Where I've Been

Yesterday, my husband Dave decided spur of the moment to go on a solo camping trip.

As we hugged goodbye, he noticed a new bottle of my perfume on the counter. He picked it up and said, “Would it be pervy for me to spray this on myself so that while I’m away I can smell you?”

I laughed as he sprayed some on his collar.

His leaving now is good timing. I also have time off from my regular job writing reports for a psychologist, so it gives me time to talk to you.

For those who used to read my blog, I thought I’d tell you a bit about where I’ve been all these years, in terms of writing.

After Noah’s death in 2015, I was of course insane with grief for a very long time. I doubted I would stay alive, much less write again. But you can only sob and look at photos for so many hours in a day. At some point, I went back to work on a novel I’d been writing before the tragedy. What a relief! It felt so good to trade my world for a fictional one.

My blog was a different story, though. After a few months, I wrote a couple posts, including one telling readers what had happened. They responded with an outpouring of sympathy and concern. I was grateful, but given the horror my son had wrought [see About], their kindness felt incongruous. Undeserved.

 A couple commenters agreed with me.  

After that, I couldn’t escape the feeling that I was disqualified from writing about my life for public consumption. I imagined that if I wrote about the shooting or my grief, I would appear to be seeking attention or sympathy. But if I wrote about anything other than the shooting, I would seem oblivious and uncaring.

Ergo, my long silence.

During those first years, I didn’t cope well at all. There was a drinking relapse. A psych unit stay. A marriage crisis. And a deep rift with God.

I wasn’t reaching for healing so much as thrashing around in my pain.

Then, around 2018, something shifted. With the help of a therapist, I began to deal with my guilt and shame. I revisited the scene of the crime, something I had resisted. And I became willing to face hard truths about Noah and his culpability.

Eventually, I decided to write a book about what happened. It seemed like the most good I could do, especially given my vocation. What if our family’s experience, including our missteps, wrong assumptions, and lack of knowledge leading up to the shooting could help other parents of troubled adult sons?

What came next was a lot of looking back, reconstructing timelines, and delving into painful memories. It was devastating work, but healing, too. A little like exposure therapy. It felt like every time I revisited a painful moment, some of the trauma lessened.

I wrote on and off for four long years. Dave helped with the writing, too, especially toward the end. The result was a well-crafted and brutally honest story. But now it was time to ask the real question: How many readers would actually spend money to take such a harrowing journey?

The answer from publishers was clear: Not enough. Especially since I had no platform to promote the book.

For a time, Dave and I considered self-publishing. It would be easy, since my sister is a professional typesetter.

But something gave me pause.

And that pause has lasted more than a year.

Maybe someday I’ll make revisions and move forward. Or maybe I’ll decide that I wrote the book for catharsis only, and it should never see the light of day.

The latter would be disappointing. But it would also signify something kind of astonishing. It would mean that the writer part of me loved the broken and hurting part of me so much that she was willing to slave away on that book all those years—just to help that girl heal.

Who knew I loved myself so much? 

Now, I hope I love myself enough to keep on writing here. It’s such a scary thing to even try. I’m sure I’ll talk more about Noah’s story; I have so much to say about related topics, like addiction and mental illness.

But I also want to talk about what’s going on right now. Because my life is pretty amazing these days. I have a job I like. Wonderful friends. A son who lives nearby.

And a husband who wants to smell like me.

(Not pervy at all, Dave.)

Thanks so much for reading. I’d love to hear from you!