I'm Learning to Write on My Calendar in Pencil

I'm learning to write on my calendar in pencil.

Seriously.

Although I prefer the look of pen (especially the new multi-colored Sharpie pens I have just discovered!), I can't stand a calendar with plans crossed off and no space to write new things. It just doesn't work with my mind.

I used to write my life in pen. I used to plan how it would all look: I would marry a kind, strong, affectionate, and a hardworking man who loved to dance and we would have kids who obediently followed our every direction. They would get straight A's in school and be the star player on the sports team or the leader in their class. They would attend BYU, serve missions, and marry in the temple. It was a fairy tale I routinely painted in my mind of what my family would look like and how my life would go.

Imagine my surprise when I had to cross off "man who loved to dance". It made the calendar messy, but I lived with it. It wasn't too bad because everything else about my husband is true. Marking off "kids who obediently followed our every direction" was more difficult. I struggled with that for years thinking that it was all about me and if I could just implement a new chore chart or task list or teach a better Family Home Evening lesson then they would "get it". I continued to write it in pen, scratch it out, write it again, scratch it out, write it again, . . . and over and over and over. It was great source of frustration to me.

It really wasn't until a therapist told me that my daughter had a learning difference (he called it a disability) that it finally occurred to me to write in pencil. She was in 1st grade with her whole life ahead of her. I had to face the reality that her future was not going to be what I had imagined. All I had dreamed for her life changed (or so I thought). It took me some time to realize that it was going to be okay. She would face challenges, but we would work through them together. And she could still live a beautiful life (which she is). That is when I began to learn I could write my life in pencil.

When I got pregnant in the summer of 1996, I was SO excited! I already had 3 kids and we had been trying for a few months (which was a LONG time for me). I really enjoyed being pregnant, especially with this one because I could feel the baby's spirit with me so strongly. It was a wonderful experience for 3 months. Then I began to spot. After I received a blessing I felt peace wash over me and I knew that whatever happened would be fine. However, knowing this didn't mean I didn't feel the pain of losing the baby or the overwhelming loneliness after her spirit had left me. (Yes, she was girl and I had never felt as utterly empty as I did after that miscarriage.) But most of the pain I felt came from knowing that the life I had "written" in my mind would never be. Everything written in pen had to be crossed out.

There have been many other times when I have learned to write in pencil. I was learning when one of my children told me she was using drugs, or when another told me she was pregnant (and single), or when we decided to move to Utah (or yeah, that was big!), or when my husband's kidneys shut down. I learned to write in pencil the day my son died.

What I am learning is that plans change. All. The. Time. If I write in pen then it is like I am saying, "This CANNOT change. It MUST be this way." It doesn't leave any room for a different experience. Writing in pen shuts out the possibility of me having a different future than what I have written for myself. Everything is judged by what I have written in pen. And what I am learning is that sometimes a different future is BETTER than what I had written.

Here is a great essay that describes what I'm trying to say. It is written about raising a child with a disability, but I think it can apply to life just not turning out the way you thought it would.

WELCOME TO HOLLAND

I am often asked to describe the experience of raising a child with a disability - to try to help people who have not shared that unique experience to understand it, to imagine how it would feel. It's like this...
When you're going to have a baby, it's like planning a fabulous vacation trip - to Italy. You buy a bunch of guide books and make your wonderful plans. The Coliseum. The Michelangelo David. The gondolas in Venice. You may learn some handy phrases in Italian. It's all very exciting.
After months of eager anticipation, the day finally arrives. You pack your bags and off you go. Several hours later, the plane lands. The stewardess comes in and says, "Welcome to Holland."
"Holland?!?" you say. "What do you mean Holland?? I signed up for Italy! I'm supposed to be in Italy. All my life I've dreamed of going to Italy."
But there's been a change in the flight plan. They've landed in Holland and there you must stay.
The important thing is that they haven't taken you to a horrible, disgusting, filthy place, full of pestilence, famine and disease. It's just a different place.
So you must go out and buy new guide books. And you must learn a whole new language. And you will meet a whole new group of people you would never have met.
It's just a different place. It's slower-paced than Italy, less flashy than Italy. But after you've been there for a while and you catch your breath, you look around.... and you begin to notice that Holland has windmills....and Holland has tulips. Holland even has Rembrandts.
But everyone you know is busy coming and going from Italy... and they're all bragging about what a wonderful time they had there. And for the rest of your life, you will say "Yes, that's where I was supposed to go. That's what I had planned."
And the pain of that will never, ever, ever, ever go away... because the loss of that dream is a very very significant loss.
But... if you spend your life mourning the fact that you didn't get to Italy, you may never be free to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things ... about Holland.
c1987 by Emily Perl Kingsley. All rights reserved. 

