign that it'll all be over soon, that all of this evening sadness and depression naps will be worth it. I need to see the light at the end of the tunnel because I'm having trouble believing that it's still there, shining brightly and waiting to welcome us to the other side.

i just want one more day

Dear God, please let everything turn out okay. Please teach me how to be better. A better person, a better girlfriend, a better daughter, a better woman. Give me the strength I need to face the hardships life is throwing my way right now. 

I penned that prayer sitting in the parking lot of the VA Hospital in Milwaukee, 4 days after my dad told me he had cancer. I felt so tense, so bottled up and ready to explode at any minute. 

Fear took my hand and said, "Come with me. I'll keep you safe."

I should have looked the other way and ran in the opposite direction.

All I could think about in the moment was that when we found out for sure my grandma had cancer, three weeks later she was gone. Three weeks. 21 days. That's all it took for her to take her last breath. In a lot of ways, when we found out about my dad's diagnosis, it still felt like I was hearing for the time, "Grandma has cancer."

Only this time, my mind went to the dark place instead of the happy one. 

I had too many things to do with my dad before he was taken away from me.

He was supposed to walk me down the aisle at my wedding. He was supposed to swing me around the dance floor for just one song, like we did so many years ago during the Girl Scout's Daddy-Daughter Dance where we ate chocolate cake with vanilla frosting (his favorite). He was supposed to be here for his eventual grandbabies, ready to love on them like his parents never took the opportunity to do with me. 

I hate that he downplayed how serious the situation was... How absolutely serious his diagnosis was. I didn't even find out what type of cancer he had or how far along it had progressed until after he died. The last time I saw him, I told him how scared I was. How much the fear around my heart threatened to collapse everything like the London Bridge falling down in nursery school. It's hard for me to think of that memory. My dad telling me with a stormy sense of calm in his voice, "Don't worry about me, Anna. I'll be fine."

I looked at him and said, "Dad, I'm a worrier. It's what I do."

He nodded and said, "I know." And then a nurse came in to take his vitals.

It all feels so incomplete. I want a myriad of days that I know I will never get back. No second chances, no "do over's" like when we would set up my Hot Wheels tracks going from my bedroom out into the hallway and the cars would jump out of the loopty-loop before completing it. No more mornings where he'd throw my Cheerios milk out for the birds and come back in so we could watch Mr. Roger's Neighborhood and Barney & Friends before he took me to the babysitter's.

We won't get anymore garage days, smoking cigarettes and complaining about Wisconsin winters. No more out of the blue phone calls inviting me over for dinner. No more selfies every time we saw each other. No more cheesy Facebook messages telling me to sleep good and rest up for a good day at work. No more actually looking forward to Iola Car Show Weekend, because being busy at work for four days straight was totally worth being able to see my dad for a few hours all weekend.

Knowing these things now live only in my memory is one of most heartbreaking facts of life. Everything ends. Eventually. Nothing can stop it. Not man, not money, not even love can stop it. Everything is only temporary. Even us. It's all about what we do with the time we're given. We have to make it count.

my first father-less father's day

Padre,

Navigating this world without you is still hard for me sometimes. Each day has its own set of challenges, and there are still more times than not when I wish I could just pick up the phone to hear you say "Hello" back to me on the other end.

It's my first Father's Day without you. My heart feels so heavy with grief and I don't know where to put it down. All of the Father's Day tributes on Facebook and Instagram today are making me teary-eyed and a little bit jealous because all I want more than anything in this world is more time with you.

I'm learning how to sit with my emotions. I'm learning how to mange my grief and all the ups and downs every single day. I'm trying to rely on all of our good memories to buoy me through the day.

Like the Father's Day we went to Jellystone with the Dixon's and they had a dress up contest where all the dad's had to dress in drag and put lipstick on. Whoever did it the fastest won. There is no photographic evidence of this (sadly), but the memory always instantly makes me smile.

Or when you lived in Zion after you and mom split up and we used to go to late night movies on Friday nights. Then on Saturday we'd do laundry and either go bowling at the bowling alley up the street from the laundromat, or if it was nice out, you'd make me pack my swimsuit so we could go to the water park with the water slide that I refused to go on because I was paralyzed by fear.

