Because She Sucked At Cleaning

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Although I’ve never been a “neat freak,” I appreciate it when my house is mostly clean and organized. I am embarrassed to admit this, but my house is not clean right now. At all. Sure, it’s liveable, and yes, I can find everything, but it’s messy, making my eye twitch as I look at it all.

If you knew Emily, then you know cleaning was not her strong suit. At all. So, you’d think that her death would have made it easier for me to maintain a clean household… but it hasn’t.

I could probably justify the mess to some degree by sharing the fact that I work around 60 hours each week between my full-time job and freelance gigs. I could also blame some of it on the fact that I am still using my living room as a makeshift bedroom because I am still avoiding the bedroom because it’s just filled with her clothes, makeup, and memories. But, the reality is that I’ve simply lacked any and all motivation to do what I need to do, and, in a weird sort of way, having a messy house almost gives the illusion that Emily is still here.

Emily’s Cleaning Buddy

I remember the first time I saw Emily’s car. Boy, was it a sight. From the outside, it appeared to be filled to the brim with everything you can imagine, from clothing to textbooks to trash. At the time, I assumed it was something temporary, like she had just moved or had gone somewhere for a week and hadn’t gotten around to cleaning out her car. But, the more I got to know Emily, I learned a simple truth: Emily just didn’t clean things.

As our friendship evolved, I became Emily’s cleaning buddy. Anytime she’d get a notice from her apartment about inspections, anytime she planned to drive to Knoxville for a weekend, or anytime her parents planned to be in Nashville, I’d get panicked texts or phone calls. And, nearly every single time, I’d go help her clean up her apartment or clean out her car as best as I could.

I’ll admit, it was never easy or fun. I’d usually find things growing in her fridge or in coffee mugs throughout the apartment. I frequently found items that had obviously been sitting in the same place on the floor for months, with no effort to pick them up. I’d uncover things in her car that she forgot she even owned, or see that she had three opened containers of the same thing (like cookie butter) in different rooms because she couldn’t find the original one.

Sometimes I’d leave after spending several hours throwing out trash and deep cleaning and wonder, “Why am I doing this?” Other times I’d have to stand outside for a minute between running bags of trash to the dumpster just so Emily didn’t hear or see me throw up. Each time, though, it mostly broke my heart a bit to see how she lived because, deep down, I knew it wasn’t really her fault.

It Wasn’t Always Her Fault

I think a lot of people would see someone like Emily, take one look at her car or her apartment and think, “Man, that girl is lazy.” But, as is the case with many people who live in disorganized homes, there’s more to the story than meets the eye.

I knew fairly early on in our friendship that Emily lived with several mental health conditions. She most openly talked about her battle with anorexia, but for a large amount of the years I knew her, that was far from the most problematic symptoms she experienced. Instead, I really think her obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) paired with her depression were the real culprits when it came to her issues with cleaning.

Every time I helped Emily clean, I couldn’t help but look at her with curious fascination. It was a great way to see exactly how her mind worked and watch the battles she dealt with constantly play out.

One time, I cleaned out two entire rooms and hauled all of the trash to the dumpster in the time it took her to simply clear off her desk. She literally could not move on from this stack of papers because, in her mind, she had to sort them and place them in file folders immediately if she wanted to clean them up. She couldn’t simply put them all in a drawer or leave them neatly stacked on top of the desk. It was like she could only follow a certain path, and trying to do otherwise made her panic.

Another time, I ended up going over and cleaning her kitchen while she was still at work. We were dating at this point, and she had been living with me for months. However, we had decided to stay the night at her apartment one night when we didn’t have kids because it was closer to the city. I realized that next morning that we not only didn’t have anything to eat at her place, but the kitchen hadn’t been touched for at least two months. Emily attempted to clean in there, only to decide within a few minutes that she was going to die from some sort of contamination and that she’d be better off to simply never go into the apartment again than try to clean it. So, I waited until Friday when I didn’t have much to do at work and I spent several hours over there throwing everything in the fridge away and wiping down as much as I could.

I remember when she showed up after work that day, because she was panicking that I was going to break up with her over the fridge. She kept saying, “Why do you love me? I’m disgusting and broken! You deserve so much better!” But, as I told her, she wasn’t any of those things. She simply had a mental health condition that made tasks like cleaning very complicated. And, because I’m me, I also threw in a joke and then shared with her in great detail how gross the liquified hot dogs in her fridge were. We laughed, hugged, and moved on.

That’s one thing that I wish I’d gotten across to her before she died — even her flaws weren’t fatal. In fact, they usually weren’t even her fault at all. And I was more than happy to deal with a woman who would never clean out the fridge because I appreciated all the other parts of that same woman. Also, I knew that with time, she’d work through some of these issues. She’d already started doing some therapy specifically focused on OCD, and although it had only been a few months, I’d already seen some improvement and change.

Pieces of Her Messes Everywhere

Each time I’ve cleaned part of the apartment since Emily died, I’ve ended up finding things that made me cry. I moved some things around in the living room a couple weeks after she passed and spilled her purse over, only to find where she’d kept our admission tickets for the Shedd and something from our trip to St. Louis. When I cleaned out her car before taking it to her parents, I found a postcard I’d sent her back in 2020 sitting right in the center console, almost like she kept it there to look at. When I cleaned up the kids’ room, I found some things she’d left in there when she used it to do a therapy session one afternoon a few weeks before she died.

It doesn’t matter how long it’s been or where I go in this house, I uncover her everywhere.

I know that I eventually want to maintain a clean home again because I know it is one thing that does help my mental health. But boy, is it hard to keep the house spotless when you often struggle to even get out of bed and spend 10+ hours per day working. But, every time I get mad at myself or start to judge myself for everything I see around the house, I remember the things Emily said and felt when I would help her clean and remember my responses. So, because of Emily, I’m trying to give myself some grace. It will eventually all be clean, but until then I know she’s not judging me whatsoever because it would be just as bad if she were still here.

