Sand Castle

I think I’ve been angry lately. And so the grief cycle continues, pulling you back in right when you think you’ve finally shaken it. Up and down, back and forth. And while it’s nice that the waves come less often, it also means that they are less expected. I don’t look out for them. I don’t have a chance to inhale deeply and brace myself before they crash into the paradise I’ve created on the shore, the paradise I thought I could just keep building up and up and up until the waves couldn’t reach us anymore. A place where we would be safe.

I’m angry that Gregg didn’t fight more. And that’s selfish of me, I know. But I am. I’m angry that he side-stepped all the help that was offered to him, that every time he started to reach for a hand, he’d reach for something else instead- a bottle, a pill, whatever was his current remedy. For all the hurt and pain and trauma that he endured, there was a lot of love and hope and joy here for him. And he didn’t reach out and take the hands offering it. And it doesn’t really matter if he couldn’t or if he wouldn’t… the outcome is the same.

Maybe this wave of fiery-red, angry grief has hit because Thomas has been talking about him more. Not in the usual cheerful “my daddy was this” and “my daddy was that” way. In a “my daddy left because he hates me” and “I just want to see my daddy” way, with big tears rolling down his cheeks. And I’m pissed that this is his experience. And Luke’s. And that this is the legacy they have inherited.

I won’t be in this place forever. I’ll work through it and I’ll feel better. But right now it hurts.

Also Try the Cheesecake

It’s been a doozy of a week. I have felt all the feelings. Felt my stomach turning somersaults on all the ups and downs. And while I’m exhausted, I also feel completely… alive. I’m starting to let go of the numbness more and more and instead purposefully reach for things that make me actually feel. And even when those things slip right through my fingers, the movement of just reaching out my hand has been valuable. It’s made me feel all the hope and grief and happiness and disappointment that my soul has needed to feel.

This week I went to mine and Gregg’s favorite restaurant, just a few miles from where we lived before he died. If you’re ever in Gilbert, AZ go to Joe’s Farm Grill. Order the sweet potato fries. Eat all of them, with the pineapple Thai sauce. Don’t share. Thank me later. Anyway, I got there at 7 pm on a Saturday night, which meant waiting in a 45-min line (#soworthit) by myself. I got to chatting with the couple in front of me, who had the most adorably chunky little 10-month-old girl. She reached right for me and as I held her, I told the couple how I was missing my boys, whom I had left at home for the weekend. I told them how I was in town for a funeral, but obviously had to make time to go to Joe’s, where my husband and I used to eat at least once a week.

This next part requires some back story. See, there’s this thing that a lot of people do when they’re going through grief. They feel so keenly the stark difference between the upheaval in their world and the normalcy that other people enjoy that they take every opportunity to let others feel the difference, too. Part of it also has to do with having bad days and wanting to ruin everyone else’s day, but whatever. There have been so many times when people have asked about my husband and I have just blurted out, “he’s dead.” Sometimes I’ll also crack a morbid joke (“you think your husband’s a deadbeat?!?…”), just to heighten the shock factor. Anyway, it’s a common thing among grieving people, particularly among widows and widowers. I think that’s because their sense of normalcy is most effected. It hurts to lose anyone, but losing a spouse impacts literally every area of your life. Nothing is normal anymore. So when given the opportunity, a widow or widower will drop that bomb on the innocent cashier who just wants to make small talk or on the poor billing specialist at the doctor’s office who just wants to make sure they file the claim properly. There’s just something so satisfying about seeing the light in their eyes falter for just a moment and their words get caught in their throat, the same way yours did when your spouse died. It’s cold, I know. But there it is, the troubled little kid in all of us, going around trying to ruin everyone’s day.

