Eric Benner

Today was an emotional day.  It sort of capped off an emotional week.  There is no way I could not write about it, but after talking about it, thinking about it, talking some more and, quite frankly, drinking some wine with a dear friend over it....I likely won't be my eloquent, thought-out, organized self.  Ok, that is kind of funny, since my tangents are legendary and my segue's a norm.  I digress....

This week has been an emotional one.  For several people.  From separate instances.  With one common tie.  You....

Their stories aren't really mine to tell, however to say that the past has a way of sneaking up on us is an understatement sometimes.  I am so happy to write that we have hired another ex-Draeger-ite;  one of the good ones.  His story, however, brought back so many feelings, memories and resentments from the old days.  Bill and I have had a bunch of emotions, with anger likely the strongest, surge through our souls since yesterday.  Much of it makes sense....hearing that JGD is back to his old tricks of "alleged" manipulation, lies and destruction brought forth a venom we both thought was somewhat buried.  Guess our mortal selves haven't come anywhere close to forgiveness yet.  It is impossible to forget, but improbable to forgive, an established pattern that appears to be recreating itself, a mere four years after our old home shut it's doors.  In fairness, I hadn't gotten anywhere close to forgiveness before, but now, hearing that so many things that occurred before are happening again, a rage that has been somewhat dormant, has resurfaced with a vengence.  Hiring NK is a little piece of justice.  It helped a little.  But, that was yesterday.

Today...well, where do I start.  Today was amazing.  And hard.  And inspirational.  And emotional.  And brutal. And, as always, today was a gift. 

Today started out like most days.  After poking and proding our son awake and shuffling him out the door, I officially started my day.  I drove in traffic.  I talked to my mom and my papa.  I talked to my (our) kids. I talked and laughed with Greg.  I enjoyed the conversation and friendship of some awesome women.  Mostly, I felt so much of the love that this life has to offer....family, friends, our children, my husband, etc., all before the clocked ticked 9am. 

Today, I also felt the impact of how much your death (and our loss) has affected others. This afternoon, Bill and I had the benefit of sharing some time with a handful of incredible people with whom we hope to build lasting professional relationships.  We shared a bit, learned a lot and were honored to be in the company of people who had enough courage and integrity to ask some tough, but forthright and honest, questions.  As fate would have it, the questions were easy to answer (likely too easy for me, as my fierce opinions were hard to hide), but painful to revisit, none-the-less.  I can never seem to NOT place blame on DCI (or more accurately JGD) for losing a piece of you. Inaccurate? Unfair? Unearned?  Maybe.  Honest?  Yep.

Anyway, after my way too candid display and a clearly passionate conversation, I was taken aback by an even more poinant, beautiful, grevious conversation.  A private conversation, by an incredible soul, who confided in me a shared grief of suicidal loss, personal depression overshadowed by deeply private hard work and dedication to heath and self and family and perserverence and LIVING.  A man, whom I hope to call a friend, opened up his heart, his soul and his story to me and shared his belief in all that I am.  He praised me as a colleague, but respected me more as a person who is willing to share our story (the good, the bad, the ugly) in an effort to grieve, to give hope, to potentially help others and to show you honor.  Show you honor...that bears repeating.  He told me how much it meant to him that I don't hide your life, your legacy, or our "story",  behind the wall of shame and stigma that usually follows depression.  A deeper sense of shame and and a negative social stigma almost always accompanies suicide, but it is most often coupled with blame and judgement. 

You see, this beautiful man has lived the very same legacy of your children, with the horrific loss of his father at the age of 16.  He has suffered from the very disease that robbed him of his dad and us of you.  He has faught the drowning waves of sadness.  And he chooses to live each day to be better tomorrow.  He doesn't hide from his disease, but tackles it like the monster it is and he beats it every time.  Every time.  It is not a single battle, but a war.  I could not be more proud that he is winning.  Nor could I have been more honored by the fact that somehow, in some way, I had made a difference to him.  He has no idea how much strength I see in his face or how small I feel knowing his battles, but his words, his kindness, his belief in me, means more than I could convey.  He may never know how deeply he touched my heart, but I will be forever grateful. 