Laundromats always remind me of you, Dad. The one in Zion I remember because it had the pinball machine. You were constantly digging around for quarters so I could keep myself occupied. After you moved back to Wisconsin, you used to take me to the one on 36 in Waterford. I always ran to you with the other edge of the your giant comforter, excited more than anything that you just needed me to help you.

I miss you, Dad. Every single day. The ache in my heart never truly goes away. Happy Father's Day.

tomorrow is father's day.

This post could alternately be titled, "Real Life: I took 2 Vacation Days so I didn't have to work on the first Father's Day without my dad."

I'm trying to be gentle with myself, y'know? Today is ten months since I lost my dad. Tomorrow is just a glaring reminder that I no longer have him in my life. I slept in this morning. Drank coffee out on the deck. Took pictures with my new Anthropoligie mug. Had a dance party to "Circus" by Britney Spears because WHY NOT? Life is too damn short.

I spent my afternoon curled up in the chair in the living room reading Devotion: A Memoir by Dani Shapiro. I first heard Dani on an episode of The One You Feed podcast. I got a former library copy off of thrift books and have been underlining like crazy in black ballpoint pen (that may or may not be running out of ink... #oops). 

Since losing my dad, I have been closer examining my relationship with God. 

For a little bit of background... Both of my parents were Catholic. My grandma on my mom's side attended the same church all her life. That same church was the very same one everyone in my family made their first milestones in... My grandma and all of her siblings, as well as my mom and her siblings and myself, were all baptized at the front of that church. We all walked down the same aisle to make our First communion. I threw a fit every Sunday morning at approximately 8:30 growing up because I didn't want to get out of bed for Sunday School at 9 and then meeting my dad and grandma for mass at 10. My dad always bribed me to be good during church by promising me donuts after. 

Grandma would sit in the car as we'd go inside. The mornings we went to J. J.'s Bakery were my favorite. I can still remember the familiar green and yellow signage, J. J. curving around in an elegant script. The shop was tiny, and the donut case took up about half the space. We always got a dozen donuts—custard filled for grandma, crullers for my momma, jelly filled for dad, and long johns with sprinkles for me. I watched in awe as the man behind the counter fulfilled my six year old dreams of brightly colored rainbows and pink frosting.

I never realized how much those Sunday mornings rituals would mean to me until life inevitably changed and our routine was abandoned.

* * * * *

I have essentially been questioning my relationship with God my entire life. I was never actually sure of the stuff the teachers in Sunday school were spewing was real or not. (I was usually more concerned with how much I would have rather been in bed, still peacefully asleep and unaware of the outside world.) I think I was thirteen when I declared to my friend Brittany, "I'm an agnostic. Take that Catholicism."

Grief has opened up an entirely new window in my relationship with God. 

There has definitely been a shift in the last ten months. It started in the days after he died, as I was going through the book of scripture from the priest to find the readings for his funeral. I clutched the book close to my chest and talked to my dad.

"Dad, I don't know how to do this. Teach me how to ride a bike again. Teach me how to drive in an empty parking lot one more time. Help me to find the readings out of this book. Teach me how to say goodbye."

I scanned the book with tears brimming my eyes the entire time. I was looking for phrases that stood out to me. Small, beautiful phrases. Something that resonated with me. I couldn't for the life of me tell you the passages we read from that day, but I remember both of them had to do with light. And ever since that day, I have found God in light and shadow, in remembrance of that moment. 

* * * * * 

Tomorrow is Father's Day. And so again tonight, I am praying to my Dad.

Please give me the courage to face tomorrow with an open heart. Use the same gentleness you did every time you let me go without training wheels. Let me remember all that you were and feel out the grief. Give me the grace to not be overwhelmed when I feel soft and breakable. Give me a gentle reminder not to get lost in the darkness. Show me toward the light again.

Amen.

defeated by grief & blank text boxes

This little text box can be so damn intimidating sometimes. It's been almost a week since I last popped in to say hello to you, Blogland. It's not that stuff hasn't been happening—quite the opposite, actually. My anxiety has been running the show the last few days, over the weekend especially, so I've been trying to take it easy and just be gentle with myself. Lots of sunlight. Lots of coffee. Yoga before bed every night. Upping my water intake. Trying to take care of myself and allow myself to feel at peace when the world is no longer crushing me.