Anyway, the sweet couple in front of me continued chatting away. “Is he jealous you’re here without him?” The wife asked. Jealous? I thought. Who? Who is she talking about? It took me a second to realize what she was asking. She naturally assumed that my kids were at home with my husband for the weekend and was asking if he was jealous I was eating at our favorite restaurant without him. Here it was, the perfect opportunity to crush the shiny outlook on life these two had. Probably married less than two years, their whole lives ahead of them. They were enjoying a nice family outing here, in our place, where Gregg could never order a Bacon Blue Burger again. I smiled a little. “Yes,” I answered. “Yes, he is.” And I must have said it really creepily or something, because they both sort of just slowly turned forward after that and we didn’t speak again. Whatevs, I was only there for the fries, anyway.

But this encounter made me realize that my normalcy has returned. It’s normal to be without Gregg now. It’s normal for me to stand alone in a really long line. It’s normal for me to not call him on the phone on my way home. It’s normal not to roll my eyes as I pick up his gym clothes off the floor. And it’s normal to see a happy family and not want to rain on their parade, because I am also happy.

There are still new things that I have to deal with all the time. Lots of new territory that definitely does not feel normal. But Heavenly Father has placed people in my life to help me navigate those foreign places. And even when I feel like I’m walking around in circles, in the dark, in three feet of mud, at least I’m going somewhere. Better to trudge along towards wherever I’m going than to stay stuck in one place.

Root Beer

Today I had a really awesome experience at church that I would have wanted to share from the pulpit during testimony meeting, but alas, I have near crippling performance anxiety- like seriously, I’d rather rip off both my arms than speak in front of an audience. Also, my children would have used their biggest outside voices to protest me leaving them in the pew, anyway… So, I’m writing about this experience instead.

So Thomas was throwing a tantrum from the second we walked out the door to go to church until after the sacrament was passed. I wouldn’t let him take root beer to church. I know. Worst. Mother. Ever. Luckily it was more of a low boil tantrum and not full-on steam coming out of his ears. So there I was, trying to console him and focus on the spirit, when those two objectives sort of collided in an awesome way.

I was thinking about my trials and how they have served a purpose. I have learned and grown exponentially through them and reached levels that I would have never come close to otherwise… crap, there’s like a million levels above me though, I don’t know that I want to reach those if it means going through more awful trials… Anyway, even though I have that perspective, there are still times where I have protested my trials like a toddler who just wanted root beer. I wanted root beer, I had my heart set on root beer, I asked for root beer, and I didn’t get it. The answer was no. And all the begging, and bargaining, and anger, and beating my fists on the ground, and pleading for it to not be so didn’t change anything. Except that I just became exhausted and stuck in my own bubble of self-pity, ruminating on how unfair life is. And while those tantrums are sometimes necessary, because that anger and frustration is real, staying in them isn’t helpful. They never actually bring my hopes and dreams and desires to fruition. Staying in them doesn’t make me spiritually stronger or give me perspective.

But as Thomas calmed down, which honestly felt like the longest 30 minutes of my freaking life, I reflected on how he’s getting so much better at self-regulating. The body of a small child is basically a holding tank for a trillion tiny ping pong balls trying to make it to the other side of the table- and the table is on fire, and the human-like creature serving the ping pong balls is in a constant state of emotional crisis and has terrible aim. And let’s be honest, we’re really not that much better as adults. But with each soul-crushing disappointment that Thomas endures, he makes developmental gains that I sometimes forget to acknowledge and appreciate. He learns and grows with each one.

So as much as I sometimes want to just stay on the floor, crying and rolling around and kicking out at the people who try to comfort and help me, I can’t grow that way. But I can accept the things I cannot change and allow the atonement to heal me. And when I calm down enough to see that root beer may not really be what I needed, even though I still want it, that small insight adds to the eternal perspective that I’m gaining. I can look back on the progress I’ve made and be grateful for how far I’ve come, even if I’m still a little pissed I didn’t get that root beer.


