When someone tells you a personal, tragic thing:

Disclaimer: IF YOU HAVE DONE ANY OF THE FOLLOWING THINGS THAT YOU MAYBE SHOULDN'T DO, DON'T FEEL BAD. I'VE PROBABLY DONE THEM, TOO (pre-earth-shattering-event). But just for next time. (also if you've done any of these, I PROMISE I'm not holding it against you. I know what it's like to not get it. This is just a PSA)

• Don't say nothing. It's hella awkward.
• Don't immediately ask "How did he die?" or whatever question applies that's probably a little too much too soon. You're asking us to relive our worst day on this planet, process that before your own curiosity. We will open up when we're ready. If we're ready. I'm probably on the more open side, but this question still sometimes throws me.
• "I'm so sorry" is an appropriate response, and not cliche. It doesn't feel forced or fake or whatever you're worried about.
• Staring is uncomfortable, try to avoid that.
• Don't feel like you have to hide your shock and horror. We feel the same. Samesies.
• Follow up questions are good to fill the inevitable awkward space. Read the room. In some cases, if you're friends, "how are you adjusting?" is a good question but also, maybe expect tears at this. Again, this is only a good question if you really are friends and you actually care about how they are adjusting. A safe question would be, "how can I help you?" they will probably say that there's nothing you can do, but it's a nice gesture and a nice gesture is nice.
• Don't say "Let me know if you need anything" -- I've said this one a hundred times to a hundred different people, I totally feel this one. Cause you're like howwhenwherewhat can I do to help -- so I'll just maybe say something vague and general and hope they will reach out. They won't.
• Do tell a story that relates, if you want. You know a widow, sweet. I wanna know. Your brother passed away last year? That connection is definitely important and if you feel okay mentioning it, do. If you don't, we get it more than most people. But maybe avoid "I know just how you feel because my dog died" or "my grandma who was 95". Grief is grief, for sure -- but read the room, yo. That's not what a person needs to hear who is clinging onto life by their fingernails.
• Generally, stay away from "Thank goodness families are forever!" unless you've lost someone close to you -- it can come off shallow. Rule of thumb, unless you have relied on this piece of doctrine like your life literally depended on it, don't mention it. Not right away.
• Do what you can to acknowledge their pain, whatever that means for you. The most hurtful comments I've received have been ones that minimize what I'm going through. The ol' "You're young and beautiful and you'll find someone else" is well intentioned but can also read a little insensitive. Like Mitch is replaceable and all I really need is someone to step into the now-empty husband shoes, and thank goodness I'm still pretty enough to snag another. Forming new relationships is not the catalyst of healing, it is the result of healing.

Okay rant over. Happy dealing with personal and adjacent tragedies. You got this.

All the love for all of you who honestly carried me through this,

Brittany Parker

Owning It

This chapter is called Being Okay with Having a Really Heavy Story. It's taken me over a year to even start to write this chapter, one I knew was coming but dreaded. I obviously couldn't avoid the discomfort my story brought on others in the weeks and months following Mitch's passing. Everyone around me knew what had happened (and until you've had your very own bone chilling story passed around to everyone you've ever known -- including and certainly not limited to, that random person you went to high school with and never spoke to, the girl that was in your ward four years ago & your mom's high school friend's hairdresser whose client spiced up the conversation with -- wanna hear something really awful and true that happened to this young couple? -- you can't really begin to understand what this is like). I'm not mad my story made the rounds, I know very well I've been on the other end of such sharing. I'm okay with it because I believe Mitch and my story is meaningful, and I like to think that people don't brush it off. But even though I am okay with it -- it was still a bit unsettling, in ways I can't describe or change.

In those first few months, being around people and having my story so public was challenging. People would give me that look that said I-wish-there-was-something-I-could-say-or-do-to-make-it-even-a-little-better-but-I-can't-and-we-both-know-that. Honestly, I hated that just my existence in a room brought on this turmoil in people who had little to do with Mitch or me. But I couldn't help it! So months went by, and as the aching grief consumed my entire being, I stayed away from people for the most part. I had to protect myself. I had to avoid all the negative byproducts of being a grieving person in situations where people could say (unintentional) stupid things to fill that awful silence of you're-living-my-worst-nightmare. I stayed away, and then I moved. I moved to a place where almost no one knew. And that was great for a time. I loved being anonymous, not getting those looks that were equally sad & helpless.