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Because I’m Still Heartbroken

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Last weekend I made the trip from Murfreesboro to Knoxville. I’ve made the trip so many times lately that it’s really become commonplace. Yet, just two years ago, I’d only ever stopped in Knoxville if I needed gas or something on the way to or from Gatlinburg. But, because of Emily, I started making that trip quite frequently in 2021 and 2022. She loved going home any chance she got, and I can’t say I blame her. There’s just something about visiting that town that feels welcoming and calm.

Over the past 4 months, that three-hour drive and my weekends in Knoxville have become one of the things I look forward to the most. I think it’s because it offers just the right mixture of comfort and catharsis. She’s everywhere I look when I’m in Knoxville, so I feel connected with her when I’m there. Yet, at the same time, the heartache washes over me at the most random times while I’m there — and I’ve simply learned to embrace it.

Short Time, Long Story

I won’t go into details now, but I will say that much of my life before Emily wasn’t great. Because of the signals I received during critical points in my life, I repressed a lot and placed much blame for every horrible event in my life upon myself. But, thanks to months of trauma therapy and Emily’s love, I’d reached a point while we were together where life was good. So, naturally, one of my first fears, when Emily died, was whether or not I was about to fall right back down the mountain I’d worked so hard to climb.

I really don’t remember much from October 19. My memory from that day is a blur, with random snapshots of single moments or items I can recall, almost like polaroids. But, one of the things I do remember doing was texting my therapist from the table at First Watch. I told her, “Emily died. I know I have a session scheduled for tomorrow, but I could really use support before that.” And, as soon as I met with her that afternoon and shared all that had happened in those last 48 hours, I told my therapist that I had no idea how I was going to work through this, but I knew that if I didn’t start doing something right away, I was going to fall all the way down the mountain and I probably would never make it back up again.

So, for the past few months, I have been working through The Grief Recovery Handbook (or “the purple book” as my therapist calls it). It’s different than any other workbook or therapeutic modality I’ve ever encountered, and yet I’ve found it incredibly beneficial.

Anyway, the final three activities involve a lot of memory recall as you essentially map out every single loss you’ve experienced in your life (the loss history graph), then make a timeline about your relationship with one of the losses you selected from your loss history graph (the relationship graph). And, I’ll admit, I’m a bit of an overachiever when it comes to therapy homework, but doing so with these activities really helped me see a lot about my life and, more specifically, the years where Emily’s life intersected with mine.

I often feel like people judge me a bit when I say that Emily and I only knew each other for 4.5 years and then call her the love of my life. But here’s the thing: when you look at all that happened in our lives in the time period between when we met and Emily died, it’s as much as some people experience in a decade or more.

In less than 5 years, Emily and I went from being strangers who sat next to each other in a room for a couple hours each week to the person we wanted holding our hand in our final moments. We took a half dozen vacation-type trips together, plus went on even more weekend road trips. We watched each other make major life changes, land new jobs, buy cars, and earn a master’s degree (at least Emily did). We spent late nights confiding in each other, and spent many mornings sipping coffee together with no pants on. We hugged, we kissed, we had sex, we lived together, we got engaged… I could name all the things we did for hours without even starting on all the plans we made for our future together.

I know people say that when you find the right person, time often ceases to exist. However, I think the reasoning behind the way Emily and I lived our lives together is even deeper than that.

I think that Emily approached everything in life with the mentality of “live every day like it’s your last” and “you only get one life, so make the most of it.” And, I guess that’s how most people would approach life if they’d almost died and received a life-changing miracle. She never once took a single breath for granted, and she was determined to do as much as she could with whatever time she had here on Earth.

Meanwhile, I think my approach to life became focused on finally having the self-worth and tools I needed to build a life that made me happy. In a way, I felt like I had 30+ years of playing catch-up to do. But also, I just didn’t care about what other people think anymore, and I wanted to carve out the life I’d always dreamed of.

Together, I think our approaches to life in general created a perfect storm the moment we both looked at each other from across the table at Hooters. We both had “lightbulb moments” simultaneously, and we just knew without even saying a word that we both wanted a “happily ever after” together.

The Aftermath of an Unexpected Storm

I knew going into it that this week would be hard. Our Week 2 task for the grief group I joined was for each of us to share the story of how our partner died. Then, as if it was perfectly planned to coincide, my homework for individual therapy was to write a letter to Emily about anything possibly left unsaid between the two of us (with specific parameters outlined in the book).

With both tasks, I couldn’t help but focus on the suddenness of her death. It was so unexpected and completely unpredictable. And yet, it happened. It’s like a tornado that fell from the sky without warning or a hurricane that changed course in the 11th hour, leaving people with no way to prepare. We were planning a wedding, we were going to have a child together and be a family of 5 with a dog and an adorable house with a backyard that had trees for Emily to climb or hang a hammock up while the kids and the dog ran around. We were going to open a treatment center together, then eventually retire to the beach and spend our days making music together and collecting sea shells.

But, that’s not what happened at all. and I am stuck in the devastation without any sign of rescue… or so it feels at times.

And I think that, although Emily and I were not at all on bad terms or holding onto any type of resentment, the suddenness of it all left me with a lot of unsaid words.

So, when I sat with Emily at the cemetery on Saturday afternoon, I talked to her about it all… a lot. In fact, I told her about the letter my therapist had assigned me to write, and I actually wrote it while I sat there on a blanket in the grass right next to her. A lot of it, as you can imagine, was filled with apologies and regrets. I was sorry for not telling her how I felt about her sooner, I was sorry for getting her kicked out of DBT group (remind me to write a post about this), and I was sorry for not protecting her when she dated Julian (another post for the future). But, at the same time, almost half of the letter was me thanking her and acknowledging all that she did. I thanked her for taking a chance by sitting next to me in DBT group on the first day, I appreciated how she loved me and my kids, and I was so proud and awestruck by her willingness to risk a lot by simply coming out.

When I finished the letter on Saturday, I read it to her, word for word. And, just like when I read the speech I’d prepared for her funeral, I completely broke down as soon as I read the last sentence. But, instead of melting into the arms of a dear friend like I did as soon as I walked away from the pulpit at the funeral, the only thing I had to melt into on Saturday was the ground. And boy, did I wish for a moment that I could melt down into the ground with my sweet Emily.