Sometimes self-care looks like rappelling off the side of a cliff and sometimes it looks like Netflix in your pajamas. What’re you gonna do… Try as I might, I can’t always outrun the reoccurring waves of grief. Sometimes adventures and distractions and busywork help me pull my way out of it, but sometimes those waves pull me under with no warning. I can fight it, which only leaves me more exhausted, or I can wait below the surface, holding my breath until it passes. When I’m not feeling stubborn, I reach out for Christ’s hand as soon as my lungs start to burn. But sometimes I wait until the last possible moment because I don’t want to admit that I’m drowning.

Right now I have this tug-of-war between who I was before and who I want to become. In between those two people, in between the was and the going to be, I sometimes don’t even know if I exist. It’s uncomfortable, sometimes even painful. Sometimes I retreat towards what’s familiar, what I know; surviving. Seeing everything as a tiger that could attack at any moment. Where I can’t even think about stopping to enjoy life because just surviving requires too much energy. Where I can’t go to sleep when I’m tired, I have to stay up to, you know, do all the things. That’s how my life has been the last handful of years.

Lately, I’ve been reminded that I wasn’t always such a stick in the mud. I used to be playful and adventurous and take risks. My biggest adventure was marrying Gregg. Our whirlwind of a courtship-engagement-marriage was the stuff Nicholas Sparks’ novels are made of… romantic and crazy and full of drama. And as level-headed as I’ve always (mostly) been, I was drawn to the fearlessness in Gregg. I wanted someone who could throw caution to wind and take me on the adventures I craved. And that he did. But along the way, I became the buzz kill while Gregg remained the dreamer.

But what do I do now? What does it mean to just be me? I don’t have to be the buzz kill anymore. When I’m not expelling all my energy putting out fires, there’s more left to burn on things I love doing. When I feel safe, I can actually enjoy life, and be fun even. At least when the tide is out, when the waves of grief aren’t a danger. And when they are a danger, I can laugh through them (I have a really morbid sense of humor now, actually), even if I have to do it from the safety of my couch.

Men are, that they might have joy. I’m understanding this more fully as time passes. Not just by finding things to be happy about even when I’m surrounded by straight up suck, but by finding joy despite the fact that not everything is going great. I don’t know if there’s really much of a difference, but it feels like there is. The difference is that I feel like less of a robot and more of a human. I am better able to connect with people and feel with people and love. And I know that’s how God wants it to be.

Nine Pages in a Book

Tomorrow is mine and Gregg’s ninth anniversary. I’ve been reaching out for anything to take my mind off of it. A distraction, a diversion from the trigger that could start an emotional upheaval that I just do not have the time or energy to deal with. If you asked me how I felt about the day ahead, I could honestly say “fine,” because I haven’t been thinking about it. There have been enough distractions. Apparently avoidance is still my go-to coping mechanism. Super. I even planned a big distraction, er, adventure to mark the occasion. I always do something adventurous on birthdays and anniversaries and difficult holidays. Really, I started doing it, and continue to do it, to honor Gregg’s memory and his adventurous spirit. But I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t also a good way to scare myself into numbness. You can’t think about your emotions if your survival instinct is screaming at you that you should not be 100 feet above the ground right now, with only a rope between you and certain death. You can’t address the pain when you’re terrified. There’s no room for feelings when you’re feeling that.

Gosh, I miss him. When I was making my mental list of things I wanted in a husband before we started dating, everything about him was on it. Not that I was even consciously aware of my list, but I had one, everyone does. He checked every box. Tall, funny, strong, infectious smile, compassionate… I could go on, but you get the idea. Mr. Perfect. And I loved him even more when the facade of perfection I had created of him melted away, as it always does, and I saw him for the man he truly was.

