I like to think of myself as an optimist.
I value authenticity, yes, but I’m also really big on laughter. The more inappropriate, the better. So, I’ve been sitting here for a week trying to figure out how to make a joke.
I read every email and comment I get. I hear over and over again that my stupid stories about my ridiculous family make people feel a little less alone, a little less afraid. Those emails put me over the moon. After all, I started this blog a couple years ago as nothing more than a shout in the darkness.
“Hey, you! Over there. I see you. Can you see me?”
I never really expected anyone to shout back.
But you did.
It was wonderful and amazing and very, very humbling. Because, somewhere along the way, I got a little confused.
We’ve all heard that we aren’t supposed to tell our children that we are proud of them for being so pretty, or such a good ball player, or such a good student. We aren’t supposed to say things like, “You always do such a good job,” because what happens one day when they really blow it?
Somewhere along the line, I stopped thinking of myself as shouting in the darkness and started thinking it was my job to brighten it up a little. To find the funny. To tie it all up in a pithy package.
But where does that leave me when everything is undeniably dark?
Silent, that’s where.
Sometimes silence is a good thing.
Until it clogs the drain. Until all the good stuff gets backed up behind a big ole ball of icky, and nothing at all can get through.
It’s why once we’ve missed a couple meetings, we just never go back; it’s why we never make that phone call. There’s too much in the way.
That’s where I am – knee deep in dirty water and ready to clear the clog.
I’m struggling.
There is not one facet of my life that is easy right now. It feels as if I’m hemorrhaging, and I don’t know which wound to plug first. But you can’t heal what you can’t see, so here it goes:
I haven’t shared nearly as much as I should have about what we’ve been doing since my husband lost his job a year and a half ago. As he’s quick to remind me, I haven’t even updated his little intro bit in the sidebar over there.
Last May, Mike and his partner launched Red House Imaginarium, an arts education non-profit here in Nashville. It’s been wonderful, and as far as brand-new arts non-profits go, very successful. Which means they’ve taught tons of classes to tons of students, but haven’t actually drawn a salary. We’ve just established our amazing board, and we’re in the process of filing the official non-profit paperwork, so very soon we’ll be able to offer tax deductions and apply for grants. That will help a lot.
Meanwhile, though I don’t talk about it much, I support us through my work as a freelance writer. I write for large businesses, sole proprietors, real estate agents, musicians – you name it. I help people figure out how they want to represent themselves and then I provide the content to achieve that. It’s fun and fulfilling. But it’s also terrifying. Sometimes everyone needs something at exactly the same time, and sometimes – crickets. Feast or famine, and a whole lot of hustle, which isn’t exactly my forte.
The first two weeks of June were feast weeks. I had a massive project under a very tight deadline. Mike and my big kids had Red House Imaginarium summer camp. So, that meant I spent two weeks home alone with three small children while simultaneously working 12 hours a day.
The camp was a raging success; the showcase was wonderful; we all went home Saturday happy, feeling rather proud of ourselves, and so, so ready for a break.
Sunday was Father’s Day. We let Mike sleep in. I silenced his phone (and accidentally mine) and took the three littles to Target. This meant that when the news came in that Amy, the mother of one of our campers, had been murdered in her front yard, my thirteen-year-old daughter got the message first.
Guys, I can’t even.
This is a close community. Amy was one of Mike’s partner’s closest friends. Amy’s children are the step-children of one of our board members. All of the campers that had just spent two weeks with Amy’s daughter were devastated and shocked, as were the rest of us. We set about finding grief counselors for the group and calling the other board members.
I don’t know how to tell you this…
Tuesday we woke up to find that our sewage ejection pump had failed. Again. Our downstairs (my new office) was flooded with sewage. We wouldn’t be able to use our water or flush our toilets until it was fixed. Repairing the damage would be a whole different story.
We went to the grief counseling session Wednesday, badly in need of a shower.