It’s funny, though, because this week has felt much different than anything that’s come before it. As I told my therapist before I read the letter to her today, it almost felt as if I left some of the wreckage of this disaster there in the grass on Saturday afternoon without even realizing it.

I’ll Always Be Broken, But Not Beyond Repair

Don’t mistake my words in this post. I am a heartbroken human who will probably never understand why everything happened the way it did with Emily. In many ways, I saw her as my redemption arc, my opportunity to love and be loved the way I always wanted to love someone and deserve from another. But, I think this week, and especially writing that letter to Emily directly, has helped me see that there’s a difference between broken and unfixable.

Because of Emily, I not only learned what true, unconditional love from another person felt like, but I also started to see that I deserved such a thing. What’s more, I learned that I could, in fact, tolerate or even like myself. And, by sharing with her the pain points of our time together, especially those thing I’d wished I’d done differently (even if none of them were things I could have done anything about), I think I finally let go of at least a portion of the burden I’ve felt every single day since October 19.

I don’t know that I’ll ever even think about dating again, and I know that my heart will always be held together with superglue and duct tape because it completely broke in those early morning hours of that October day. But, thanks to Emily’s love and our time together, I now know that I never have been, nor ever will be, broken beyond repair. And, anytime I need a reminder of that or need to recenter myself, I know exactly where to go — Knoxville.

Because Age Is Just A Number

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As I drove to Knoxville today, I decided to throw on a playlist I thought would lighten the mood, so I went for my “Dancing Naked In The Streets” Digital Remix. The name has a backstory, but all you need to know for this post is that it’s filled with stuff from the 90s and early 2000s. It’s a lot of stuff that, as I listened, Emily may not have even known. It made me chuckle and cry a bit, but mostly it made me think a lot about all the random stuff we had to teach each other because of our nine-year age difference.

We Grew Up With Different Television Shows

One of the first things Emily and I bonded over was our mutual love of Grey’s Anatomy. Although we’d both watched every single episode (more than once), we had stumbled across the show at very different points. I was junior in high school when the show first aired, and I was hooked from the very beginning. It has always been a guilty pleasure of mine, and I have rewatched the entire series at least twice (not to mention I’ve watched random episodes anytime I need a pick-me-up).

Emily, on the other hand, was still in elementary school in 2005. Needless to say, she wasn’t watching a scandalous show like Grey’s as a nine-year-old. Instead, she discovered the show when she was quite literally in the midst of her own real-life episode of a medical drama (albeit not at Seattle Grace/Grey-Sloan).

When Emily told me she watched Grey’s while waiting on her transplant, I laughed. I mean, who does that? Well, if you knew Emily’s love of real-life medical shows, then it wouldn’t surprise you whatsoever.

Besides our love of all things Grey’s Anatomy (including Private Practice), Emily and I grew up watching very different shows, mostly due to our age difference.

While I fondly remember shows like Boy Meets World, Clarissa Explains It All, Legends of the Hidden Temple, and Sabrina The Teenage Witch, Emily watched shows like Wizards of Waverly Place and Drake & Josh. I was too old for Hannah Montana, while Emily was too young for Alias.

Most of the time, our different decades of television weren’t a huge deal. But sometimes, like when Emily used the word PRNDL or I quoted Melissa Joan Hart, we’d look at each other with completely perplexed expressions. Then we’d have to search YouTube for a clip and show the other what we were missing out on.

We Loved Quizzing Each Other On Music

Just like our love of Grey’s Anatomy, Emily and I shared similar music tastes to some extent. We went to see Lizzo together in 2019, we both love Demi Lovato… the list goes on. However, there were definite gaps in each of our musical knowledge, and we had fun digging in to find those gaps.

For example, a lot of music I grew up listening to in the ’90s (like Hootie and the Blowfish) was completely beyond Emily’s musical experience. Similarly, lots of the music she enjoyed throughout middle and high school came out around the time I was in college or just starting my career, so I didn’t know any of it.

I distinctly remember several occasions where one of us would pull up an artist or playlist and ask the other if they knew the songs. One night, we did this in a restaurant parking lot. Another time, we did it while driving to Knoxville. It always made me laugh, because we could both easily stump the other.

The other place where this difference in musical knowledge became obvious was anytime we went to a karaoke night at Lipstick Lounge. Emily frequently looked at me like I was crazy as I sang along to multiple songs in a row from karaoke. She would say, “How do you know these songs?” And I’d smile at her and say, “You’re dating an old lady… This is what you signed up for.”

But, at the same time, I’d never heard WAP until Emily introduced me to it. We were quite the pair.

We Experienced World Events From Different Ages

Television shows and music aside, I often forgot the age difference between Emily and I. That is, until someone would bring up world events from the past… and then it became apparent.

I remember the first time this happened. Someone brought up 9/11, and I mentioned everything I remembered from that day. I was in middle school. I walked into the library sometime mid-morning (probably during PE, which I got out of because several girls had made threats to me in the locker room), and they had the television on. Around the clock news coverage, burning buildings and fears about the plane that was still out there at the time. Vivid imagery forever in my mind.

And then, Emily said, “I think I was in kindergarten? I don’t really remember.” My jaw dropped. I couldn’t believe it.

So many events I remember from the news during my childhood, like the Oklahoma City bombing, Columbine, and Monika Lewinsky, didn’t even register with her. Meanwhile, things she remembered from her childhood like the War in Iraq and Hurricane Katrina, were things going on when I was in high school or college.

I think that, in some ways, this gave us slightly different perspectives on the world. But, at the same time, we both had a laundry list of “tragic world events” we could easily recall together. But, regardless, it definitely made me feel old more than a few times.

Sometimes Pop Culture Overlaps

Obviously, there were some overlaps in pop culture despite our age difference. That’s the fun part about life: some things are timeless, while others become “cool again” eventually.

For example, some timeless classics made it on both of our lists, while others spanned enough time that we both enjoyed them. Shows like That’s So Raven, Blues Clues, Powerpuff Girls, and The Fairly Oddparents were ones we both enjoyed (and shared them with the kids). These brief moments of shared pop culture made me happy.

