After yesterday’s disaster recovery center visit, we decided we should learn more about the permitting process–not only for the debris, but what it will look like when/if we rebuild. We waited for good long time, and while we learned some useful information we are almost certain that we will have to go through a long, drawn-out process to get a lot of permits. Read: this will take a very long time. Why?

Well, we are almost certain that the man who sold us our house went through the permitting process for many aspects of our house. What that means for us is that we would likely lose square footage on our house, which wasn’t even that big to begin with. Our house was also built in the 1920s, when permits were a different animal. All this means we will undoubtedly need to go through the regular, long, difficult permit process rather than the fire victim expedited process.

This was not great news. I’m trying so hard to find something positive but it is HARD.

Today we visited the disaster relief and recovery center at the Hilton foundation. While it was helpful, it was totally overwhelming and stressful. FEMA, the fire department, public health, vital records, tax assessors, and so forth were all supposed to be there to help. I learned things I never wanted to know.

We had applied for FEMA and been rejected in less than 24 hours, so our first stop was to the FEMA desk to ask why. Basically FEMA rejected anyone with insurance, and then we can appeal if our insurance doesn’t cover enough. Wonderful, extra steps.

We also discovered that the debris removal process (AKA removing the remains of what was once our home) is complicated, time-consuming, and possibly expensive. It has many steps because the debris is toxic and can’t go to the regular landfill area. We have to apply for a permit only after public health and the FD have removed toxic materials. This can be months until it is completed.

So many stops, so many people. It is going to be a long road.

It was also so sad and startling to meet others who lost their homes. The rooms were filled with sadness, confusion, anger, laughter (I know!), and tears.

In all honesty, I’m glad I took copious notes because the entire day was a blur. A big messy blur.

The tears have not stopped flowing. The waves of grief and anxiety continue coming, relentless, causing me to feel I am drowning in both. Now though a new emotion is beginning to take over as the tears come less frequently. And it is white-hot, unbridled rage. It bursts forth unexpectedly, and it is rocking me to my core. I don’t normally experience so much anger–I wouldn’t describe myself as an angry person. But now I am, so much so. And it is often undirected toward anyone, although there have been moments when I have felt anger at a few friends, family, or colleagues who seem to casually dismiss this experience or just ignore it all together and pretend like life is just going on as normal. As if no trauma has occurred.

I recognize that once people know I have lost my home due to the fire, responses vary considerably. People are uncomfortable, some laugh it off, others stay silent. Still others are curious, which often leads to somewhat insensitive probing. A few seem oblivious to the trauma its caused. A lot keep trying to find a “silver lining”–a phrase I’ve come to loathe in large part because these responses, while well-intended, tend to gloss over or not even recognize how I am feeling. Now when I hear the phrase I just tend to be mad.

I’ve also had a few people tell me our house was just stuff and it didn’t matter. And while yes, thank goodness no one in my family was hurt (the very idea makes me feel intense panic and a desire to know where all my family members are at this exact moment), it was not just stuff. It was my memory palace. It was a place filled with memories, love, laughter, loss, and so much more. I was also the family member that often was sent old photos to cherish. So many precious memories that I fear I will lose because my memory is not what it once was.

On Friday, 11/16 we were finally able to get back to the lake and to the remains of the house. Neither S or I slept the night before, the fear of returning to the ashes and the ruined neighborhood heavy on our minds. As we drove closer to the freeway exit, I think both of us felt panic. We were too anxious to even speak. At one point, I realized I was holding my breath and scratching my hand. As we turned off Kanan, we saw familiar hills blackened and dead. Paramount Ranch was no more, which caused tears to begin streaming down my cheeks. And then we began to see the homes, so many homes, gone, with nothing left but a chimney. Our little circle was almost completely devastated. All the homes on our side of the street burned, It was difficult to tell where one home started and another ended.

We drove up to our driveway, and noticed that the stair leading to our house appeared fine. In fact, two cheap Halloween decorations still remained on the steps, as did a planted with a succulent in it. But that was it–everything else that once existed on this earth was now ash, as if it never really existed at all.

We spent hours sifting. S was ready to leave after about 45 minutes, but I desperately clung to the hope that we might find something–anything, a trinket–that would serve as a sign, a token, a reminder of a life now altered.

It was a terrible process. Not only did we have to wear full suits, boots, N95 face masks, helmets, thick gloves, but we had to use shovels and other tools to even move items. The stench of smoke, burned plastic, and more was overpowering. The headache was immediate. Within the hour, an intense headache was pounding in my temples, and I felt nauseated. But I kept sifting.

Whenever I’d discover an area and recognize some small fragment, such as a piece of china, a vase, a frame, I’d start digging. We spent almost 7 hours sifting.

We were able to find a few tea cups that survived, although severely blackened and with pieces of other items encrusted permanently to their surfaces. I found my own piggy bank, black and sooty, with all the paint burned off. And miraculously S found my grandmother’s ring. I never take this ring off, and haven’t in more than a decade. But a few days prior to the fire I sprained my finger and I removed it as the finger swelled. How he was able to find it I don’t know. I took it as a sign that my grandmother was telling me there will be another day, that it would eventually be OK.