Isn't that great?! Writing in pencil just allows me to go to a different place. And to learn things I never imagined that I would learn; to enjoy the very special, the very lovely things about the different life I am living. And really, when it comes to my kids, ESPECIALLY when it comes to my kids, I don't have any control over what they will do in their life anyway. We each have agency; the glorious, exciting ability to choose for ourself.

And I choose to write in my calendar in pencil.

I'm learning. 

Every day I'm learning. 

For instance, today I'm learning how to blog. Thanks to a very talented friend and encouragements from many others, I have decided to give it a go. I thought I'd share some of the things I'm learning as I live through my challenges. We all have them, right? Maybe sharing will bring us closer. However, before we get started on this new adventure, there are some things you should know about me.

• I am NOT a writer. I am a talker. I much prefer it if we could sit down and talk, one on one, each sharing the ideas and thoughts of our hearts. I would like for us to share the stories of our lives. I operate much better in those circumstances where we can ask questions of each other to understand one another better. Writing is so one-sided. So I hope you'll forgive my lack of proper writing skills or training. What you read is the real me. I'll just do the best I can and you do the best you can. OK? OK. 

• I am NOT perfect. (HA! As if!) I'm just doing the best I can, just like you. That's why this blog is called "I'm Learning" and not "I Learned". We are on this journey together. I'm learning new stuff every day. Just like you. 

• I pretty much tell it like it is. I'm open about my life and my experiences. This makes some people uncomfortable. I hope you can work through that.

• I do care what you think. If you leave a comment, I WILL read it. If it is positive or supportive, I will like it. If it is honest feedback, I will learn from it. If it is mean and hateful, I will delete it. I don't have any time for that. 

So ... here we go.

Today, I'm learning to live through my son's 14th birthday without him. On October 15, 2012, my son, Ethan, died from suicide. He was 12. 

I'm learning that it was a chemical imbalance (or the lack of certain chemicals) in his body that caused his death. Now some of you may think that I am suffering from denial and have not been able to face the fact that he made a choice. But what you don't understand about me yet is that I have lived through chemical imbalance. Not like Ethan's. Not that severe. I have never thought about how to hurt myself. But I have lived in that dark space of depression where I just wanted to disappear. I can still remember thinking, "If I just pull the sheet over my head, will I disappear from view? Will they notice I'm gone? Will they care?"

When my kids were younger, we used to play hide and seek in our house with the lights off. The "seeker" was allowed a flashlight (because we're all scared of the dark when it comes down to it, right?) but everyone else had to wait in the dark. My husband was working with a young seeker. I was in a depressive episode, but agreed to play anyway. I hid upstairs in the corner of my closet. Literally in. the. corner. Under the hanging clothes. Curled up in a ball. Wanting to disappear. And guess what? I did! They came into my closet and looked around, but they didn't see me. I'm not sure what hurt worse: the emptiness inside my chest from the depression, or the emptiness inside my closet as my husband and child walked out without me. 

I've never told anyone about that. Including my husband.

The point is the chemicals in our body are there for a reason. Even I, as an adult, couldn't control my emotions. My feelings overwhelmed me, so much so I didn't want to participate in every day life activities. If someone is missing the chemical that regulates moods, then what is there to help control the intense emotions we experience, especially during puberty? Would any of us ever want to live through middle school again?! It was bad enough getting through those raging hormones with reasoning ability. What if that reasoning ability was no longer there? I'm learning that that is the tip of the iceberg when it comes to Ethan's experience and many others who suffer from mental illness. (More on what I'm learning about mental illness in another post.)

So what I'm learning about living through Ethan's birthday without him is to spend it being grateful for his birth. That's what birthdays are for, right? And I am grateful for his birth (even if he was my only baby born without an epidural!). I'm so grateful that I was able to know him for 12 wonderful years. I'm grateful for his "I LOVE you, mom!" multiple times a day and his backbreaking hugs. I'm grateful for him jumping out from behind the door to scare me (even if it did make me pee in my pants a little bit). I'm grateful for his giggles. And his dimple. And his jokes. And his "I like pie!" I'm grateful for his calls down the hallway for just one more hug or one more "I love you" after I had already tucked him in to bed at night.

I'm learning to spend the day with people that I love. I spent the morning supporting my daughter through a tough experience. I spent the afternoon with my husband talking. (Who would have thought it possible to have an uninterrupted conversation? All we had to do was get in the car, lock the doors, and drive around for 2 hours!) I spent the evening having dinner with my kids at home, then taking a blanket to the cemetery so we could all sit down and have a piece of pie with Ethan. (Because we all know Ethan likes pie!)

Yup. I'm learning that those 2 things have helped me get through my son's 14th birthday without him. 

Gratitude and people I love. 

I'm learning.