Okay, another Joan Rivers moment—can we talk?

Let’s talk about fireworks and PTSD. I know a lot of folks have what borders on a fetish-level love affair with fireworks. They hit the stands like it’s Christmas morning, dropping hundreds of dollars on colorful explosions for the 4th of July and, here in Utah, for Pioneer Day on the 24th. Yeah, there are laws, and sure, some people even follow them. But most of the time, everyone turns into a self-declared pyro “expert.”

As many of you know, I don’t do well with fireworks and explosions. And it’s not just the startle reflex. It’s the randomness of it—the unpredictability of when and where they’ll go off. That’s the kicker. If I’m lighting them myself, with a friend, in a controlled space? Not so bad. It’s the lack of control that turns everything sideways.

This time of year is hell for me. Even if I find a place away from it all, I can still hear them. That lack of control triggers not just me, but three of my four dogs. We all jump. We all get anxious. It sucks. I try so hard to protect them, and when I can’t, it just adds another layer of helplessness.

People who don’t deal with PTSD often ask, “Why do fireworks bother you so much?” My answer: I know there’s no real danger, but it still feels like danger. That’s the fight—to live in a world that keeps demanding “normalcy” when that word has become more mythical than magical. Like I was told in nursing school: “Normal is just a setting on the washing machine.”

The effort to fake normal is exhausting.

I know I’ve talked about PTSD here before—what it is, what it isn’t, what pisses me off about how people treat it. But this week? It’s hitting different. I’ve been quiet because I’ve been out in my garden, trying to distract myself, trying to push through a hard headspace.

And hard is putting it lightly. Saying I’ve had a tough few days is like calling Bismarck a herring. It doesn’t even scratch the surface. I remember those first few months after he died—living in this constant state of hypervigilance. Truth is, it never really left. It just stopped being extreme sometimes. But it never actually went away.

I’ve done the therapy. I’ve done the distractions. Hell, I’d stand on my head and whistle Dixie if it worked. It didn’t. That’s part of how I ended up with a substance use problem—not as an excuse, but as an explanation. It didn’t change how I felt about the things he did in May 2023, but it added this whole new layer of tension, of constant pressure. And that pressure—financial, emotional, bureaucratic—has made it damn near impossible to feel like I’m ever moving forward. Every step forward ends up as a wait. Just one more wait.

Let me be absolutely clear: I am not suicidal. I’m not looking to unalive myself or take any unnecessary risks. And while there are a few people who could disappear without hurting my feelings, I’m not about to make that happen either. But hopeless? Yeah. That’s a regular visitor. I keep busy. I have a beautiful, peaceful home. But the energy to make that home feel lived in instead of just survived in? That’s a whole other mountain to climb.

I was ready to move on with my life before he died. I had plans. Two years ago, I thought I’d be living in North Salt Lake, doing my thing, just me and the dogs. And sure, that’s sort of what happened—but not like this. Not with trauma, not with a violent death, not with the constant pressure of trying to survive a storm I didn’t create.

The last few nights have been harder than usual—thanks, fireworks season. I’m lucky to have friends who check in, even from afar. They know this time of year is brutal. And I’m thankful.

I was talking to a friend Thursday—she’s grieving too, still surrounded by people, but those visits and casseroles are already dwindling. She asked, “Why do I need this more than ever now?” And the answer is painfully simple: because when you lose a spouse, even a messy one, you lose your daily point of contact. Someone who was there, good or bad, just there. That silence is deafening.

And now? I’m just starting to feel okay venturing out on short trips again. Going to Wicked was a milestone, and I’m proud of it—but it took everything I had to pull it off. I damn near couldn’t get a Lyft to pick me up. But I made it, and I enjoyed it.

I don’t think people are avoiding me on purpose. And I don’t want anyone to feel guilty. But let’s not pretend some things didn’t hurt. Like the “friend” who told another one of my best friends that he’d leave me when the money ran out. That was over a year ago, and the person who said it was the one who disappeared. That comment still eats away at me.

Was I just a paycheck to some people? Did I have to pay for friends? I don’t think I was giving money out to buy companionship—I was trying to fix up the house, hedge my bets on folks who were handy, people who could help make this place livable. I wasn’t trying to be transactional—I was trying to stay functional. But yeah, maybe that turned people off. And I hate that I can’t stop questioning it.

This house needed a hundred grand in repairs. That’s not an exaggeration. And I was trying to build something I could live in until I die, old and stubborn. That was the plan. That’s still the plan. And if I was focused on the work more than the friendship, it’s because I was trying to keep my head above water.

So now I’m left saying “I don’t know” more than I care to admit. Because I don’t. I just don’t.

What I do know is that I’m trying to stay busy. I got one greenhouse up, and the second is halfway there. I’m cleaning and organizing in chunks. Because no, I can’t fix everything in a day. Not anymore. I wish I could. But this is my life now—slow, bit-by-bit progress. And I hate that it has to be this way. But it does.

Coping isn’t easy. The only reason I keep moving is because forward is the only option. I’ve lived in this headspace most of my life—trauma doesn’t let go that easy. I don’t have a mountaintop epiphany for you. There’s no mystical guru wisdom waiting at the end of this blog.

There’s just this: survive.

That’s all we can do. Survive. Some days it’s quiet, some days it’s chaos, and some days it’s just cleaning out a drawer and calling that a win.

Thanks for reading. Thanks for hanging in there. And remember—

Be the kind of person your dog and your mom hope you are.