I miss the feeling of safety he gave me. After he died, I felt helpless against the evils of the world. Single woman with two kids who looks like she hasn’t slept in four years; easy target for thieves and murderers and bears. I wouldn’t stand a chance. I never had to worry about that with Gregg because, I mean, come on… no one was gonna mess with him, not even bears. I sort of adopted some of his paranoia after he died, too, which didn’t help. He wasn’t there to check the house at night, so I did. He couldn’t tell me about all the terrible things that could happen while we were at the grocery store, so I had to think of them on my own. It was exhausting, and gave me the smallest glimpse of what he went through. But it’s better since I started going to the gym again. I may not be a 6’4″, 275 lb. hulking man, but at least now I’m strong enough to pick up both my kids and run. Which is sayin’ a lot, because they are not small children.

I miss Gregg’s playfulness. It was one of the things that attracted me to him. Also one of the things that I sometimes wanted to strangle him for. When he was himself and was feeling immensely happy, he was exuberant and boisterous and could not be talked down from the clouds. There were no adult responsibilities, nor reason, nor meaning to anything that was outside of his bubble of happiness. It was refreshing and frustrating for my practical nature.

I miss his ability to just make a decision already. I am a woman, therefore I am indecisive. Not about important things- those things I can see in black and white. But the mundane day-to-day decisions, the pointless things that don’t really matter can run me in circles until I don’t know which way is up. Gregg was good at pointing out when I was being ridiculous if I couldn’t decide on the color of wrapping paper to buy or what to pack on a trip or what to make for dinner. He wasted no time in looking before he leaped, for both the small, pointless decisions and the big, life-changing decisions.

I miss him forcing me to watch YouTube videos. Truly. A constant occurrence throughout our marriage was me doing homework and him trying to distract me from it in the form of a video of someone doing something stupid or an American Idol audition (the good ones and the bad ones). Occasionally he would try to distract me by singing “Mr. Lonely” from the other room, then follow it up with a video of gym fails after I finally came to sit next to him. I would usually pretend to be interested and then go right back to my work. I should have watched more dumb videos with him.. Put that on my headstone. “She should have watched more YouTube videos.”

If he were here, we’d be leaving on a trip, where we could hike and eat dessert and watch movies until dawn. Or we’d be high fiving while we passed each other at the front door, me getting home from some dumb meeting and him to going to the gym. One of the two.

It is weird to think about what we would be doing now and how different my life would be. And it’s a really weird feeling to also be happy with how things are now. Even with the trials we went through, my time with Gregg was full of happiness. But I am also happy where I am. I wouldn’t go back, but I would bring Gregg here if I could. Maybe here he could be happy, too.

An old friend told me before Gregg and I got married that we go through major life changes or chapters or something every ten years… maybe it was twenty, I can’t remember, but the point is is that maybe this is just the the beginning of the end of that chapter. There has been love and pain and happiness and tears and it’s been a beautiful story. But things move forward and you have to follow the plot where it takes you. You would miss out on the rest of the story if you got stuck in the first couple of chapters. Even though it’s painful and you know that there’s still more pain ahead, there’s also joy and happiness. What you learned from the beginning chapters will help you figure out how to deal with what happens later on  and everything will come together in the final couple of pages. And when all the lose ends are tied up in a neat little bow, you’ll be glad that you chose to keep going.

Breakfast of Champions

The loneliness has started to set in. That deep, feel it in my bones type. It’s strange to be surrounded by so many people and still be lonely.

I’ve felt like this before, but this also feels different. I’ve always felt Gregg’s absence (both his figurative absence before he died and his literal absence now) very keenly. And yeah, it’s been lonely. But now it’s more like, “well crap, now I have no one.” No one. Not Gregg, not anyone. And I know I have people, and I love my people, but I don’t have a person. There’s a difference. People give you advice. A person lets you ramble on to them until you solve your own problem. People are there for you. A person never leaves you alone. People love you. A person loves you while they’re plotting your death. You get the idea.

So I’ve been doing lots of self-care stuff, which has helped with the loneliness. I bought a road bike, started reading a biography, I spend a few days a week lifting moderately heavy things at the gym, lots of concerts, planning fun trips. They all serve as great distractions. It’s impossible to feel lonely when you have so many things to fill your time. Right?