There were also things like Lisa Frank that just never go out of style. Or funny commercials with catchy jingles that played for years, so we could both recite them entirely from memory.

I loved the things we found that overlapped. It still made me feel like we grew up in a similar time.

Our Age Difference Didn’t Impact Our Bond

We may have grown up in very different time periods and experienced very different pop culture trends. However, I never saw our age difference as an issue. In fact, there were far more commonalities we shared than differences.

Because Emily and I were nine years apart, we had very different media experiences growing up. However, we learned how to educate each other and laugh over what each of us didn’t know. And for that, I’ll always be thankful.

Because We Love Target

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I only got four hours of sleep Monday night. Emily has been on my mind so much lately, and I can’t help but feel like she (and everyone really) is annoyed and disappointed with me. By the time the work day ended on Tuesday, I was in a headspace where I just really needed out of the house. I texted a few folks, but no one answered. So, I closed my eyes and thought, “Where would Emily go right now?”

And that’s how I ended up at Target.

I needed some pens and highlighters, so it seemed like the perfect option. Yet, as soon as I walked in the door and heard two people chatting in the One Spot, I felt the tears. I spent a while just wandering the aisles and reliving memories because, as the title says, we loved going to Target.

Target Is A Magical Place

I don’t know what it is about Target, but I swear just walking around in the store cures everyone. You don’t even have to buy anything, either. You can just walk through the aisles, point out interesting items, then leave hours later.

Over the years, Emily and I spent a lot of time in Target. Sometimes we’d go into the store with a specific mission in mind, while other times we’d just go for the serotonin boost only that red bullseye can provide.

Inevitably, we’d always leave with items we didn’t even know we needed. According to Emily, though, we did need the items. She’d always say, “Target always tells you what you need.” Which, in Emily speak, that meant we had to walk through every single section of the store every single time we went to Target, even if we only went in for something towards the front of the store, like a gift bag or pens.

A Target Date Night

Although I have many fond memories of Target, I think my absolute favorite experience was the time Emily and I planned a Target Date Night. We’d just started dating, and we were looking for something fun to do on a weeknight that wouldn’t require us to be out late. So, we went to the Super Target in Smyrna with this list, and told each other we’d meet back at the front of the store at a specific time.

Of course, we ran into each other several times during the shopping experience. We’d wave, blow each other a kiss, or say, “How many more do you need?” then part ways again. It was fairly hilarious, and felt like a game in many ways. Once we finished, we each checked out, then went to Emily’s apartment to share what we picked out for each other.

Among the most hilarious items were the mascara Emily bought for me as the thing she’d like me to try (I pretty much never wear any makeup), and the fact that I got both coffee and alcohol for her favorite drink. We also each picked out something pride-themed for each other, which was both comical and cute.

Goth Target

As I’ve mentioned before, Emily had a knack for planning trips. The trip we took to Chicago for my birthday in 2021 was no exception. But, of course, she found a way to work both Starbucks and Target into the trip.

If you haven’t heard about Goth Target, you should definitely look it up. Basically, it’s a Target in Downtown Chicago that has goth architecture. Inside, it’s a mostly normal Target (albeit multi-story). However, the exterior alone is enough reason to visit, because it’s really cool.

Anyway, we went into that Target just because, and still left with a ton of random things. Emily was excited about the abundance of winter weather gear, so she got a hat and some gloves. I’d realized when we arrived the night before that I’d forgotten to pack pajamas, so I grabbed those. We got snacks, a few other items, and wandered a bit before heading to the checkout.

Needless to say, I’m glad that was our last stop for the afternoon.

I’ll Listen to Target

Because of Emily, I’ve somewhat adopted the notion that Target tells you what you need. For example, I saw a snow globe in the store shortly after she died, and I just had to buy it. Sure, I didn’t need to spend money. And sure, it could have waited. But it was staring me in the face and I could just feel something inside of me saying, “Buy it!”

I’ll admit, it’s not easy to go into places that hold so many memories. However, I also know that I’ve remembered things related to Emily about pretty much every single store or restaurant I’ve thought about walking into since October 19, so I can’t let that stop me from enjoying Target.

But, because of Emily, I might start leaving the store with at least one impulsive buy every time I visit. I know she won’t mind.

Because She Ran on Coffee

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My sleep has significantly improved over the past few weeks. However, I still experience mornings that are harder than others. Last Thursday was such a day, and boy was it a doozy. But I had a busy day ahead, so I pulled into the Starbucks drive thru after I took the kids to school.

At first, it was all ordinary. I ordered my “usuals.” Then, the woman said, “And what else?” A normal question. But just hearing that made me think back to all the times I had stopped and ordered coffee for the both of us.

My voice cracked as I said, “No, that’s all.” I felt the tears begin as the woman handed me my iced chai. And by the time I pulled out of the parking lot, I was full-blown sobbing. It may have been a bit dramatic, but I couldn’t help it because coffee always makes me think of Emily.

She Always Had Coffee

When Emily and I were in DBT group together, I quickly noticed a pattern with how she’d enter the building each week — always a coffee in hand. Sometimes it was in a travel mug from home, sometimes it was from Dunkin’ or Starbucks, and sometimes it was from a gas station. But, no matter where it came from, it was always coffee.

As Emily and I became friends, I learned that coffee was literally Emily’s fuel. It didn’t matter if it was 8:00 in the morning or 4:00 in the afternoon. She’d have a coffee in her hand or gladly accept one if it was offered.

However, her fatal flaw was not that she drank a bunch of coffee, but rather how long it took her to drink it. I would sometimes see her nurse the same cup of coffee for four or more hours. My favorite moments were the ones where she’d end up with two coffees for this reason.

Coffee Mug Mornings

I remember the first time Emily spent the night. I remember it because the next morning, we sat at the table, sipping coffee and smiling. I kept looking at her and grinning from ear to ear because I still couldn’t believe she was actually interested in me. Yet, there she was, smiling right back at me.