Once again, I owe so much of who I am today to you.  You were an incredibly teacher in life, but it has been through your death that I may have learned the most. 

RIP, EHB.  Always.  No Matter What. 

It has been a long time since I have had a moment like last night.  Given that our goal repeadly preached was NEVER to get over you, but to get through this, I guess I shouldn't have been surprised.  Yet, I was.  Then, I was sad, then mad, then...I don't know...like I am now - tender.

Your son is sick.  Not major sick or God forbid, life altering sick, but sick.  We have been passing it around for over a month and it sucks.  Nothing big or monumental, but irritating and no fun.  Regardless, something about this round of sickness gave me my little boy (so long gone) for just a moment (and man, do I miss that sweet, cuddly boy).  You see, something about this time, brought such a strong memory and presense of you back to him.  He was taken back to a time and place of a healthy dad, loving and caring for his little son.  He remembered vividly an episode of the stomach flu (where I was likely crying, gagging and Clorox cleaning the upstairs) where you got out of bed, carried him downstairs, got a bowl and rubbed his back, while watching cartoons, all night that he puked.  There was something so pure about his recollections and so damn painful that you aren't here to do that, or some version of loving him through life's crappy times. 

It makes me sad.  Then, I get really angry - for the unfairness of what your death dealth them.  Then, another litlle break in my heart happens.  Then, luckily and through grace, I am able to patch it up with a bandaid until another Eric-sized scar remains on my heart.  The truth is....these are actually the scars of OUR children, their loss, their tears.  Mine are ever-present, but they hurt less than the ones I have for them.  That may sound selfish, or like I no longer care, which is nothing close to the truth, but they are here and you are not.  Their pain, their loss, their grief takes my breath away in a similar pattern to the way your pain, your depression, your anguish did.  It is brutal to watch because I am powerless to heal them, just as I felt powerless in trying to heal you. 

I hate disease of all kinds, but man, because this disease hurt us all so badly, in such different ways, do I hate depression's guts.  I hate what it stole from you, which resulted in everything it stole from us.  I can handle my hurt; living the childhood I did, with my dad, gave me the gift of self-preservation.  But man, our kids' hurt....it cripples me, at times.  Last night was one of those times.  Today, the rawness continues.  Tomorrow, I look forward to a better day.  Something you never did the last few years. 
I know.  I get it.  I still hate it.  I always will. 


Always.....
Wen

So, not only has it been forever since I sat down and wrote, it has been weeks of CRAZY busy life.  The holidays, selling a house, buying a house, packing a house, all the while trying to still give 100% to my job, the kids, family, friends, Greg, my exercise and fitness lifestyle and not give into the flu.  Yeah, it hasn't been perfect...to say the least.  BUT....it has been me.  100% authentic effort with success, failure and some regular life mixed in.  

Today is moving day.  Yeah, I see the irony of sitting here at a computer on a shaky folding table writing, which is exactly why I am doing it. You used to say that I was the queen of "one more thing" right before we had to leave.  Well, this thought popped into my head today as I was packing and it made me smile.  Then, it made me think that this is the first time in a long time that a move was filled with simple joy.  See, even when we moved to Davis, while SUPER excited, we were worried about the commute, the kids transition, making new friends.  Then, the move to Tufts, while super excited, was filled with the grief of losing your day, the uncertainty of how your mom would do, the fear of a high mortgate.  Well, the move here, to Duchamp, within a few weeks/months of losing you...I cannot even remember most of it.  But today, in this moment, there is just joy.  I don't know why...I really don't know many people, where I will hang out, etc., but what I do know is that I am content.  My heart is happy.  It feels "right".  And, while this day started out insane, I am trying to take it moment by moment, not get overwhelmed and enjoy the process.  Most importantly, I am so happy memories of you bring so many smiles, and far less tears (though they will always be there), than I have had.  

I miss you my forever friend/love/spouse/father....but in a way that is truly impossible to describe.  I cannot ever "thank you" for where I am today, because that feels like the ultimate betrayal to both of us. The truth is I don't know if I would be here, in this place, had you not left, because I am a completely different part of the same person.  But I do thank you for starting the work that we did together, and for the strength to continue the work after you left, to be this newer version of me.  I thank you for helping me put Greg in a different place in my life...and yes, I do give you & God & fate credit for it  I thank you for the good, the bad and the oh, so, brutal.  I may have wished it differently, but I thank you for the soul of who you were that continued to guide me.