I had a meltdown leaving the bank on Friday afternoon after successfully depositing my paycheck and leaving with two checks made out to my dad's estate that I have to jump through major hoops in order to access the money. Option number one: obtain an Estate ID Number from the Courthouse and wait for the state to mail it to me, open a completely separate bank account in order to deposit the checks, withdraw the money and close the account, deposit the money into my personal account. Option number two: Acquire and fill out forms from the Department of Revenue website, mail that and the checks back to the state, and wait 4-6 weeks for them to reissue the checks in my name.

The teller looked me straight in the eyes and said, "I'm so sorry for the loss of your father."

I thanked her quickly and looked away, already fearing the tears that I knew were laying in waiting. They finally spilled over the surface as I headed out the door toward my car. I managed to say hello to one of my coworkers with what I hoped was a graceful "Hey!" in passing, in one door and out the other. All I wanted in that moment was the safety of my air conditioned car. The grief bug had bitten my heart again, and it wasn't about to be ignored.

That's the thing about grief that I always seem to forget in the off moments of grief: it doesn't matter what you're doing or how you feel when it hits you. When it hits you, it hits you hard. You are forced to show up for it whether you are ready or not.

Father's Day being right around the corner is a painful reminder of my grief. I took two vacation days from work for Father's Day weekend because I know that I will not be in the right emotional state of mind to be cheerful to customers all weekend long. My inbox is chock full of Father's Day ads, and usually I just delete them before even opening them. Today, one popped open as I deleted another email and I thought, "I don't even have a dad anymore."

There were tears. The kind that makes you wish you were around your mom so she could hug you and you could wipe your snot all over her shirt instead of your own. Grief is working its way into my days again, constantly reminding me of the moments I have lost with my dad. I miss him. I miss him so much and I don't even know how to articulate it or who the hell is even reading this anyway. The universe just needs to know that I miss my dad, and I wish that he were here right now. And that is okay.

look toward the light

Yesterday, Justin and I braved the crowds for an adventure known as "Saturday Morning Grocery Shopping."

The first thing Justin said when we walked inside was, "Ugh. Why are there so many people here? It's Saturday morning."

I looked at him and said, "Babe, not everyone sleeps till noon on Saturdays."

"Well, they should start," was his reply.

Then he grabbed my hand and smiled at me as we went toward the deli. Justin wanted taco dip. I took pictures of the tulips by the front stands.

* * * * * *

Flowers never fail to bring me comfort. I always think of the hillside garden in the backyard that my grandma meticulously tended to during my childhood. White and yellow daffodils, white daisies, pink and purple and white flocks, orange and yellow tulips... They colored everything from my first communion photos to family reunion group shots. There was the purple clematis that always grew up and up and up toward the sun, on the trellis where my sandbox used to be growing up. Someday maybe, I'll get a tattoo of all those flowers in a bouquet. A little something for my grandma, because I still think of her every day. I still miss her every day and it's been a year and a half since we lost her.

That is the thing that is so hard to accept about grief, about death, about the enormity of loving and losing someone in general: sometimes, the weight of missing that person that is no longer there feels like it's going to crush you. It's always there, heavy on your heart, and you know that it will never fully go away. It will simply lessen with time, as long as you allow joy into your heart to help with your path toward healing and acceptance. 

* * * * * *

Grief has been overwhelming my life lately.

The triggers, the flashbacks to forgotten memories, the moments when simply getting out of bed seems like a monumental task in and of itself—it's all a fuzzy reminder of being fifteen and lost and trying to cope with the weight of my world falling out from beneath me. Succumbing to the depression and my yet-undiagnosed Post Traumatic Stress Disorder left me stringing together song lyrics and other people's words for inspiration. At first, it started with repetition of the same phrase in my Spanish III notes.

"I shouldn't feel this way, but I do." 

Over and over and over, trying to validate the words that I couldn't yet say out loud. Trying to identify the feelings I couldn't yet name. Trying to ignore the constant onslaught of flashbacks when my biggest trigger of them all was roaming the hallways of my high school, had English class by my locker, hung out in the radio station where my boyfriend DJ'ed the morning show. 