And I’m trying to use this time to learn about myself. I am a completely different person than I was when Gregg was here. Sometimes I think I know who that person is, sometimes she’s a complete stranger. But all these self-care things have helped me get to know her. Like, I really love being physically active. And being outside. And playing in the dirt with my kids. I love music and seeing new things and meeting people and hearing their stories. And I still hate roller coasters and heights and public speaking. So there’s that.

And there’s things that I’ve learned about my relationships in general. Well, one specific thing actually. I’ve never read the love language book or whatever, but I read about it on a blog once, so I’m basically an expert. My love language is definitely service, with quality time as a close second. But I have a really hard time letting people serve me. What does that say about me as a person? That I don’t actually want to be loved? That I don’t think I deserve to be loved? That I make my friends and family’s lives (including Gregg’s) really difficult sometimes because I push them all away? That I’m just way too much in my head right now and I need to get back to reality instead of worrying about some crap that someone made up? Maybe. Probably.

And another thing, why did it take me so long to try avocado toast?! Whoever thought of putting those two things together is a culinary genius, and I’m not even ashamed to say that I’ve bought into that trend. I guess I’m just a basic millennial.


I have a ri.dic.u.lous. amount of homework to do and I can’t focus on any of it. I just got home from attending an LDS Widows and Widowers Conference, put on by an unofficially affiliated organization of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints. Basically, a bunch of widowed Mormons get together to listen to keynote speakers, attend workshops, laugh, cry, and make morbid jokes. At the end of the two-day conference, everyone’s placed in an arranged marriage… Kidding. (Sort of).


Anyway, this is the third conference I’ve been to and they’ve all been really helpful in their own way. This time, I wasn’t that into the speakers and workshops, even though they really were great. Just not what I needed. But the people. That’s what I needed this time. I connected with other widowed people in a way that was healing for the soul. And those connections also made me realize I’m not through grief yet (nice try, self). I still have a long way to go. Maybe forever. Ugh.


But besides the connections, there were a few specific things that I learned, the most significant being that Heavenly Father prepares us for our trials. I guess I knew that already, but the reminder hit me hard this weekend. It was a common theme among the people that I talked to. Heavenly Father had given them insight and tools and tender mercies to prepare them for losing their spouse, ones that they didn’t recognize until after their spouse had passed. I got tons of those. Like really, how did I not see it coming?


Just in the 24 hours before Gregg died, there were numerous tender mercies and insights I had. The biggest one that I’ve been reminded of is that I got to let go and say goodbye. The night before Gregg died, I knew he was using but I was too wrapped up in 4th trimester hormones and lack of sleep to have a coherent conversation with him about it. Coherent conversations don’t happen in those dark times, they just don’t. Instead, in the midst of the intense pain and sorrow I felt from being confronted with what was surely going to be the beginning of another downward spiral, I blubbered through words that didn’t make a lot of sense. I could only get out a half-formed sentence that meant nothing to him.


See, when you love an addict, sometimes even when they’re there, they’re not there. When they are stuck in the fog of addiction, you only see their silhouette. Their body is filled with something else that suffocates their spirit. Their substance is gone and the person in front of you is just a fuzzy representation of the person you love. That night, I couldn’t tell Gregg that I was terrified of losing him for good, or of losing our family, or of him never coming back through the fog and back to us. All I could say was “you’re leaving… you’re leaving me…” over an over. In some type of weird crying chant. Naturally, he had no idea what I was sputtering about and looked at me like was the one on drugs. Or maybe he just played dumb to avoid a fight. But it doesn’t matter because those words weren’t for him, they were for me. It was goodbye. It was letting go. It was knowing that I couldn’t fix it and grieving what I had lost in that moment. And it had to be then, because it was too late for all of that when I went to wake him up the next day.


