LJ Herman is a former editor at Love What Matters and lives in Colorado. LJ is a concert, ticket and technology enthusiast. He has seen the Dave Mathews Band over one hundred times and counting.
LJ Herman is a former editor at Love What Matters and lives in Colorado. LJ is a concert, ticket and technology enthusiast. He has seen the Dave Mathews Band over one hundred times and counting.
“Do you remember how I told you this would utterly destroy me? How our kids needed every ounce of you? You knew how much we needed and loved you. I reminded you every single day. But you didn’t plan that moment, did you? Because if you did, you would have known how it killed us too. You wouldn’t have done it.”
“I was in line for the fitting room when the lady in front of me commented she really liked the pants I was holding. ‘Thanks, I’ve really been needing to buy some post-pregnancy work pants,’ I said. ‘Oh, where is your baby while you work?,’ she asked. Nonchalantly, I replied, ‘He goes to daycare and really loves it.’ As she walked away, she mumbled it. When she said it, I knew she just didn’t know.”
“My dad found me. I was covered in bruises, rug burns and cuts head to toe. He called 911, immediately searched for those pills and found both bottles were empty. I have no recollection of taking any pills. I woke up to my best friend standing over me. ‘Why are you looking at me like I died? Where am I?’ They were my prescriptions from MY doctor. I wasn’t getting them off the streets, so I couldn’t possibly have a problem.”
“I never planned on writing my story. While I was more fearful of the future than I care to admit, I remember leaving the courthouse the day I filed for divorce feeling like I could breathe for the first time in years. It was the feeling of freedom. For years, I allowed the world to wash over me, resigned to the lies I’d been told about who I was, who I wasn’t, and who I could never be. On the hard days, I have to remind myself to call these thoughts what they are: lies.”
“My OBGYN came in to check on me while not knowing where her own husband was at Ground Zero. I was in a hospital where they were calling in extra nurses and doctors for the casualties that should be arriving, but never came. Everyone knows where they were on 9/11, but I lived that day in a strange reality.”
“It’s hard to see the reward through the to-do lists, apathy, and crumbs on the kitchen floor.”
“I walked into my dad’s room and sat with him as he laid there. He was feeling anxious. He told me he couldn’t breathe. To get Mom. We phoned my grandparents to say their goodbyes. They told my Dad it was ‘okay, he could go home.’ My dad waited as my husband walked through the doors. ‘When did he pass?,’ my husband asked. ‘Right now,’ I replied. My father waited for the man he knew could hold me through this wretched pain.”
“This morning was a battle. I worry. I worry because they are being picked on. It’s hard letting go, watching them hurt and struggle to find their way. We save our tears for the car, so they don’t doubt themselves.”
“A lot of people tell you how you should move on. You hope you’ve turned out to be every bit like Grandma. You dodge the card aisle because you can’t bring yourself to read them.”
“I came home early on a Sunday morning. Still drunk from the night before. I had a plan. I executed my plan. I say this next part with absolutely no dramatization; if my wife had stayed in bed for another 10-15 seconds, I would absolutely be dead. I would’ve been dead that morning. I owe my life to her. And I wouldn’t be here to tell you that things get better.”