The only thing that ties these memories to my grief over my grandma and my dad is the overwhelming sense of loss that all of these events brought into my life. I have been thinking lately about all of the opportunities I chose to miss out on as a teenager because I was too lost in the darkness to function. Sophomore year, homecoming football game—my boyfriend called me from the radio station.

"Where are you?"

"At home."

"Why? I really wanted to see you."

And I remember my heart breaking because I couldn't find the courage to tell him how worthless and pathetic and alone I felt. The only person who got that fountain of information was my best friend.

And so the wall between me and the men I tried to let love me was built. Construction didn't stop until I was encased in cinder blocks, the total darkness that enveloped me dared me to try and break free. Tiny cracks appeared as I found my voice. Bravery creeped in as I learned how to art my feelings out—whether through a camera or through putting my pen to paper. With the help of my therapist, I learned that my feelings are valid. What happened to me was valid. My voice does matter, despite whatever my anxiety and depression tag team tell me at the time. 

* * * * * *

My roots were formed in the darkness of those cinder blocks. In those nights of me listening to nothing but Mayday Parade on repeat. In those days when it took all I had in me emotionally to just put one foot in front of the other. In those moments where the world stopped and it was just hazel eyes staring into brown from across the cafeteria. In those moments—when the fear and the flashbacks caused all of the systems in my brain to issue an SOS, when the simple act of breathing became too much for me, my roots began to flourish. As a starting point. To say, "Okay. It's only up from here, girly."

Those roots have grown, up and up like my grandma's clematis. They harnessed all of the darkness, all the suffering of the beginning, and they have bloomed into flowers of independence, strength, bravery, and vulnerability. They are constantly teaching me lessons, grounding me and reminding me that the suffering doesn't last forever. The weight of these huge losses in my life won't consume me forever. 

It's okay to get lost in the darkness sometimes. But you must always remember to look toward the light.

rose gold dreams

I am coming to you live from a brand spanking new laptop, Blogland!

A belated 25th birthday gift to myself. I also see it as an investment in my future. A realization of dreams. A recognizance of passions formerly forgotten. This is the first major electronic device that I have bought for myself ever, if you discount the fact that I got my first iPhone for a PENNY, and my current one is on a payment plan. My dad bought my Canon DSLR as a Christmas present during my first 365 when I was in high school. He also bought me my first laptop that I took to college with me in 2010.

Yesterday was nine months since he passed. I miss my dad every single day. There's no getting around the hole that he has left in my heart. Some days it's just a puddle, but yesterday was not one of those days. Yesterday the hole was the Bering Sea in the middle of an icy hurricane. I felt like I was on deck of one of the Deadliest Catch boats getting tossed back and forth by the waves, trying not to get swallowed up and thrown over the side. My computer coming in the mail today felt like a gift from my dad. Like I could almost feel his arms around me and feel him whispering, "You did good, Anna. I'm proud of you. Now keep going."

I have been solely documenting with my phone since 2015, after my laptop suffered a horrible death due the screen being stepped on. The feeling of actual keys clicking beneath my fingers feels foreign. The lack of autocorrect truly makes me question my once sharp as a tack spelling abilities. It almost feels as though I'm relearning how to type all over again. There is definitely a major learning curve at play too—I've been a Windows girl all my life, except in college when it was all Mac, all the time... (except for the computers in the Dyson lab where Lightroom crashed every single time I tried to edit photos for Dixon's class).

Basically the hope here is that this tiny little rose gold machine will inspire to break out my big camera again. To start taking it everywhere with me again because the photos are always SO MUCH BETTER than anything my phone could ever hope to capture. I want to capture memories to hang in our future house, so someday I can show my kids, "Hey, this is what your dad and I looked like when we were younger! And these are the adventures we took!"

I want to document, but I also hope that down the line I can start actually taking pictures for other people again. That's the pipe dream that all starts here, with this expensive laptop I am currently typing on. You gotta spend money to make money, and here I am investing in my future.

l e t i t g o

Washing your hair for the first time after you take a lot of it off is always the most surreal thing. I knew my hair wasn't going to be all there, long and tangly anymore once I was ready to rinse my shampoo out and yet I still expected it to be there anyway. 