Throughout our relationship, we spent many mornings drinking coffee together. Sometimes, like on the Saturday mornings the kids were at their dad’s, we’d sit on the couch in our pajamas (which meant Emily was usually just in one of my t-shirts) and sip coffee while we watched a television show or just talked. There were other days when we’d grab coffee together through a drive thru or I’d make her coffee to go as she headed out the door for work.

On Sundays, Emily would never finish her coffee before it was time to leave for church. So she’d take her coffee mug into my car and continue drinking it while I drove. Of course, this meant that the coffee mugs would pile up in the floorboard until I took them inside, but it made me laugh nonetheless.

Even when we traveled, we made time for coffee. I remember when we went to Chicago, we grabbed coffee the first morning we were there and sat to drink it as we looked out at Lake Michigan. When we went to Melbourne, Florida, we grabbed coffee from a local place and sipped it as we walked along the beach and sat to watch the waves roll in and out.

Every moment seemed so simple, yet so perfect all at once. And they all involved coffee.

I Think of Her When I Drink Coffee

I know that it’s probably just the fact that her death is so fresh, but I am continuously shocked by all the seemingly minor things that make me think of Emily. It’s probably ridiculous that I can’t drink or even smell coffee without thinking of her, but that’s where I’m at. It’s just one of many things I strongly associate with her and probably always will.

I don’t go through coffee nearly as quickly now, because Emily isn’t here drinking it. But I’d give anything to sit and drink coffee with her again. Here’s to hoping there’s coffee in Heaven? I’d love to sit and watch the sun rise with a cup of coffee in one hand while my other hand holds on to Emily.

Because I Can’t Help But Blame Myself

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Today’s therapy session really hit me hard. The part where I lost it was when I realized how little time had passed between the proposal and Emily’s death. (It was less than 3 weeks.) Regarding the timeline of our relationship, those two items rest directly next to each other — both equally impactful, yet in stark contrast to each other, like polar opposites. They’re like day and night. The beginnings of forever and the ending credits, with nothing more than some spreadsheets and Pinterest boards in between.

I’m unsure how to share everything inside my mind right now. It’s chaos, yet the thoughts keep rolling as if my brain thinks it can piece everything together in a way that makes sense. Unfortunately, all it keeps coming up with are ways to blame me.

I’m No Stranger To Blaming Myself

Emily’s death isn’t the first time I have experienced life events that cause me to question everything about myself. In fact, many thoughts eating away at me today sound eerily similar to thoughts that lived in my head rent-free through most of the early 2000s when I was in middle school and early high school.

I realize many aspects of my life made me vulnerable to the events that unfolded during my middle school years. And, everywhere I turned, I was confronted with even more evidence that the things that happened to me were either not as awful as they felt to me, or they were merely consequences I deserved.

My abuser made it clear that I brought out the worst in him, and he couldn’t control himself around me. The adults I told (a teacher and the guidance counselor) both found reasons to pass the blame onto me or take my assailant’s side.

So, eventually, I started blaming myself. And that trend stuck with me. Bullying, failed friendships, future assaults, mental health crises — all of these things were my fault. I even found a way to blame myself for a classmate’s fatal accident in high school even though I was no where near the accident the weekend it happened.

Even now, anytime anything goes wrong, I immediately seek anything I can use to blame it all on myself.

The Blame Game Is An Easy One To Play

Once you start fishing for ways to make something your fault, it’s incredibly easy for that list to multiply. You can twist almost any situation in a way that places the blame on you, regardless of whether or not there’s any truth to it.

The easiest way to make Emily’s death my fault is to simply say I should have made her go the emergency room much sooner.

The week after I proposed, she saw her PCP about the symptoms she was experiencing, but the doctor didn’t seem concerned or in a rush to diagnose what was going on, even though it was obvious Emily was in pain. I told her how concerned I was, but each time I mentioned the ER, she came up with an excuse to not go. And, because I hate conflict and I never wanted Emily to feel like I didn’t see her as an equal adult, I never pushed. I was weak.

From there, I can go down several different rabbit holes to blame myself even further. I could say I wasn’t reminding her to take her medications, nor was I doing my part to make sure she was taking care of her body. Emily picked up tons of extra shifts in September. 2022 had become an expensive year for us, and she thought the extra money would help. But I knew from watching Emily work 60+ hour weeks in previous years, it’s just not good for her.

Then we can say I messed up her medication routines with the move and my own routines and schedules. Or the stress of wedding planning threw off routines and habits she’d developed. In fact, you could say (and some have) that the fact that I proposed is the entire issue and that she died because I “turned her gay.” Or maybe she gave up because she didn’t really want to marry me.

Now, am I saying any of these thoughts are rational? Not necessarily. But I am saying that there are all sorts of ways to blame me for Emily’s departure from this world.

What Do We Do With Blame?

I feel like blame is one of the heaviest loads I’ve ever carried around in my life. Because, at least in my mind, I’m not just living with the burden of it all in my current lifetime, but it’s also left me permanently flagged and taken away what chances I might have had for an eternal life after this.

In middle school and high school, I channeled the negative energy self-blamed filled me with into very unhealthy decisions. I self-harmed as a form of punishment. I went to confession and prayed the Rosary. I stockpiled medications then consumed large quantities at once to make myself sick or experience the way it temporarily altered my brain. I even tried to end my existence a few times.

But, that was two decades ago. So what do I do with this guilt and shame that I’m feeling now?

I’ll be honest, what I’m doing now isn’t any better than what I did back then. And, just like I discovered in my youth, nothing provides much more than a temporary drop in my emotions and intrusive thoughts.

Each day, there’s a part of me that wishes I could talk to Emily and find out whether she blames me. But mostly, I just wish I could either bring her back or, at the very least, trade places with her so she could continue down the incredible path she’d outlined for herself.

Like I told my therapist today as we discussed the entire history of my relationship with Emily, what upsets me the most is that fact that it all ended so soon. It’s not how it was supposed to be, and it’s not fair to Emily that she didn’t get to do all the things she dreamed of accomplishing.

