Under the Blanket

As I walked into yoga tonight, the teacher – a friend of ours – said, "Hey Sami. How are you?" Before I could think about what was coming out of my mouth, I said, "I'm good, thanks". The moment the words left my lips, I felt my lie. I shuddered at the sound of the words. I was not good at all. I was not even okay.

I'd spent the whole drive to my 6pm yoga class with tears streaming down my cheeks. Before that, I hadn't changed out of my pajamas until 5 pm. I'd slept until nearly 1pm, fourteen hours from when I'd fallen asleep the night before. I'd spent those four waking hours in front of the television, smoking pot. I don't smoke pot often. But when I do, it's usually for the specific purpose of dulling my feelings. I bailed on plans I'd made with multiple friends over the weekend. It's not that I wanted to be alone. It's that I didn't want anyone to be around me. I didn't have the effort to show up as the woman I know I am. Or want to be. Or used to be. Or thought I was.

I've spent my whole life trying to please. I've spent thirty years wanting to be liked, be loved, be cool, be accepted, be successful, be attractive, and be it all. And as I trudge around my home with my feet stuck in cement, amidst the grey, smudged canvas that is my life, I can't focus on being anything, because it takes everything just to be. And yet ego breathes his heavy breath down my neck: I don't want anyone to see me weak. I don't want my sadness to rub off on others. I don't want to ruin anyone's day. I want to be worthy of love. For now, in the battle between masculine ego and feminine grief, she wins. I am very, very, very sad – sadder than I knew humanly possible. And sadness like this is exhausting, like a disease. And when I become so tired, I no longer have the energy to pull myself together. To try. To work. To move. To be dependable. To be funny. To be strong. It's embarrassing, to be honest. For someone who has spent her whole life trying to be perfect and loveable – to now be completely and utterly broken, and too tired and sad to try to pick up the pieces. It's as though I'm sitting amongst a pile of puzzle pieces that once fit together so beautifully and I can't find a single match. I sit, frozen, holding pieces in my hands, wondering, 'What happened?'

There is this blanket you had. It's thick, soft, fuzzy, and white. When we would lounge, that was always my blanket. It felt like I was cuddling with a cloud. These days, I am often cocooned on the couch inside of that blanket. I try to cover as much of my body as possible beneath its comfort. Maybe only the sliver of my eyes will have to see the light – my own burka of grief. I run my fingers through the fabric of that blanket and I search for signs of you inside of it. I'll find a small twig that is stuck in the weave and wonder, 'Where you here when that twig found its way into the blanket?' Or maybe I'll spot a little purple stain from a drop of wine. I'll ask you in my mind, 'Was that your spill of wine or mine?' I remember when we both used to snuggle beneath its warmth, our limbs interlaced like twist ties. When you were here, I didn't actually need the blanket to keep me warm. I had you. I had love. Now, no matter how thick or how soft the blanket is, I'm always cold. I'm chilled so deeply from within that nothing can warm me from outside. Nothing.

I feel that my life is a contradiction these days. I don't want to sleep. And then all I want is sleep. I don't want to be alone. And then I need to be alone. I don't want to eat. And then all I can do is eat. I want to feel everything. And then I don't want to feel anything. I want to be loved. And then I feel unlovable. I want to see you. And then I can't find you.

Last week, as I nestled on the couch in a fit of tears, your computer was closed and asleep on the other side of the room. It hadn't been touched in days. Suddenly, the song "Struggling Angel" started playing from your machine. It was the song written for your friend Sarah after she passed, by your favorite band. You used to listen to it "when you needed a good cry". Alarmed, I got up, walked to the computer, opened it, and woke it up. The song stopped. When the screen flashed on, there were no music applications open – in fact the only things open were Acrobat and a Chrome browser with ESPN's website up. There was no sign of the song. The next day, as I painted my toenails (again, on the couch), the TV – which was off – turned on, and flipped from Netflix to DVD mode on both the video and the audio – that task involves various buttons on two remotes, which were on the table. An episode of Seinfeld, which you gave me for my birthday, began to play. I looked up from my polishing, dumbfounded and yet hardly surprised. Obviously, you are around. You are sneakily saying hello in the ways that you can. But while I find it comforting on some level, I also find it distressingly sad. It is you who I love, but I don't know how to love a ghost.

The next time someone asks me how I am, I hope I have the wherewithal to speak my truth. I am not OK. I am lost. I am sad. I am lonely. I am confused. I am a mess. I am barely in motion. But I am here, in the flesh and no matter how here you are in essence, you are not here in the way that I need you. 

Dream Realm

Over the past month, many people have reached out to me regarding dreams you've appeared in. There have also been countless other signs - particularly through nature, animals, children, and instinct that have nearly proven that you're still around. Although that's a BIG nearly, because proof will never actually exist until we meet again someday. Dreams, however, were of supreme importance to you in your waking life. You felt they carried much more weight than just the imagination having a wander while the eyes had a rest. My friend Kris told me this weekend, "Sami, you can still spend 1/3 of your life with Ted, because that's about how much of your life you'll spend asleep – and he can always appear in your dreams." I like that.