Cutting my hair never fails to be an important life lesson on letting go. 

I have done so much letting go in the past nine months (since the last time I got my hair cut... an hour before my dad's funeral). Most importantly, I have been grieving and trying to accept the loss of my dad. I still have my days where missing him lays a huge weight on my heart. Those days I am extra gentle with myself—or I try to be, anyway. Grace is never turned away by those who welcome it into their lives. 

I have learned the importance of Asking for Help. I have slowly relearned how to rely on other people after ten years of tearing down and constantly reconstructing emotional walls to keep my insecurities and vulnerabilities tightly bottled inside. 

I lost a parent, but I have really gained an authentic version of myself. I have taught myself how to deal with the hard stuff—the moments we don't post to Instagram. The arguments we start with the people we love over nothing because we're too scared to identify and say out loud what we actually want. The nights you toss and turn in bed, trapped by an anxious brain playing leap frog from one thought to the next. The times you lock yourself in the bathroom just so you can cry for 5 freakin' minutes alone–and then get back out there and keep giving your grace back into the world because your people and your community need you too. 

The vulnerability you are terrified to let go of could mean the difference between you fighting your demons all day long because you refuse to let them go, or fighting off fits of laughter because your friends are hilarious and they will be there for you when you open up. Your fears will become someone else's grace. Your dark parts will be someone else's moment of clarity. The "Oh, you too? I thought I was the only one." that everyone needs in their lives when everything feels like it's falling apart is the best thing you can offer to somebody else. 

Take care of your community. They will help you to take care of yourself when you are stuck in the trenches of your suffering. And then step up to the plate and offer a hand when your community needs help too. 

seven(teenth)

March 17. St. Patrick's Day. 

It's been seven months since you've been gone, Padre. I'm wearing green in the form of your Green Bay Packers 1996 Super Bowl sweatshirt. I'm doing laundry and washing my sheets and just trying to have a relatively low key day. 

Missing you comes in waves still. It usually peaks around now, the anniversary of the day you died while I am still only counting in months. The thought that soon it will turn into a year and then several years is mildly debilitating. To think that I will go on growing and experiencing and living a life that has gone on without you breaks my heart. To even think about the future and all of the major life milestones I will have to experience without you in them makes me weep. Even now, writing this, there are tears forming in my eyes. 

The process of letting go is difficult. That's not even the right word for it. It's painful and crippling emotionally as well as physically sometimes. It's one of the hardest life lessons to learn, over and over again in life and it's always one of those things that, no matter how hard you try, you cannot make a roadmap for letting go. You can't make a detour to completely avoid the messy freeway construction of your emotions by taking the back roads, the easy way out. 

The grief has to come first. You have to wade deep in the trenches of your emotions first. It always gets worse before it gets better, in the beginning when everything feels so raw and overwhelming. You have to hit rock bottom before you can start picking yourself back up again. Your emotions are going to do their best to knock you down over and over again. They are going to drown you. But you will survive. 

promises & parking lots

My momma had neck surgery today. She essentially had 3 broken discs taken out of her spine, along with removing any bone spurs, and now she has metal and plating where the discs used to be. Which basically means I was an anxious wreck all day, but not for solely for the reasons of being worried about my mom. 

Let me start off by saying this: I have always hated hospitals. I was born at 27 weeks and for the first two months of my life, a hospital was the only home I ever knew. I hated going to the doctor as a kid, and spoiler alert: I hate it even more now. When I was little, my mom used to bribe me with ice cream so I wouldn't cry when I got my shots. 

The last time I ever saw my dad, he was in the hospital. I got lost on the way there because my GPS took me a different way than I was used to. I cried alone in my car when I finally found the open (not blocked off by road construction) part of the lot and before I could go inside, I had to stop. To sit. To smoke a cigarette. To collect myself. To breathe. To just be. 

Walking from the back corner of the hospital parking lot this morning with my mom, Bruce, and Auntie in tow was a constant flashback to that exact moment. I was grateful when we forgot to grab something out of the truck because it meant I could possibly take a moment to collect myself. I smoked my cigarette and tried to concentrate on anything but the cold air biting at my skin. Anything but the weight of that moment, crying under all the frustration from getting lost and living three hours away when your family needs you and your dad has cancer and you can't even fucking begin to be able to process that. Anything but one of two possible outcomes for today's events: life or death. 