Also, on an unrelated note, this weekend I learned that women. Are. Strong. I mean, men are strong too and maybe someday I’ll write about that, but this was a weekend of female empowerment for me. Like damn, women can do hard things. You stayed by your husband’s side for days, weeks, or years while he battled cancer? That is strength. You gave birth to your baby after your husband was already gone? That is courage. You were breastfeeding while your husband was being lowered into the ground? That is love. You own the crap out of single parenthood? And you have a special needs child? That is grit. Amazing.


But most importantly, this weekend helped me to remember that I’m not alone. Because the loneliness has started to set in big time. Not because I’m not surrounded by people, but because none of them can replace Gregg. But I have a tribe of people who know what’s that like. And I still have Gregg, even though most of the time I can’t feel him. And I have my Heavenly Father.






Average Joe

Today it hit me how average I am. Not in like a low self-worth kind of way, just a realistic type of way. I’m average. Average intelligence, slightly funny, pretty weird, average looking, somewhat interesting, regular-person hobbies..just average. And I’m really ok with that, more than ok actually. I like to blend in with my surroundings and being average does not attract attention. I’m like one of those weird lizards that looks like the bark on a tree. Don’t know I’m there ’til I blink. Yeah, bark lizard. That’s what I strive to be.

Gregg saw me as a lot more. He put me on a pedestal, which was infuriating to me a lot of the time, but sometimes I miss his ridiculous praise. When I graduated from college, he hung my degree up on our living room wall. Right next to the TV, on a blank wall all by itself, sorely out of place. But he was so proud of me. When I took the GRE, he told everyone that I kicked its ass- really I only did “good enough” to get into the program I was applying for, but he saw it as such an accomplishment. He was always telling me what a catch I was and, to my horror, cat-calling me in public. He made me feel like the most beautiful woman on earth. Well, after Katy Perry, I always knew Katy was his #1. Whatever.

I normally don’t need validation from people, but after a semester of feeling like I was barely staying afloat, trudging through finals that I’m sure I bombed, and feeling the stark reality of the fact that I am an almost 30-year-old single Mom who is… unremarkable.. I could have used it from him today. And I wish that all the people I have around me who I know are cheering me on could fill that hole, but it’s just not the same. It’s kind of like Diet Coke. Like, yeah, it’s good, but is it ever really the same as the good stuff? No. It’s good for what it is, but it’s not the same. And sometimes it’s enough until you remember how good the real stuff is, and then it just feels like a watered-down version of what you’re really craving. Artificial.

And sometimes when people try to be my cheerleader, it’s just more painful. Oftentimes when someone celebrates with, I am immediately struck with the fact that Gregg is not celebrating with me. I’m sure it won’t always be that way. But that doesn’t sound appealing, either, because that would mean that I had forgotten when he would celebrate with me. *sigh*

One of my sweet widow friends from church asked me on Sunday how my husband was doing. I was confused at first. And then I didn’t know how to answer. I mean, I do think about how and what he’s doing, but she said it so matter-of-factly, like he had come down with a cold. It was refreshing. I know he’s busy. I know he’s sorry that he can’t be here, but not sorry that he is where he is. I know he’s still cheering me on, me and all my average-ness, wishing he could whistle at me from across the parking lot just to see me blush and give him a death glare.


I’ve finally realized how lonely it is to be alone. I’m the type of person who treasures my time away from people, even the people I love. A girl needs space. It’s just how I recharge. I’ve been like that since I was a kid. I used to sneak breakfast food into my room at night so I could wake up early and read for hours without having to come out of my room for sustenance. Genius.

That’s not to say I’m a total loner, I just need enough alone-ness to balance out the people-ness. Gregg was the opposite. He needed people.

I only needed Gregg. No, not needed. Wanted. I wanted Gregg. During times when he was really struggling, it was like he was just gone. He was not my husband, my childhood friend, my confidante. He just wasn’t there. I used to tell him during those times that I felt alone on the island. That’s what this feels like.