When Emily was around, I didn’t have any reason to blame myself because she made my life so wonderful. But because she’s gone, I can’t help but wonder if everyone would be better off without me.

Because We Wanted To Help People

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Earlier this week, I looked over a friend’s graduate school application essays and provided some edit suggestions. Honestly, I loved reading the essays because it gave me such a clear perspective on why they’re applying to grad school and what they hope to accomplish with their MSW. It’s just inspiring to hear the why behind people’s dreams.

Of course, reading the essays also made me think about Emily for multiple reasons. First and foremost, this friend was actually one of Emily’s closest friends and someone Emily really admired. They worked together for a while, and they bonded over life experience and their shared desire to make the world a better place.

However, it wasn’t just that shared connection that made me think of Emily — it was the content of the essays themselves. Just as this other person has a whole vision of what they’d like to do once they obtain their master’s degree, Emily had a vision of what she wanted to do as well. And, honestly, it was a vision Emily and I shared.

It Started With DBT

I know I’ve already rambled on about how Emily and I met. However, I always find it funny when I think back to our time in group therapy together because so many things came out of that single shared experience. Obviously, our relationship was my favorite outcome from those hours we spent together, learning about wise mind. But, I think the inspiration we both took from it is a close second.

Before our paths crossed, Emily and I both had a desire to help people. And, despite all of the shortcomings of the therapist herself, we both grew a lot from our exposure to dialectical behavior therapy. Because of that, we both walked away from our time in DBT group with a dream to utilize the modality in some shape or form in our futures.

Of course, no single form of therapy is one-size-fits-all. Usually, most modalities are designed as a response to something specific the therapist who developed it was trying to address. In Marsha Linehan’s case, she wanted to help highly sensitive individuals who experienced chronic suicidal ideation (meaning lots of people with borderline personality disorder and similar conditions). As it became more mainstream, clinicians discovered that DBT is also beneficial for clients with disordered eating habits, those who deal with substance misuse, and many other populations.

In other words, it can help the exact populations of people Emily and I have always wanted to work with.

Even after we moved on from our DBT group as patients, Emily and I frequently talked about the modality. We discussed its benefits, its shortcomings, and our personal frustrations. We also discussed adaptations a clinician could possibly make to fit specific types of clients (like those with a trauma history).

Correcting What Went Wrong

I think one of the reasons mental health professionals with lived experience do their jobs so well is because they’ve seen what doesn’t work. That’s definitely the case for Emily and I both, and it was definitely one of the biggest motivators in our quest to help others.

I remember the first time Emily and I talked about our “dream treatment center” together. We were on our way to Knoxville, so we had several hours of time together in the car. We were talking about another one of Emily’s friends who has really struggled to find a treatment approach that works for her because of the combination of ED and trauma.

As Emily mentioned at that time, many residential facilities focus on weight restoration and meal compliance, but they don’t always spend as much time breaking down the function of ED. Also, as I saw during my time working in addiction treatment, not a lot of time is spent in small group or individual settings to really let people process underlying issues. And, unfortunately, that’s a huge part of the issue because substance use and disordered eating are almost always behaviors that stem from something much larger.

So, we talked about how our hypothetical treatment center would correct what went wrong in other places. We wanted to provide trauma-informed care, ensure that everyone felt safe, and make sure we didn’t care for one specific type (or stereotype) of client. And, we wanted to make sure that marginalized groups didn’t get lost in the shuffle, meaning we wanted to offer care for those in larger bodies, those in ethnic groups that may have a harder time accessing care (or finding places who were accepting of their upbringing), and those within the LGBTQ+ community.

Oh, and then there’s the other part about eating disorder treatment that makes it inaccessible for so many: the cost. So, Emily wanted to offer scholarships and look for grants or other funding sources so we could dedicate at least a few spots in our facility for those who were uninsured or underinsured. We also wanted to find ways to subsidize care for those whose insurance tried to boot them out before they were truly ready to go it alone.

Treating The Whole Person

Of course, healing isn’t just about learning how to eat carbs or sitting in a chair while a therapist asks you about your childhood trauma. People are complex beings, and we need a variety of things to feel fulfilled.

Emily and I wanted to find ways to work various arts into our treatment approach. We both agreed that music, visual art, and dance can be incredibly powerful forms of expression, and we wanted to explore what those components would look like in the context of treating people who live with ED. Of course, it would have required additional training and education, but we were more than willing to do that because we knew it would benefit the people we served.

We also wanted to find a balance in how much we focused on eating disorder recovery and how much we focused on other aspects of mental health treatment. We thought some specific small groups based on other conditions or needs would be helpful, since each person has unique needs. Some may need things like grief recovery, while others may need something specific for OCD.

In other words, we’d individualize treatment to the best of our abilities.

A Distant Dream or No Longer A Possibility?

Before Emily died, we knew our hypothetical treatment center was a solid decade down the line. Our plan was to get her established with her LMSW so she could start working towards her LCSW, go through the IVF process to have our child together, and then I’d look into going back to school. Once Emily had her LCSW and I had whatever degree I decided was best for our goals, we’d look into the next steps.

But now, she’s gone, and I’m a little torn on how to proceed.

Part of me wants to find a way to open this dream treatment center regardless, and name it after Emily. It would be the ultimate way to honor her, and I’d find ways to give as much credit back to her as I could.

But then, part of me feels like it’s an impossible task. I don’t have any formal training in anything related to therapy or social work. I know almost nothing about running a business, let alone one in a healthcare environment. And, although my finances are on the up trend, I’m still recovering from a rather rough final few months of 2022.

And, of course, the whole idea came about because of her… And I’m not sure how I’d ever live out her dreams without her by my side. But, then again, it’s because I love her and I loved her passion for helping others that I even wanted to do this to begin with…

What’s a grieving woman to do?

Because We Had Our Own Language

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As I drove to pick the kids up from school on Thursday afternoon, I experienced something new: a moment of laughter mixed with grief. I shared the experience over TikTok, but essentially a fire truck started it all.

As I laughed over the memory, I felt this dissonance within my heart. I love Emily and I know she’d like to see me smiling and laughing over the memories we shared. Yet, as I think about the silly ways in which Emily and I talked to each other over the years, I can’t help but also feel my heart breaking all over again.