You haven't been in my dreams that much yet, or at least from what I remember. Amazingly though, I have slept soundly nearly since day one of this tragedy, so maybe you are there. Maybe you're helping me sleep and just keeping the stories and adventures of our dreams in the unconscious. But I ask you nightly, before I go to sleep, when I kneel and do my gratitude and my prayers, that you come to me in my slumber – that you hold me while my body rests – that you be nearby me while my mind softens away from the claustrophobia of this tragedy and takes time to meditate – that I get to see your face, touch your skin, see the creases on your face when you smile, hear your gentle voice, and watch your eyes dance with love. I will hope for that every day for the rest of my life.

And while you may not have come to me quite that often yet – you did once a few weeks back, and it was worth the wait. But you've come to many others, and some of them have been willing to share with me.

You came to your friend Frenchy last week in a very vivid vision. You spoke in a kitchen, much like ours. He said it was so real that he could smell your smell and hear your breath traveling down your nostrils. He said the colors were incredibly intense. He knew you were dead in the dream, as did you. You hugged Frenchy and you both cried. You told Frenchy to ask you some quick questions. "Are you ok? What is it like? Is there a God? Have you seen Sarah?" You told him you are OK and it's kinda crazy there. You said that there are many people there to meet, that everyone is very nice, and happy to help. In terms of God, you paused, and then said there's a much higher force than anyone knows that's overseeing everything. You said you haven't seen Sarah yet, but everyone knows you're looking for her. You told him that as you died, you were peeling back layers of light and kept going in deeper. Then Frenchy rubbed his eyes and returned back to his original dream, but throughout the rest of his dreams he heard your voice whispering, "Don't forget! Write it down."

You appeared to your cousin Brooke in a dream. She was working in the mountains and turned around to say goodbye to friends and you were there. Again, you were full of life. She could feel your skin. She asked you if you had enjoyed the memorial and said how cool it had been that the String Cheese Incident guys had come to play in your honor. You responded warmly. You talked to her in a way that lacked human attachment and stories – you beamed with peace. Then, you showed her videos of some of the friends you'd met in the place where you reside now. Some of them were children, others were celebrities. You also told her you had learned how to appear to loved ones and friends on Earth in solid form.

You appeared to your Aunt Ginny in a vision just days after your death. She was in the exact same scenario as the tragic night you died. The three of us, her, Kevin, and myself were with your body in the hospital. She on one side of the gurney, Kevin on the other, and me next to your body, on the bed, cradling you and sobbing. She felt a presence enter the room behind her. She was irritated and thought it was the coroner who had kept barging in and disrupting our last moments with your body. It wasn't. It was you. You were enormous and filled up the entire room, literally by appearing as a giant, and figuratively with your peaceful energy. You held us in a warm embrace. You told her, "I am OK. Now is when Sami's journey really starts."

You came to my friend Claire. A dear girl friend with whom I'd fallen out of touch with. You had only met her a couple times in life and you unfortunately didn't get to know one another very well. Although you did know I was very sad that our friendship wasn't as strong lately. In her dream, when you appeared, she got upset with you. She yelled at you for taking me away from my home and friends in Texas. She was upset that you would leave me in so much pain. You heard her out, and then responded with love. You said, "I understand how you feel and I don't blame you. I never meant to bring Sami any pain. Please believe me when I say that Sami is exactly where she needs to be. All of this is part of her journey and destiny."

You came to another more distant friend, Lyndsey. She had periled for months with a newborn daughter on the brink of death. Though you never met the baby, you identified with her tragedy because of your compassionate heart and also the devastation you dealt with after your sister's loss of her baby girl, Jane. Lyndsey's infant daughter who had made a miraculous recovery, Eden, played with an iPad for her first time ever this week. As soon as the toy was in her mitts, she pulled up your contact information on the device. In Lyndsey's dream you came to her at a party. No one could see you except for her. You hugged one another and she expressed her condolences for your death. "I'm still here. No one can see me, but I'm still here," you said. And then you said, "Give that daughter of yours a squeeze for me."

These are only a few dreams. I've had other people reach out to me with beautiful connections as well. And I have a feeling this entry may open up the doors to more, which I welcome with open arms.

In your life, you were passionate about dreams. You would journal them nearly daily. One of the first things you'd say to me each day was, "Did you have any dreams last night?" You always encouraged me to write them down, teaching me the appropriate way to do so. You loved to analyze dreams, and had done a lot of work with your therapist and independently learning about different methods. It makes complete sense to me that you would choose to appear through the dream realm from your place in the afterlife.

I find it beautiful that through appearing in dreams, you're still creating connections. You're answering questions for people who have doubts. You're telling secrets about mortality and reassuring loved ones about your place in the afterlife. You are letting us know that you're around – and that this tragic path may actually be the right one. You're bringing old friends back together and fostering new relationships. You're holding space for children. You're giving us all hope. And you're tackling it through our subconscious.

Please continue to appear in dreams, my love. Appear to your family, to your loved ones, and hopefully, if you have time, you can still spend a third of my life, the time when I'm asleep, with me. And during that time, we won't be held back by the constraints of this earthly realm. We will be able to fly and skip around the Universe together. We will be able to stretch time and expand our consciousness beyond humanity's dynamics. We will be able to love, to create, to connect, and to share. We will make magic. And until the day arrives when I join you wherever you exist now, I'll continue to look for you in sleep.