I guess I thought that all those times I felt alone when Gregg was alive had prepared me to be really alone. And I’m sure they did, but not enough to last forever. I’ve started talking to Wilson and searching desperately for a way off this freaking rock.

And before you get any ideas, I’m not talking about finding a husband *eye roll*, although I am contemplating starting to think about maybe becoming more open to that idea someday. But I don’t need to find anyone, I have people all around me who would gladly share their fish or help me build a raft. But when you’ve gotten so used to being alone, how do you do anything else?

Sometimes I envy people who are divorced. At least if I was divorced, I could fight with Gregg all time. And while I called him a giant toddler and he told me I was a control freak who’s getting wrinkles, we would truly know each other.

Second Chances

It’s time. I feel like I’ve healed. Not completely, but I feel more like a whole person, a whole person who needs to say it. Not that I was hiding anything before, but I just hadn’t wrapped my head around it. I’ve always been open to talking about Gregg’s life, and death, to whomever asked, but I just don’t offer up the details. He was too special, and also it was too traumatic.

I spent months trying to figure out if this was a story of PTSD or of addiction. I still don’t know, but I don’t think it matters. The trauma, the TBI, the paranoia, the nightmares. The drug-seeking, the lying, the impulsivity, the chaos. There’s really no separating the two. They were the experiences of the same man and the manifestations of the same brain, both driven by the same spirit.

But I don’t even know how to start. Some days I can make sense of it all, and some days it’s all muddled. But no matter which way you straighten out all the details and the symptoms and the signs, it always ends the same.

Gregg died of an overdose. He never had to use drugs off the street. His drugs of choice were ones that were created to help people. Humans like to fix things and it was easy for Gregg to find people, doctors and friends, who wanted to fix his inattention and his sleeping problems and his anxiety and his pain. But the drugs never really fixed anything. And when no one could fix it and he couldn’t let God take it away, he numbed it.

I think a lot of people have gotten the impression that Gregg committed suicide, which is understandable. And I’m not in denial when I say that’s not what happened. I was always really aware of where he was mentally, and that’s not where he was when he died. But at the same time, I think he did sort of lose his will to live. I recently read an article written by a woman who had overdosed numerous times. She said that if you get high enough, you’re either numb to the disappointment and the self-hatred and the chaos that you face everyday, or you don’t wake up and those things aren’t a problem anymore. Win-win. I think that’s where Gregg was.

But of course, that’s bullshit, which the woman in the article also talked about. If your brain tells you those are two best case scenarios, it is lying. Numbing isn’t the only way to deal with negative emotions. There’s always a way back.

And that’s all that I can put into words right now, I guess. I’ve always planned on sharing Gregg’s story in a way that would impact the world, the way he impacted the world while he was here. He was extraordinary, I can’t let his death be meaningless. But overdose is a hard topic. People don’t dress up and hold fancy dinners to raise funds for addiction research or run marathons to fight opiate abuse, yet. Society sees addiction as a shameful disease. It happens in a place people don’t want to visit, or even think about. Even me. I’ve been there with people I love, and I don’t like looking back at it.

People who die from cancer or in a car crash are victims of circumstance. Their death was an injustice. People who die from an overdose made the choices that led to their death. I feel like that’s a fair generalization of society’s views, and I don’t necessarily disagree. I believe that we’ve been given the power to choose to put in the work that will help us to be better. But if a cancer patient was in denial about their disease and never sought treatment, would they be a victim of circumstance or would they responsible for their body destroying itself? If someone trusts a green light and pulls into the intersection without looking both ways, have they died from their own choices or have they been failed by the system that was supposed to keep them safe? There’s no right answer, but have you ever thought about it? Do some people deserve to be saved?

I think that Gregg was saved from a lifetime of pain. And that is merciful. He is also missing out on a lifetime of joy, but not because he didn’t deserve it. He deserved every ounce of joy and happiness, and I know he’s going to be able to cash in on that. Because God is fair. Life is not, but God is. And Gregg is getting the chance to grow and learn just like us.