But slowly, things have shifted. I've slowly begun to accept that this awful, heavy, tragic thing that happened to me is a story that will always be my story. It will be a part of everything I'll ever do, everything I'll ever become. The fear has subsided and I've started to feel proud of what I've survived and done in spite of the awful-tragic-terrible thing. I don't have to be afraid of my own story and I don't have have to worry how other people will handle it either. Huge break through, guys. I get to feel all sorts of ways about this AND SO DO YOU and it has nothing to do with me.

I could have quit. I could still be curled up in a dark room in my parent's house -- but I'm not. I've done nothing remarkable, I've simply done what it took each day since February 25, 2016 to keep air in my lungs. To keep hope alive. I have put one foot in front of the other for 418 days and it has been enough.

And now, I'm owning my story. Finally. I don't hide it. I don't feel the same vulnerability over the story, my photos, this blog. I feel less embarrassed when I cry in public (I definitely still try to avoid it, but some things are inevitable). I'm human. I feel. I was hurt deeply and I'm still recovering. I'm okay that you know that. I'm okay if you share that. I'm okay if you want to look at my wedding pictures and feel sad. Even if we don't really know each other. Because I believe this story is bigger than Mitch or me. It's not just about us. It's about doing it scared. Whatever it is. It's about relying on spiritual power to raise you out of the deepest, darkest pit. Because it can & it will -- but only if you don't give up.

I hope my story gives you courage. I hope you know you are filled with so much magic and can do things that you think are impossible. I hope you know that we are all so much more than this life. We are so much more than those things we endure that are so heartbreaking and difficult. I hope you will think of Mitch and me when you do that scary thing that you know you should do. Because, I know you'd like to help me. I know you wish you could ease this pain. You can't bring Mitch back home to me but you can do the scary and brave thing. And you can tell Mitch. Tell him you did it for me.

Hands

Have you ever thought about how weird hands are? I have wrapped my fingers around my mother's finger, learned to write and play the ukulele with the same hands. I've used my hands to cut hair and bake and drive. I've done cartwheels and back hand springs with my hands. I've eaten, signed, climbed and danced with my hands. The same hand that reached out nervously in a dark theater for his as teenagers, also held his face countless times and touched his perfect curls. The same hand he'd put a ring on, held his hand in that hospital room and felt warmth drain from it.

The same hands held either side of his casket, tears falling that wouldn't stop. Couldn't. Touching that casket felt like the last thing I'd ever do with those hands, but then it wasn't. I used those hands to wipe the tears from my face. I shook those hands at God, wondering why he'd let this happen -- pleading with Him to take it back. I've used those hands to pray. I've used them to catch myself from collapsing from the sheer weight of it all. I've used them to paint, and write and wipe more tears. I've used them to hold others in their pain. All of these things, with the same two hands.

There are a lot more things I will do with these two hands, the same two that held onto my favorite person. I wish these hands could have held onto him a little longer, but I know with certainty I will again. Until then, I'll use them to write and paint and wipe tears and hold others. I'll use them because I can and because I should. I'll use them because as long as I can create, there is still hope. I'll always remember where these hands have been, but I have to focus on what they still can do.

I love you, Mitch.

Resources

I just want to start this post by saying, if you are grieving (or depressed) or know someone who is and would like someone to talk to about it -- please do not hesitate to contact me. You can leave a comment or shoot me an email at brittlynnparker@gmail.com

Here are some resources I have found extremely helpful. I'll be adding more to this post in the future.