When we left that afternoon, we both knew we would not be returning to sift. All that survived didn’t even fill an entire shoebox.

I felt numbed by the experience, yet I knew I needed to do it. It still feels surreal, like a bad dream that one day I will wake up from and be able to go home and snuggle my girls on our couch under my favorite blanket. Or see my favorite painting while I eat breakfast at my lovely wooden table. Or browse through my girls’ baby books that we had so lovingly written in since they were born. Knowing I won’t be able to do that with all the things that reminded me of home and my family is heartbreaking.

I am afraid.

At the moment we are waiting to be able to return to the ash that used to be our home. The area is still evacuated. I am afraid to go back, intensely afraid. Yet I know we have to do it, and I know it will hopefully help with the grieving process.

I am afraid to see so many neighbors and friends who have also lost their homes, our collective grief almost all-consuming.

I am most saddened by the shattering of our community. We will all be dispersed, and all the faces I’m used to seeing so regularly will not be part of my every-day existence. I am afraid.

I am afraid to see the house that once was, the house where both my daughters took their first steps, where we had our toddler’s art on the fridge, where my husband and I dreamed of living forever. I fear the accentuated process of mourning that is to come with seeing and smelling and touching rubble.

I fear this waiting. Just sitting here, doing everything and nothing. In a space I don’t know, in clothes I don’t know.

I am starting this blog because I am not sure how else to process what has happened in the past 6 days. Normally during moments of sadness or trauma I’ve become an obsessive journal-writing person. But I can barely write because my hands are shaking too much. So I decided to start this blog, mainly for me, as a I way to process, as a way to grieve, and hopefully as a way to heal. Anyone joining me, please know it might be upsetting to read. I will also likely ramble and make typos.

On November 9, at the early hour of 1:20 AM, my life would change forever. I didn’t know it at that time, but about 12 hours later I feared it had.

My family lives on a lake in the Malibu area. We got a call in the early morning hours to evacuate due to a fast-moving fire. Luckily I had heard that a fire had started and had grabbed cat carriers and packed a diaper bag. The last thought I had before going to bed was “I’m so paranoid.” At 1:20 AM, we grabbed our two little girls (almost 1 and 2.5+), threw a single outfit into the car for each them, wrangled the cats into the carriers, and drove to Malibu proper to be with my mom. Our lovely little turtle (Floyd)  we left because we didn’t have time to find a way to transport her. We left with urgency because the police showed up on our street and started announcing over loud speakers to make haste. We packed nothing else. I think my husband and I both thought we’d be back later the next day.

Neither of us slept as we had two upset kids. My mom took us into her home. Then, we were evacuated at 7:30 that morning from Malibu. We all thought it was still just the FD being overly cautious, but we decided we’d go. We joined what can only be described as a massive exodus of people fleeing Malibu. It took us more than 4 hours to get to Topanga from the Point Dume area.

What we had no way of knowing yet is that that the fire had burned through our beautiful, amazing, lovely, peaceful neighborhood and destroyed our entire street.

Two houses seem to have escaped the devastation. (We haven’t been allowed back yet, so it’s unclear). We kept hope until Saturday when someone we know managed to sneak back to the area and confirm that indeed our house was nothing but ash. All that stood was a fireplace.

The range of emotions that I have felt have been intense. I have no control over them. My voice is hoarse from sobbing, my eyes hurt, my stomach is filled with very active butterflies. I can’t sleep due to panic attacks. My hands shake, my voice waivers. I feel sadness, so much sadness. I feel anger, and then guilt. So much guilt. I feel absolutely sick to my stomach about our turtle. I mourn for my neighbors, the city of Malibu–a town I grew up in–and all the people I know who have lost their homes. At least 9 families from my church have lost their homes, and so many people I grew up with. I want to hug all the students at Pepperdine, already suffering from other traumatic events. I grieve for all the people who lost their loved ones only a day before at the Borderline shooting, only to be confronted with this devastation and evacuation. I feel fear, so much fear.

I’ve been trying to take it minute by minute. This is the first day I’ve been able to write. Talking just makes me sob.

I have also felt so much love that I have been humbled. So many friends and colleagues and students who have offered kindness and support and love and hugs. I admit that I have found it overwhelming, in the best way possible. I cry just thinking about all the people who have come to our aid. I thank them, from the very bottom of my broken heart.

I am also so grateful that so many others are safe, that their homes remain. I am grateful for Pepperdine. I am grateful for my friends. I am grateful for my family, who has been so helpful during this trying time. I am grateful for my kids and Shawn. Both girls have been amazing distractions, even if I feel like I am failing them right now.

I am terrified of going back to our house, but I know we have to do it. I fear I am not strong enough to go through this.

Yet I cling to faith that somehow, at some point, possibly years into the future, we will look back on this moment and find beauty and strength. I am hoping that from the ashes, we will rise again as a family, as a community, and move forward with love.

We will rise from the ashes.