Going into today, everyone reassured me that everything would turn out just fine. My mom would be okay. You'll still have one parent at the end of this, Anna. 

The part of the story that no one knows is this: the last time I saw my dad, I sat on the edge of his hospital bed. He looked more broken than I had ever seen him in those moments before we said goodbye. His hair was gray–gone were the streaks of dark brown hair I had grown so familiar with. He looked thinner than the last time I had seen him only two days before. I held his hand as he made me promise him that I wouldn't worry about him. He promised me everything would be fine. I was teary-eyed as I kissed him goodbye. Told him "I love you, Padre" one more time. I told him I would see him soon. 

We sat in waiting rooms for a grand total of 7 hours today. On the end tables in the surgical waiting room, there were baskets of half-finished knitting with a simple instruction card: "Cast on 60 stitches. Knit in garter stitch until shawl is 60 inches long. Cast off." My dad's promise rang through my ears as yarn danced through my fingers. Every so often, I looked up at the list of numbers on the screen in the waiting room–always checking to make sure my mom's was still either pink (in surgery), gray (complete), or light blue (in recovery). Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine. Everything will be fine. 

My mom gets to come home tomorrow afternoon. She made it through surgery like a champ. She even scolded me and told me not to drink all her wine when we went to visit her afterward, which sort of reminded me of something my grandma would say and it made me smile tenfold. 

Today I realized that ultimately, my dad was right. Everything is fine. Through all the storms we may weather, and all the bad stuff that happens to us, we will always come out on the other side still fighting. I have survived everything I have lived through up to this point—including losing him. I will survive through everything else life throws at me, including my mental illnesses and the fact that no one is getting any younger. 

Momma, I'm ecstatic beyond words that you're okay. Padre, I miss you. And everyone else, if you made it this far, go eat a cookie and know that I love you for reading. 

hot showers & pep talks

Yesterday I left my lights on at work. (#gome) Three of my coworkers alternated spending 10 minute shifts with me trying to get my car to start. After almost an hour of standing in the cold, waiting for Starr's dad to come look at my car, I looked around and thought, "God damn it, is this what this is going to feel like every single time something goes wrong with my car from now on?"

I wanted to call my dad and I couldn't. He is not there, on the other of the phone line, waiting to pick up anymore. I took a shower last night and let huge, ugly sobs escape from my chest. I broke down in the most vulnerable way I know how: alone, naked, with myself in the shower. It was how I finally accepted that my first relationship had to end in order to make room for growth. It was how I tried to cope with being 1,000 miles away from a familiar face in college. It was how I reconciled with myself and forgave myself for my young and stupid mistakes. After I forced myself to take deep breaths so I wouldn't have a panic attack, I reminded myself, "It's okay to feel things. It is okay to feel this way. You just miss your dad. You are still grieving, and right now you miss him like hell. It is okay. You are okay."

I realized this last night, while trying to give myself a pep talk: You don't need to listen to your darkness. I stood in the shower and repeated, "You deserve to take care of yourself. You deserve to be clean and take care of your body. You are allowed to be vulnerable." 

I repeated those words until the "You" statements turned into "I" statements. 

I deserve to take care of myself. 

I deserve to be clean and take care of my body. 

I am allowed to be vulnerable. 

I am allowed to be vulnerable. I am allowed to be soft. I am allowed to take up space. I am allowed to think good things about myself and I am allowed to make the choice about what kinds of thoughts I let stay in my head. 

Last night, it was a choice between getting lost in the depression because all I wanted was to just have one more conversation with my dad, or doing what my dad would have done if I had called him. He would have listened to me freak out and then he would have given me a pep talk. A gentle, "I believe in you. You can do this." He taught me how to do that for myself now that he is no longer here. I think that's what all parents want for their children: the ability to pick yourself up when the ones who raised you are not physically there anymore. 