If you're LDS

• The Message
• The Healing Power of Grief
• Insights into the Spirit World
• Because I Live, Ye Shall Live Also
• He Will Place You On His Shoulders and Carry You Home

If you're Christian

• The Truth About Grief
• Brittany Price
• Proof of Heaven

If you're somewhat spiritual but don't like labels

• Christina Rasmussen
• Man's Search for Meaning
• Terrible, Thanks for Asking

If your friend is grieving

• What to do when you find out your friend has cancer (or I would add, is grieving in general)

Princess Leia and the Shattered Glass Walls

It's been a little while since I've been here, pouring out my heart to whoever is out there reading. Honestly, Carrie Fisher gave me the courage to post tonight. She once said, "I think I do overshare. It's my way of trying to understand myself....It creates community when you talk about private things." This really resonates with me. My grief journey is the most personal, sensitive, gut-wrenching topic...and yet I gain so much from sharing in this weird and wonderful community.

I made it through the holidays, which were admittedly not as bad as I thought they'd be. Missing Mitch on Christmas day didn't really hurt more than missing him on a random Wednesday afternoon. I had a melt down, yeah. But I have melt downs pretty often. It was just another day and I survived. Again. I've passed so many grief milestones I've heard about from others since Mitch's passing. I've now sobbed in a grocery store, laughed at the absolute nonsense of this whole situation & used my widow card to attempt to get out of a speeding ticket (he didn't care). I've stopped bawling through Sacrament meeting, I can sing a hymn without tears streaming down my face. I can sleep with Mitch's shirt without the faint smell of him giving me a panic attack. I can say "my husband died" without biting my lip to stop the tears or forcing a blank zombie expression.

Since my last post, I've opened up to quite a few people about my story. When I moved back to Utah, hoping to "start over" (I've since learned this is not really possible...), I wanted to hug my secret so tight. I didn't want to share it with anyone who wouldn't take it seriously, or would expect anything from me. Expect me to cry. Expect me not to cry. Expect me to be miserable. Or over it. Or anything. I didn't want people to gossip about it, or give me those "your life is tragic" eyes that I have gotten way too many times. I didn't want anyone that didn't personally know Mitch to know ABOUT him and not really want to know him. He, more than anyone, deserves to be known and loved and appreciated.

But then, one Sunday, the glass walls I'd built around my secret shattered all at once. Suddenly, I couldn't keep it to myself, not for one more minute. I wanted people to know because I wanted to be known. I wanted to be understood on a deeper level than people were treating me. I don't want to be the wounded animal but I want to be real. I was sick of small talk. I hate small talk. I wanted to connect with people. I wanted Mitch's life and my story to mean something, and not just be buried under layers of grief and pain.

And so, I found my tragic, heavy secret tumbling out of my mouth over and over again. It would often be met with giant eyes, or a soft "oh my gosh" but it didn't destroy me. I didn't even cry most times. And for the first time since February, I felt heard. I haven't felt judged. I haven't regretted telling anyone. My worst fears about my secret coming out haven't happened. It's a sad story but it's not the only sad story out there. My story just wove itself into the tapestry of tragedies that people hear and experience all the time -- and it was fine. No one has looked at me like a wounded animal, or rolled their eyes at my tears. Most people didn't ask inappropriate questions. People are generally kind and patient and understanding. It's crazy.

This week, Carrie's death hit me harder than any other celebrity death. Because Mitch and I loved her. Because she was a wild and fantastic woman who didn't give a damn about what people thought of her. Because I look up to her in many ways. Because I couldn't talk to Mitch about how awful it is that she is gone. Because Mitch isn't here to stay up watching A New Hope for the hundredth time with me just to see her again. 

I still have difficulty believing that this is my REAL life, even 10 months later. But here I am, doing this stupid, totally confusing thing. I literally have NO CLUE what I'm doing, but I'm doing it? And whatever you're in the middle of facing, you'll get through it, too. Even if you have no idea what the hell is going on. It's cool. 

Also, don't be afraid of your story, whatever it is. Tell it. Scream it. For me. For Carrie. For Mitch.

a letter

To the person who calls out to me for help,

I want you to know, above all else, that you can do it. The Lord has prepared you for this time. Your body and mind know what to do to heal -- you just never had to rely on it before. You have been prepared spiritually for this experience. Despite your fears about your age, emotional capacity, financial situation or family – you can do it. You will do it. You will prove to yourself over and over again how brave you truly are and how many impossible things you can conquer. I promise, you’ll look back and it will blow your mind. 