The plumbers showed up Wednesday night and replaced the pump. By Thursday morning, it was broken again. For four days, every time someone needed a potty (which for me, is every fifteen minutes when I’m stressed and grieving) we loaded up the van and drove down to our neighbor’s house. They were on vacation but told us where to find the key. They did not, however, give us the code for the alarm. The whole neighborhood knew when I wasn’t feeling well.
I was ready to call in new plumbers, gut the basement, start over. And then Mike laid the news on me: we were completely out of money. Out, out.
I don’t know how to tell you this…
I’d been slammed with work for weeks, but suddenly, the phone stopped ringing.
Just like that, we were sitting in the middle of the famine.
There was one call. Uncle Dan had an update on Crazy Aunt Charlotte. She’d been walking on her own after her stroke, unexpected but welcome progress. But she’d taken a fall and couldn’t get out of bed. Her health insurance was denying her claim and kicking her out of rehab. Charlotte was despondent. She didn’t want to live.
Friday we got up and went to a funeral. The church was overflowing. Sitting in the next pew were two teenage girls, both of whom had memorialized their own mothers in the same church in the last few years. I could tell you all about the wonderful stories that were told, the people in bright outrageous suits, the 80s music filling the sanctuary – but that’s reaching. Here’s the truth: it was heartbreaking. And it will continue to be heartbreaking no matter how many times her two beautiful children say, “I don’t want to think about it. I just want to have a happy day.”
I don’t know how to tell you this…
So here I sit in my personal pile of awful, knowing full well that others are sitting in larger piles. I’m trying to be grateful that I can once again use my own bathroom even if my house reeks. Trying not to snap at my children. Trying to do the next right thing. Today, that’s making my bed, finding my hustle, and telling the truth, even if I get the words wrong.
Virginia
Jen, once again, you capture the real, the brutiful of it all. these are the right words — they are words that reach out to others (in addition to being well selected, melodic, grammatically organized).
Sending light, love, and solidarity back to you.
Jen
Thanks, friend.
JB Telstad
We have a saying at my house…when things are looking bad…QUICKLY name 3 things you’re grateful for. Sometimes it’s embarrassingly hard, despite all our riches (house with roof, food in the cupboard, health etc.) My husband is a bit more of a pessimist than I am. He came up with “At least I don’t have leprosy”. It’s now our go-to, and it always makes us laugh. And laughter is the best medicine. I won’t tell you that things don’t suck, cause they do. And we all have stuff that sucks (I wish that made it better, but it doesn’t). But right now, today, “at least I don’t have leprosy”. I hope you don’t have leprosy either! (Please smile. Please).
Jen
I DON’T have leprosy!
Charlene Ross
I love this! When the sh*t starts to hit the fan at my house (as it does more often than not), I’m going to use this.
Thank you!
I don’t have leprosy!
Susan
This post has tugged at my heartstrings. Sometimes life just gets harder than you bargained for. I’m so sorry you are in a sad and scary season; however, you’re stronger than you know, even if you don’t realize it today. Praying for better days for all of you! By the way, where did Zoe get those gorgeous long legs? She is so pretty!
Jen
Thank you! I have no idea where she got the tall, skinny, gorgeous genes. Not from me! It must skip a generation!
Marianne
I hope things get better and I appreciate your candor. Nothing about our lives or this world is neat and tidy and sometimes it is just better to mindfully exist in the chaos rather than worrying when it will be neat again.
Jen
Amen.
Donald
Much love to you all. ❤️
Emily
Bless your heart, hun. You really are a light in the dark for some of us. The struggle of the modern mother, the weight of the world on her shoulders. I wholeheartedly wish you and your family the best.
Jen
Girl, I’m sorry I’m such a dim light right now. Thank you.
Cat
hugs to you and all your family. i am so sorry things are hard right now. it seems to be going around. and the kids. jeese. im so sorry those kids lost their mama. love and light to you and yours.
Jen
I’m sorry too.