Thankful, beyond thankful, for faith. Faith in love and words and suffering and the power of growth. And for my dad. And for what losing him has taught me about family and the bonds you have with other people. About the time we spent together and the lessons he taught me. They are what I will carry with me for the rest of my life. His legacy, locked away deep in my heart. 

Love you, Dad. Miss you. 

the monday-est tuesday there ever was

All I can say re: today is WOMP, WOMP. 

I pulled into the gas station and hit the curb as I was pulling up to the pump... and apparently hit it so hard that I punctured a giant hole in the sidewall of my tire. After carefully moving my car from the pump to the back lot, the first thing I wanted to do was call my dad. And then my heart broke because I realized I couldn't. 

Calling my dad whenever something goes wrong with my car is instinct. I've been doing it since I was 15 and he was teaching me how to drive in the old middle school's tiny parking lot. A 9 year habit is hard to break. 

Like the time I got stuck at Southridge when I was working at the portrait studio. My locks were frozen AND after I had finally gotten into my car, my security system decided to shut down my car because it thought I was trying to steal it. I called him in tears because it was cold and I was frustrated and all I wanted to do was get home. He let me cry and listened to me and told me it would be okay. After I stopped crying he told me how to fix it. That's always how we operated. Get all the emotions out and then fix what's wrong. Simple, cathartic, to the point. 

After Piers and Damien got my donut on and said I was good to go, I had to run errands. I called my mom because I just wanted to hear her voice. Sometimes you just need to hear your mom say "I love you" in only the way that mothers can. She reminded me that this whole missing your dad thing never really goes away. My grandfather died in 1983, nine years before I was born, and she still misses him every day. 

So instead of freaking out about my tire or being sad about missing my dad, I'm choosing to be thankful. For family. For love. For knowing when to ask for help. And for memories, because eventually they become all you've got. 

the first Christmas

Four days until Christmas. Winter Solstice. The shortest day of the year. It hardly feels like a time for celebrating. It's hard enough to will myself to get out of bed and make coffee at noon on my day off. I spent all day in the chair, under my blanket, alternating between watching Gilmore Girls (until I got to the Season 7 Slump) & listening to a mix of top 40 hits from when I was in high school and the stuff I locked myself in my bedroom to listen to and forced my parents to hear me sing in the shower. (Sorry, mom.)

I went through my dad's duffel bag again today. It hit me that it's four days until The First Christmas Without My Dad. Last Christmas, our last Christmas, we played phone tag all weekend. His girlfriend's son was staying with him and he didn't want me to meet him and he put off seeing me. I drove all the way out to his apartment only to have to turn around because the town hall was on fire—right across the street from his apartment. I yelled at him because he didn't call to tell me the town hall was on fire. I felt like he was replacing me by spending time with his girlfriend's son and refusing to see me. 

I hate that that is the last Christmas memory I have of my dad. 

But I also remember that one day, I will get to tell my kids that their grandpa was a hero. And they will get to hear the story from Christmas Eve 1997, when the house next door to us caught on fire. My dad ran to the garage for the extension ladder and helped our neighbor Stan off the roof. My dad saved his life that night. Before they made us evacuate for safety reasons, I remember Stan sitting on the stool my mom always sat at for dinner. He was blackened, covered in soot, and wet from snow. I thought he looked like Switchblade Sam from the Dennis the Menace movie.

The rest of that night was somewhat of a blur. We went to the other neighbor's house until they got the fire out out and declared it safe for us to go back home and go to bed. I remember walking in the front door and seeing a myriad of Winnie the Pooh stuffed animals that Santa had left while the fire was happening. It was the stuff Christmas miracles are made of. 

Someday I will tell that story to my children. And I will cry and feel that little spot in my heart shine the brightest with the pride a daughter holds for her father. Miss you, dad. I promise we'll still leave a beer for Santa, in your honor. 

the last pie, the last turkey

We all know this picture. We've seen it a million times and can recite the story by heart. Grandma making Thanksgiving pie crusts for the last time, 2011. My favorite picture ever. And, speaking of Thanksgiving, Facebook's On This Day reminded me of Thanksgivings past today. I went back to look at a blog post I made 2 years ago today and I discovered this picture. 

 

My dad carving the turkey on the last Thanksgiving we ever spent together, 2014. I would know those hands anywhere. 