Many (very well intentioned) people told me in the beginning that the first year is Hell. That it’s unbearable, unfathomable and impossible. I want to tell you that it IS possible. You will have moments of peace and joy and light that will surpass everything you thought was possible at each stage. Of course, as I’m sure you’re well aware of by now, the lows are excruciating but God will give you what you need to get through each one. 

Because you will be so close to God and the Spirit during this sacred time, Satan will be with you, too. He will tell you lies. Do. Not. Believe. Him. Look for the signs. He’ll twist your stomach into knots and steal your peace. He’ll tell you that it will always feel like this. He’ll tell you that you will never truly heal and that nothing is worth this struggle. He will tell you that you don’t deserve any future happy thing in your life and that there isn’t any coming. He’ll tell you that even if they DO come, you won’t be able to enjoy them because of your loss. It is all very convincing because the pain is so intense! Please see him for what he is, a liar. You will be happy again. The storm will pass. You’ll never forget but you won’t always hurt like this. 

I remember in those first few weeks, I feared how many breakdowns I’d have over the course of the next year, over the course of my life. It felt like too much, impossible to wrap my head around. It gave me so much panic and anxiety to even think about. Here’s how it’s possible: you don’t have to do them all at once. Something will trigger you, or nothing will trigger you. You’ll be in that familiar crumpled up position on the floor bawling your eyes out and in that moment, you don’t have to worry about the next time it’s going to happen. You just have to endure that time. Let yourself feel. Let yourself cry it out. Because inevitably, nothing about your loss will change but every time you pick yourself up off the floor, wipe the tears from your face and determine to keep going YOU change. 

The doors that are meant for you will open. Every door that doesn’t open will still be painful, and will feel like the one you thought should have opened. Don’t give up. When the right door finally cracks, you’ll see why the other ones were locked. God is so aware of you and your journey. He doesn’t want you to endure any additional pain that can be avoided. Surrender your will to His and He will lead you to happiness, peace and joy. 

“I promise that each faith-filled step will be met with help from heaven.” (Elder Randal K. Bennett) This is your mantra now. And believe me, it’s real. I’ve seen it happen countless times in the last eight months. And it’s not just “help from heaven” – it’s help from that beautiful soul that left this earth who loves you more than anything. 

I wish this wasn’t true, but some people are going to be the worst. There will be people who say insensitive things and criticize your every move. They think they know what they’d do in your shoes but they have no idea. I know it’s tough but please brush them aside. Build your emotional walls higher between you and them because you don’t need that, especially during this time. The good news is that for every insensitive person, there are 10 beautiful, loving, patient people ready to lift you up. Learn the difference between these groups. Don’t be afraid to cut some people out, even just for a time. Sometimes, inexplicably, you’ll want to distance yourself from some of those beautiful, sensitive people that love you and that’s okay, too. It’s okay to protect yourself. 

Eat the ice cream. Stay in bed as long as you want. Sing or pray while you do monotonous things like shower or drive so your thoughts don’t go to dark places. Stay where you are until you feel like you need to move, and then GO. Don’t let people boss you around. Listen to sad music if you want to. Watch sad movies if you want to. Cry. Scream. Break things. Write. Talk to your loved one out loud. There are many things I don’t know, but I do know this: they are listening. They hear you. I promise. 

Please trust me, I get it. I know how it hurts in the deep cracks of your soul. I know you feel shattered, broken, abandoned and alone. I know the shock that shivers through your body when you think about what happened. I know how it feels like you were robbed. But listen to this part very carefully because it’s extremely important: You weren’t robbed. Your expectations were robbed. This was always the plan for you, and it is good. God loves you. You can do this. This is not for nothing. Your pain is valuable. It will change you. It can change the world. 