Obviously, there are still lots of fragments of the old me, too....case in point, I am writing to you, when I should still be packing.  So, yes, I decided to take a few (ok, maybe more) and write to you...as always, to help our kids remember the things that used to drive you crazy, roll your eyes, and keep your spirit alive.  

Thanksgiving....that time of year you loved so much.  That time of year in 2011 that you could not find one thing to feel thankful for when we all wrote down our notes.  If only I had realized what that blank page really represented.  There have been so many if only's.....

This year, Thanksgiving was the first that I remember simply enjoying the day.  Without the presence of your loss. I mean, let's be real, that loss is always there, but Thanksgiving....that is usually an extra tough day filled with bittersweet memories.  This year, we made your stuffing, hung out with your mom and one another and it seemed to be a very thankful day.  (Not that I would get much out of Madi or Drew on the subject, but everyone seemed happy, so I will take it.)

Anyway, I just wanted you to know that while the sadness of grief didn't seem to accompany the Thanksgiving holiday, it would not be Thanksgiving without the memories of you....so, thank you for all the wonderful years.

always, 

Wen 

I hope you are up in heaven with Copper, and now Lucky, by your side, hanging with your dad, by a duck pond or a quail field.  I cannot believe that in less than two weeks, Copper was finally called home, and Lucky was unexpectedly taken from your mom.  A lot of "living" has happened these last few weeks...trying to reconcile or reestablish what a new, differnt type of "friendship", post breakup, from the person of my previous post, dealing with "teenage" issues with Drew, seeing Michael mourn the loss of you all over again by losing Copper, being so saddened for your mom losing Copper.  Yet, with all these sad or difficult things, I realized that my first instint isn't to write to you anymore...in fact, I think I need to, and then something more pressing, or maybe just more present takes priority.  It is another change;  one that surprises me, acutally, but not necessaily haunts me the way other progressions have. 

This time of year always brings about more conversations about you, for obvious reasons.  It's not like you are ever far from our thoughts or hearts, but the crazy part of existing, when someone else ceases to, is that "life" has a way of taking over.  It's a necessity to heal, but a difficut realization all the same;  you have never felt, to me, so far away.  I don't type this because I am bitter or angry OR because I am relieved or happy.  I write this, ultimately, out of surprise.  This living journal to you has been my therapy, my lifeline-of-sorts, to keep you somehow connected to the present....the good, the bad, the joy, the sadness, the anger, the remorse, the grief.  And, yet, if I am completely honest, it was also because I spent the better part of my life talking with you and in an instant that was taken away, without any opportunity for me to know how to process it.  I still, on rare occasions, usually when deep in thought, reach for the phone and start to dial your old number (925-768-2397), and shock myself at the habit. You are still here.....so long after you aren't.  BUT, you are no longer my go-to, my first call, my first website.  I live and this existance I used to call my "new normal" has truly just become "my normal" or maybe more accurately, my expanded life.  I guess there is a part of me that feels guilty for "moving on", as we "move through", but mainly I think I am kind of proud of it.  It's not that I want to forget....it's just that I want to live this life in the present, while learniing, valueing, and mourning the past, in a peaceful coexistence.  I guess I feel like I am kind of getting there.  I pray that you got there on the day your life on this earth ended....and I hope some day I know that all the peace I prayed for you was achieved.

I know this post is kind of random, but it sort of reflects where I am right now....random, but relevant.

As Thanksgiving approaches and the myriad of familiy members and blended traditions find themselves mashed together in our crazy universe, I will cook your stuffing with our lifetime of memories.  I will see you in your children's faces and your mother's tears.  I will feel you, as much as I am allowed, but I will also embrace the novelty of our newly established, and quite different, "normal" and find value in the fact that what I never thought could be was quietly achieved...happiness in the present, acceptance of the past and continued faith in the journey.

Always love.

Wen