We Called Them “Wee Woos”

If you watched the TikTok, then you already know this. But, basically, Emily and I started calling emergency vehicles “wee woos” at some point, and the name stuck.

However, we eventually took it a step further and gave each “flavor” of vehicle an adjective to distinguish it. So, fire trucks were “spicy wee woos.” As you can guess, ambulances were “medical wee woos.” And, I think police cars were “criminal wee woos.” (We talked about that one the least often.)

I don’t know if I just haven’t paid attention to my thoughts as much lately or if Thursday was simply the first time I’ve consciously thought about those terms since Emily died. Regardless, I laughed as soon as the phrase popped into my head. I even looked over to the passenger seat while laughing, and for a moment I imagined her laughing there beside me. It didn’t last long, but it was nice while it did.

Babe Language

Wee woos weren’t the only silly words for things we had going on. Sometimes, it almost felt like Emily and I had our own little language. In certain instances, it was to keep the kids from figuring out what we were saying. But, most of the time, it was just things that started with a single silly moment that became an ongoing thing we shared.

For example, we started calling each other “babe” fairly soon after we started dating. When the kids said it was too confusing for us to both be “babe,” I started calling Emily “pint-size babe” and she started calling me “musical babe.” It was cute.

To go along with that, we had statements that probably sounded completely ridiculous to anyone else, but we knew what they meant.

  • “Babe is love?” meant the person who said it needed reassurance. The other person would usually respond with, “I love my babe!” and the person who asked the question would say, “Yay! Babe is love!”
  • “Skinny desires” was a term Emily used when her eating disorder thoughts were being extra loud.
  • “Spicy thoughts” were code for trauma flashbacks or thoughts related to a past trauma, which we both had many of.
  • “Babe is want?” was usually Emily’s way of asking if I wanted to have sex.
  • “Does babe need medicine?” or “Can I have some medicine?” was usually a sneaky way to discuss edibles. (We learned early on that saying “gummies” did not work.)
  • “Gentle cuddles” was a term Emily used when she wanted me to hold her or cuddle up with her, but not in a sexual way. Usually it meant she was sad or having a hard day and just needed me to wrap my arms around her.
  • “Toaster bath thoughts” was our way of letting the other know that we were not doing well mental health wise.
  • “Grippy sock jail” was code for the psych hospital.
  • “Babe is WAP” can probably be inferred if you know the Cardi B song. Usually one of us said it to the other when they put on an especially attractive outfit.
  • “I be a blob” meant the person who said it wanted to curl up and relax. This usually involved a blanket and, in Emily’s case, meant she was going to scroll TikTok.
  • “Bad babe!” usually meant one of us did something we weren’t supposed to, but it was usually said in a playful way.
  • “Mommy juice” was alcohol.
  • “I pop babe!” meant Emily was about to pop some sort of pimple on me. (I could write a whole post just about this.)

Song Lyrics Became Sentences

I’ve discussed how much Emily and I loved music in multiple posts at this point. However, this meant that we both would randomly burst into song. I think Emily was one of the first people in my life who matched my love of turning what people say into song lyrics, and it makes my heart happy.

Some favorites in the house included:

  • I Knew You Were Trouble by Taylor Swift (usually in reference to the cat Trouble)
  • Booty by J Lo and Iggy Azalea (if you saw Emily’s butt, you understand)
  • Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol because of Grey’s Anatomy
  • Good As Hell by Lizzo (usually when we’d ask how the other was doing)
  • I Kissed A Girl by Katy Perry for obvious reasons
  • Tempo by Lizzo (often me dancing in the kitchen)

I Miss Our Special Communication

I’ll admit, there are so many things that are hard about life right now. But really, it’s little things like our ridiculous made up language that make this especially painful. You just can’t replace that level of connection with someone, and sometimes it takes longer to explain the word or phrase than it’s worth. It’s like that language we shared is just… gone.

Because of Emily, I had someone who I connected with on a level that we could communicate in so many silly ways and still get each other. And, much like our inside jokes, I miss those little conversations of lingo and lyrics more than ever.

Because I Bought Her Flowers

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I had a hard day yesterday. The sad part is, the day itself was great. Yet, everywhere I turned, there were memories of Emily. Everything made me think of her, from 2:00 in the morning until I finally fell asleep watching television around 10:00pm. Although I definitely don’t want to forget her, sometimes it just overwhelms the day when everything causes my heart to break again.

When I woke up this morning, I told myself I would leave yesterday behind and focus on the day ahead. I have plenty of work to do, which should distract me most of the day. But, as I’m starting to learn, the universe has a twisted sense of humor… and so I quickly found my inbox filled with emails from florists, reminding me that Valentine’s Day is quickly approaching.

Thanks, everyone, I didn’t need that reminder.

Flowers Just Because

One of the many things about Emily I loved was the fact that she was very much a stereotypical girl. She loved wearing dresses and cute shoes. And, of course, she owned entirely too much makeup and loved any excuse she could find to justify spending an hour putting on a full face of it. We were very much opposites in this way, but I just found her girly ways so adorable and would often watch her in awe as she applied eye shadow or tried on dresses.

Anyway, because she was such a “girl,” she also loved receiving flowers. And, because I’m one of those hopeless romantic types who love sweeping my person off their feet, buying her flowers made me happy, too.

There were many occasions when I came home with flowers or sent flowers to her at work “just because.” Sometimes, like on our one-year anniversary, I had a justified reason to. Other times, like the Wednesday I sent them to her because she was having a bad day, I just decided to send them for no reason other than to make her smile. And that they did. Every single time.

Her coworkers never really seemed to understand the notion of sending flowers to someone because you love them. Whenever I’d send them to Emily, her coworkers would ask what I’d done wrong or what I was trying to butter her up for. And every time, she’d look at them and say, “Dude, some people just love each other and send each other flowers. She knows they make me happy.” Then she’d text me about it, and we’d laugh or make jokes about why heterosexual relationships suck.