With deep love and empathy, 
Brittany Parker

Pain Changes You

It's been said before and it's true. Once you're exposed to a certain level of pain you won't (you can't!) be the same. Ever. This truth is difficult for so many reasons. Most importantly, it's scary when the traits about yourself drift away that you thought were crucial to your identity. It becomes hard to recognize yourself in the mirror. It's terrifying. The gut reactions I have to normal situations these days freak me out; it makes me feel like I'm in a stranger's body. Like I've lost control. I try (and struggle) to breathe in the identity crisis as a normal part of this whole process. Not only are some of the parts of myself gone (maybe forever) but I was Mitch's wife! And in so many ways, I still am. But he's not here and by the world's standards, I'm not married anymore. I am a single widow. Being Mitch's wife on earth is gone from identity. So, I am wading through these confusing waters trying to figure out not only what makes me ME anymore, but where I fit on this planet without the most important person in my life.

The other unfortunate byproduct of these changes is that the people that love you most are confused about how to interact with you. It totally sucks. It takes time. It takes a ton of patience. It takes learning. Growth. But the people who really love you will stick it out through it all, I promise. Just six months away from the worst day of my life, I'm here to tell you that if you've been through tragedy, some relationships will inevitably fade and that is okay. You're a different person now. Some changes are necessary. Even if you HAVEN'T been through immeasurable pain, it happens! It's okay. Perhaps when your life evens out, you can pick up where you left off with some people. In some cases, perhaps not. Either way, it's totally okay. 

I think it's important to remember that some of these changes are permanent, and some are not. It's been a learning experience for me. I constantly have to take a step back and just BE OKAY with the "new me" or realize that some things will just take time to get back to normal.

This may be a sort of silly example but -- I used to hate dogs. Seriously. All animals, actually. I just didn't have the time or patience for their noise, mess, smell...Mitch had been slowly warming me up to the idea but I was still unsure. After Mitch (is it too weird if I say transitioned instead of died? Just stick with me, some words are still too hard) transitioned, I had a dream and the message was really clear. Get a dog. So I did! And it opened my heart in a way I didn't realize I needed it. It's made me get out of bed, focus on something other than myself/my constant pity party. Getting a puppy has had it's challenges but I am so so glad I gave in and got her. She's a wrung on the ladder to recovery and I'll always have a special place in my heart for her because of it.

I was an incredibly social person. Always planning parties, hanging out with friends, staying connected through social media. The thought of planning a get together these days makes me low key SUPER anxious. I had to leave Facebook because it was making me physically nauseous. Sometimes I just can't answer the phone or respond to a text and I don't really have an explanation for that. This is where my friend's patience with me has meant the absolute world, because trust me -- I am trying! I don't view this as a permanent change. Sure, maybe I'm slightly more introverted than I used to be. I'm cool with that. I'm actually quite impressed with myself as to how content I am now spending time alone. But I really believe that I will get back to my relationships when I feel like I have solid ground to stand on. I will probably stop getting nauseous when I see or hear about other people's lives moving on when I feel a little less consumed by this ever-so-sudden SLAMMING OF THE BRAKES that happened to me. Trust me, it's not that I'm not happy for the wonderful things that are happening for my friends, it's just the reminder that nothing is certain for me anymore. All the things that I was on the path to getting...they were taken from me. So it will just take me a minute to really accept that.

So here it is; it's going to be okay. If you're the person who is crawling back to a somewhat normal life by his/her fingernails, it will be okay. If you're the friend of someone who is crawling back, it will be okay. Inhale. Exhale. Trust God. Even when it's REALLY REALLY HARD (and believe me, I TOTALLY GET THAT). I get into this downward spiral that goes "How can I trust God when he let me down in the SCARIEST way I could have imagined??" and I've learned to quickly replace it with, "How could I NOT trust God who has put Mitch and SO SO many wonderful things in my life? Who is to say there isn't a LOT more of that coming?"

“My [daughter], peace be unto thy soul; thine adversity and thine afflictions shall be but a small moment; And then, if thou endure it well, God shall exalt thee on high” 

Doctrine and Covenants 121:7-8