Day 117: The Funny Thing About Going Home

June 25, 2014

I fly home to St. Louis in 37 hours. Two sleeps. Tomorrow I'll pack my bags, pick up a few souvenirs, exchange some money, pay a bill, and drive 2 hours west to Daejeon where Philopena will stay with a friend while I'm away. I'll spend the night there and then head for the airport the next morning.

"Aren't you excited to be going home? That will be so good for you!" It will. And I am. Beyond the excitement of a trip to Target or filling a plate at Whole Foods salad bar (both things of dreams and distant wonder while I'm here in Korea), I'm looking forward to being with family. With friends. Being in the presence of a whole safety net of people who love me beyond my ability to comprehend and who I love back in equally big ways.

I'm looking forward to reacquainting my feet with familiar running paths. I'm looking forward to swinging in the park next to my parents' house and tilting my head back to see fat Midwestern clouds against a painfully blue sky. I'm looking forward to smelling the earthy paws of my old dog, to standing next to my niece and seeing how tall she's gotten, to walking the neighborhood streets early mornings with my sister. I'm looking forward to tea with my mom and spaghetti dinners with my dad. I'm looking forward to the hugs. Hug after hug after hug. Happy hugs and weepy hugs. Back patting hugs and long hugs. I'm looking forward to them all.

Like with almost everything in recent months, I'm aware that I hold the excitement in one hand while balancing the heavier reactions in my other hand. The sadness of packing a bag and leaving the heart of where so much has happened. The fear of being far from those who knew Gareth well and who understand on a deep level when I talk about missing him or when I try to process the tougher times. They get it, because they were here, too. They saw it. Here my support system is smaller, but it's concentrated with people who saw Gareth and I together and recognized both the deep connection and love they saw and later the struggles Gareth had. I'm comforted by talking to people about both of these things. Not all of the time, of course- but when it comes up, they're here, and we talk about it with the backdrop of Korea, where it all took place.

In one hand is the belief that going home will be a really healing thing for me. In the other hand is the fear that changing environments and freeing up my schedule will open the gate for a large wave to come through and swallow me up. "Do you think this could happen?" I asked my grief therapist the other night on our call. "Do you think I might get hit with another dip into a low place before coming up again?" She assured me it could...and probably would. "Ok, well....dang it. I can do it. I can. I'm ready!" I had just gotten back from a hike that included a lot of steadfast climbing and pulling myself up and I think I was still riding high on that metaphor.

I'm afraid to unplug from Korea and unplug from Gareth and our common friends. I'm afraid I'll become untethered and float away up there to who knows where. Something about being here, as much as I also want to be home, is keeping me connected. Going home will be a lesson in letting go and holding on. And right now I need to do both.

Going home also brings up some "firsts" that I didn't anticipate. Packing for a trip (the first since Gareth died.) Going to the airport to go home (he drove me there last time and walked me to the gate- I remember turning around to see him standing there, smiling at me, and waving a little wave.) Being back in the U.S. (we would skype regularly and I remember sitting in my parents empty living room late at night with my laptop on my lap and my boyfriend tiny and animated on my computer screen.) Returning to Korea (I remember coming through the gate and seeing Gareth standing there, smiling like it was Christmas, with his trademark red roses wrapped in simple brown twine.) A year is full of firsts. Some I see coming and some I don't. Going back home seems to have a lot of them.

Then there's the underlying and deeper (and harder to acknowledge or even look at) trigger of feeling like I'm leaving him. That's a big old ball of emotional twine right there, and I unravel it a bit at a time, usually with the help of my counselor. Intellectually it's been sorted and neatly filed away. But emotionally it's all a mess in there in regards to this topic. Somehow I've made the groove in the thought record that leaving = bad, even if it seems like it's for a good reason, like going home for a visit or giving someone the choice to get better. If I leave, when I leave, very real and irreversible bad things will happen. That's what my subconscious is whispering to me now. Leaving = bad. Don't do it. Do it and you'll be sorry. You'll regret it. Don't...leave.

Grief is messy, right? Indeed, it is. And it's not to be intellectualized. It's to be felt. The logical and illogical are to be acknowledged and allowed to sweep over us. Because that's how the room for good is made. That's how the space for healing happens. At least, that's how it works with me.

I'm wearing one of Gareth's t-shirts as I type this- the grey one with the plane schematics on it. I four of his shirts, and upon smelling each one deeply tonight, I found this one was the only one that still had the faintest scent of him left on it. I smelled the armpits. I held the armpits up to my nose, closed my eyes, and took in the deepest inhale I could handle. There- just barely- there is Gareth on a warm day after a walk up to the observatory and back with me. It's almost gone, but I can just pick it up.

It's odd, this letting go and remaining connected. And I suspect not everyone back home will understand where I am with this or why it's necessary. I anticipate a few people may even judge me for what could be seen as a lack of "moving on" or only looking at small parts of a bigger picture, ignoring aspects that were less pleasant. I'm worried a bit about that. I'm worried it will be easy to judge without having been here and having been witness to all of it- good and not so good. I feel like people here really get it, and I'm worried that I'll get home to the people I love most and find that not everyone does.

The reality is I don't really know what to expect. And neither do the people who love me. My mom said something really profound to me the other night. She said, "You know, last August, I sent my daughter off to Korea and she was the happiest I've ever seen her. That's who I saw leave and I now I don't who who's coming back." That's honest. And fair. And I really, really get that. I'm not the person who got on that plane to Korea last summer. I'm not predictable in my emotions. And the joy that I exuded last year that was so contagious has been frequently replaced by intense and deep sadness. And that's hard to watch.

I'm not sure how people will react to that. Certain friends and family aren't sure how they'll react to that. I don't know if I'll put pressure on myself to be happy to satisfy others or if I'll feel isolated in my grief. Maybe I'll have long periods of lightness and happiness and maybe that will come with some surprise guilt. Who knows. This part is uncharted territory for me and for most of us.

But it's do-able. This, I know. And it's necessary. Whatever part of the process I'm ready for is about to happen and I will give it everything I've got. Here is what's coming back, and here is who is returning: the Bridget that is able to be faced with some pretty big stuff and get through it. The Bridget who says "f- this s***, I'm DOING THIS!" when she's climbing rocks when hiking or freezing on a mountain during mile 12 or approaching the hill on Ladue Road on a run. I can be flattened. And I was absolutely flattened in the past few months, no doubt. But I'm standing now. And even if my knees buckle and I go down for a bit again, I can say with all assurance that I will get up.

I've got this thing. I really do. I'm going to go home and take in all of the love I can, and I'm going to ride the waves that may or may not toss me about there, too. I'm going to share stories about Gareth and laugh. I'm going to miss him deeply and cry. I'm going to get angry. I'm going to have moments of almost forgetting and living right smack dab there in the present. I'm going to be up and I'm going to be down. And I can do this.

My friend Jennifer is flying in from D.C. to visit me in early July.

Some of my favorite ladies in the world. And great partners in growth.

I plan to do some bikram yoga with these ladies.

My friend Heather (we met when I was 2) will hopefully be making a visit from Boulder.

So much healing from being with Mom and Dad.

I'll fly up to Portland for a week to spend ridiculously good times with my friend Maud who I've known since high school.

I'll likely spend time in the Botanical Gardens with my friend and former teammate Aimee and her two girls, who I love like family.

I can't wait to take this kiddo out on the town- my niece Rose!

Lost of morning walks will be had with my sister, Amy.

A tiny portion of the largest group of supportive friends a girl could have. And they all make me laugh.