Charlene Ross
Oh, Jen. How terrible. All of it. I’m so sorry. Times like this are so hard. And so hard to write about because we don’t want to burden people with our sadness. (Unfortunately I wrote a post similar to this 8 years ago when my 37 year old sister-in-law died of a heart attack leaving my brother with their 3 young daughters to raise on his own and then 5 days later my friend’s eleven year old daughter was killed in a car accident. And you are right – I couldn’t even.) I’m the happy one. I’m the funny one. How could I write about that? Nobody wanted to be burdened with tales of woe about the sadness that had overtaken my life.
But I found out it wasn’t a burden. Sharing your story helps. It helps you, by getting it off your chest, and it helps others who are struggling too. It helps.
And if you snap at your kids or aren’t feeling as grateful as you “should” for what you do have (or cry every single time you get in the shower), it will be okay. You will be forgiven. You will get through it. (You WILL.)
And just so you know, you got the words exactly right.
Jen
So sweet, Charlene. Thank you.
Dianne
I am not religious at all, but the words that sprang to mind when I read your post were, “Bless you.” You have such strength and generosity, and I am sure you have helped a lot of people. You have helped me and we’ve never even met!
I am so sorry to hear about all you have been through, and are still going through.
I truly hope life gets easier and less painful for you soon. I also hope that someday you write a book about the hidden gifts that have come wrapped in these horrible packages. Because, based on what I’ve read of your writing so far, you have a special gift of being able to perceive and articulate such things. And, selfishly, I want to believe there is a higher power and divine wisdom surrounding this life! I know lots of books have been written testifying to this, but yours I might actually read and relate to. 🙂
Remember your post about the book with the letter in it that you found after you went to the psychic? I wish you more moments like that in the future.
Dianne
Laura
Those of us in the CFIDS/Fibro community remind each other not to compare pain or miserable times. Everyone’s pain, illness, or grief is different; no one trumps the other. Instead we listen, commiserate when needed and shoulder the load together. When one person is having a good day they make the others laugh and provide distraction. Next day someone else having a good day will help the rest laugh.
So you hold on the best you can for now and we’ll provide something to laugh at, okay?
So very much love to all of you.
Also, a silly: I got a text from my therapist today offering an appointment on 7/11. To which I of course replied Great! I’ll bring the Slushies.
Jen
Ha!
Amy
Blessings and prayers and thanks for what you’ve written.
Jen
No, thank you.
Mary
Thank you for trusting your readers to share with us.
Anonymous
I am so sorry for what your family and friends are going through. life sucks sometimes and sometimes it doesn’t. Hold on tight to the times it doesn’t. Keep strong those little ones of yours need you.
Ps. I don’t have leprosyeither.
Sheila
I keep reading this and wanting to comment, but not sure what to say. A lot of it is SOLIDARITY, someone else in the world has a sewage ejection system! In the six years we have lived in this houses, it’s the only thing that has broken but holy cow, what a pain when it does! We will never, ever, ever buy another house that needs one of these! I guess I didn’t realize that one good thing for us it that it is in an unfinished space below the house and we do have two pumps (lucky us, we’ve gotten to replace both of them), so we haven’t had any sewage inside our house. Ours also has a screaming alarm that goes off if the system gets too full. Sounds like yours doesn’t, and that sucks. In my life, it has often seemed like a lot of hard things happen at once before it smooths out. We’ve never lost anyone close to us in a way like you mentioned, and there is absolutely nothing else to say other than it is awful and heartbreaking. I hope life gets lighter for you very soon.
Anna
Hi, I just discovered your blog by searching for ways to feed my large family on a budget. I hope you guys are hanging in there.. I know the feeling.. sometimes when it rains it pours.. and it pours hard over and over and over.. sometimes crying helps, sometimes it doesn’t .. there is no right way of handling it all, just do the best as we can not to hurt people next to us, our loved ones. If you need any kids of help please don’t hasitate to email me. I have 5 kids too. I know it all..