Flowers on Valentine’s Day

I wasn’t the only one in the relationship to buy flowers. I just did it more frequently than Emily. However, she would occasionally buy them for me too, and it always made me smile.

My favorite flower story, however, is from Valentine’s Day weekend last year. Emily’s Mondays were always busy, and we didn’t have the kids the weekend before Valentine’s, so I planned a romantic date night for Saturday night. However, I kicked it off by getting Emily a dozen red roses (I know, so cliche) on Friday.

Little did I know Emily also got me a dozen roses, only she went with rainbow colored because, you know, we’re gay like that.

I’d never been in a relationship before where both people were so invested in making the other one happy. In fact, I think Emily did more in 18 months than other people did in a decade. And, it was very obvious that weekend, as we sat at the dinner table with two dozen roses in the middle, that we not only loved each other, but small gestures mattered to us both.

I Still Buy Her Flowers

Every time I’m in Knoxville, I make a point of taking flowers to Emily’s grave. Usually, it’s just a dozen roses in whatever color I can find at the Kroger I drive by on the way to the cemetery. However, I make a point to tell her about them and tell her that I love her when I place them next to the headstone.

I know that flowers die quickly, especially when you toss them on a grave. But, for me, it’s not the longevity or beauty that matters — it’s the sentiment behind why I bring them to her.

Because I love Emily, I buy her flowers. I know she loves and appreciates them because, well, she’s a girly girl. And, even though she’s not physically here to see or enjoy them the way she used to, I will still continue to buy them for her. I will never stop loving Emily, which means I will never stop buying her flowers. Because, in my mind, those flowers are one of the ways I showed her my love.

Because She Wanted A Child

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I watched our pastors baptize a precious baby today at church. I realize this is a fairly common thing that happens, and usually it’s not that big of a deal. But, as is the case with many things lately, it just hit differently today and left me desperately trying to hold back tears and hide my emotions from anyone sitting next to me.

I spent a lot of time thinking about that moment today, trying to decide why a simple ritual brought such a strong wave of grief. It seems weird to cry about a baby getting baptized, right? Well, maybe not if you know the plans Emily and I had… plans that will never happen now.

Baby Talk

When you’re friends with someone for a significant amount of time, you learn a lot about their dreams for the future, and Emily and I were no exception to that. We both shared many of our hopes and future plans with each other, even before we ever started dating. And although I eventually want to share many of those dreams in this blog, there’s only one that’s relevant to this post, and that’s Emily’s desire to be a mother.

I knew that Emily wanted kids one day. And, because I’d watched her with my own kids and heard her talk about her nieces for hours on end, I knew that she was going to be an amazing mom when the time came for that.

But then, life took an unexpected turn, and Emily and I became much more than friends. And, as most anyone who is likely reading this already knows, I have kids from a previous marriage.

So, fairly early on in our relationship, I decided to ask Emily more pointed questions about future children because, although I knew she wanted kids, I didn’t know much more than that.

I learned that she always dreamed of having two girls and a boy. I also learned that she wanted to name one of the girls Eleanor, after an Eleanor in her family. So, because she’s Emily, she said, “It looks like I’ve got the two girls now and one of them is already named Eleanor, so my dreams will come completely true if we have a little boy together.”

As we continued this conversation, I learned a lot about pregnancy risks and issues Emily would face if she carried a child. It would have required her to completely change all of her transplant medications, which scared her more than a little bit since the medications she was on were working well. She also had concerns about how the bodily changes of pregnancy would affect her mental health, especially since she’d finally found a fairly stable point in her eating disorder recovery. And, of course, there were all of Emily’s fears related to her health in general, and how many things like her short stature, congenital heart defect, and hyper mobility, were genetic.

I told her, “We can figure all of this out. There are doctors out there who can help with the genetics, and surrogacy is a thing, so we can use your egg and I’ll just carry the baby if that’s what is safest.”

Emily liked the idea, but said if her eggs were “messed up,” she wanted our backup plan to be using my egg with a redhead sperm donor because “a redhead baby would be so cute!”

Then, it was Emily’s turn to ask the questions, and I could tell there was something on her mind she was hesitant to say. Finally, she said, “This might be weird, but how would you feel about naming the baby after my donor?”

I didn’t think it was weird at all. In fact, I loved the idea. We agreed that Victor would be an adorable name for a little boy, and settled on Max for a middle name, after Emily’s grandfather. As I explained to her, I already got to name two children, so my only request for this one was that we at least consider hyphenating his last name.

And, just like that, we had a plan.

More Plans Laid To Rest

I’ve thought a lot about the little boy we wanted since Emily’s death. After watching an episode of Virgin River a second time after the fact, part of me almost wishes I would have had the time and brain capacity to think about these kinds of things right before she went, but my mind was too focused on praying for her to live. After having people say, “You can still make that dream come true for her,” I’ve cried because I just don’t feel let it would be the same for me to have a baby on my own and name it after my dead fiancée’s organ donor. So, it’s just another part of the love story Emily and I shared that was laid to rest with her.

I think that’s why today hit me so hard. There was a baby boy, alive and with his parents, beginning his life in the church. It’s a moment I saw happening for Emily and I in the next few years. A moment I desperately wanted to experience with her. A moment I’ve never gotten to nor ever will get to experience now.

Let me tell you, it’s heartbreaking to rehash your person’s death over and over again each time you encounter something that perfectly mirrors the dreams you had for your own future.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my two children with every fiber of my being. And, I also know that Emily loved my children as if they were hers. She always did.

But, I always dreamed of more kids than two. I just thought that dream died when I had a miscarriage back in 2017. That is, until Emily came along and brought it back into the realm of possibility.

I couldn’t wait to see Emily holding a baby that shared DNA with her. A baby who would have been so loved and cherished by her, by me, and by his siblings. A baby who would have been named after the man who made his existence possible.

Because of Emily, I was completely sold on having another child. But once again, I can’t help but feel like I did something to ruin my own dreams. I’m just heartbroken over a child I never got to meet, and I can’t even turn to Emily for support… And saying that makes my heart start breaking all over again.

I’m so sorry, Emily.