My own hands are shaking right now because THIS is exactly why I'm the one at holidays who shakes the camera in everyone's face and doesn't even put it down during dinner. These moments right here, that sense of knowing that this was the absolute last time these things ever happened, takes your breath away. Because you have it captured in a photo. And now that both of them are gone, photos and momentos and memories are all I have left to remember them by. 

Someday, when I have my own kitchen again, I'm printing both of these photos out. Black and white, with a white matte in a black frame—grandma's on top of dad's, since hers was taken first. I will always cherish both of these pictures forever, precious memories that I will never forget thanks to never taking no for an answer when it came to pictures on holidays. 

trying to process

*Photo from June 2014

Fear is the heart of love. I was with Justin's brother Kerry when I got this tattoo. He got the "Die Young" part of his "Live Fast, Die Young" piece on his arm. That's the only memory I really have of him and I spending actual time together, one-on-one. Last night, before I (finally) fell asleep, I cried because I finally felt like Kerry was my brother too. 

I'm grieving and I feel stuck in a weird space where I'm not quite sure how deep my grief really runs. The Kerry I knew for the last four years, since Justin and I got together, has been described by everyone that knew him as "not the real Kerry." But that version of him was the real Kerry to me and I'm not really sure how to process everything. 

Amidst the process of cleaning out Kerry's room, it still hits me once in a while that I'm never going to see him again. He's never going to be in the kitchen, cooking something on the stove when I get up to get milk for my cereal again. We're never going to carpool to work ever again. No more McDonald's trips for "Double Quarter Pounders with Cheese, only ketchup!" We turned around the door to his room. Expecting ghosts to come out of there doesn't do anyone any good. 

Almost every night, Justin's mom and I sit at the kitchen table and talk. Sometimes his sister Cora sits with us. It's become a comforting ritual, and reminds me of growing up and sitting at the kitchen table talking to my own mom. Tonight I colored in my new coloring book and drank tea. Tammy played her games on Facebook. We talk about work and Kerry and our dad's and being only children and just... life stuff. It's beyond comforting to feel a weight lifted off your shoulders after just talking to someone like that where there's no pressure to share anything you don't want to. 

I miss my almost-brother-in-law, who I'm sort of realizing was a lot like my dad so it makes me miss him too. They both liked Miller High Life. They were both very private people. They saved anything that they thought was important. They were both so very special people in my life and I miss them both very much. 

surviving, trying to be thriving

I survived my first week back at work. I survived all the sympathetic looks from my coworkers and all my breakfast regulars telling me, "Oh Anna, I'm really sorry to hear about your father." I've had my good days and my bad days. I treasure the days where I can think about my dad and not start immediately breaking down. Other days, like when I washed some of the clothes that I took out of his closet for the first time? Not so much. 

The reality has finally set in. It's overwhelming to be in this situation. Everyone is so used to going home after a funeral and returning to their normal lives. You don't think about all of the stuff that you have to deal with when a loved one dies until you're thrown right into it without a life jacket. 

There's the endless amounts of paperwork and benefits and probate and bills on top of bills on top of bills. Thankfully, my only responsibility really right now is going through my dad's mail and sending it to my Uncle Bob, who is handling all of the paperwork for me. I'm fielding all the phone calls: to his work, with his landlords, and back and forth with his friends who are a) concerned about me and how I'm doing and b) helping me in any way they can. My mom has been packing up his apartment and letting me cry to her when missing my dad is just too much to bear. 

Today Justin and I are going down to Burlington to help move some things out of my dad's place. I feel like I'm "adulting" very well these days. I've been dealing with phone calls and sitting in voicemail jail all day today. I'm being strong for my dad. That's all I can really do right now. 

good memory, kid

My dad and I played this game every time we went out to eat. The check would come, he would look at it, and I would guess how much it came to. If I was right, he had to give me $5. It started at White Fox Den during Haylofter's cast parties/after show gatherings. The last time was at Oak Creek Diner in April. It's the little memories like that that I will always cherish.  

Today when Justin and I went to the store, he guessed how much money was in the cart. I threw and number out there too. (Neither of us were right. But I was closer.) It reminded me of my dad and made me smile today.