Fighting for Peace

Fighting for Peace

Copyright © 2022 by Julian Godfrey

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

ISBN: 979-8-218-02086-6 (hardcover)

ISBN: 979-8-986-43760-6 (e-book)

Unless otherwise indicated, scripture quotations are taken from the New King James Version ®. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson. All rights reserved.

Cover design by Jason Arias

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition

This book is dedicated to the memory of my godmother, Linda Wright.

Though we were 35 years apart in age, you became one of my best friends. Thank you for the weekly hour-long talks where we would pray together, and you would encourage me to keep going. Your prayers helped to push me through as I started the journey of sharing my story.

Thank you for supporting me, believing in me, and for being there as a listening ear as I struggled through my personal challenges. You were my second mother, and I was your son. I miss you so much and will forever hold our memories together in my heart.

Linda Wright

1951–2021

Contents

Introduction

Chapter 1: Everything Explodes

Chapter 2: Bigger Than Expected

Chapter 3: Losing Control

Chapter 4: Seeking Help

Chatper 5: Dealing With Disappointment

Chapter 6: Moving Forward

Chapter 7: Fighting for Peace

Chapter 8: Setting Boundaries

Chapter 9: Feeling Better

Chapter 10: Craving Connection

Chapter 11: A New Life

Chapter 12: Fighting for You

Afterword

Acknowledgments

Notes

Introduction

This book is for every survivor. If you have overcome anything in your life, that includes you. Some have merely survived sitting in LA traffic on a weekday afternoon. Others have had life-altering circumstances that caused them to question if living was really all that it’s built up to be.

Many have survived a worldwide pandemic, filled with the loss of loved ones, the loss of opportunities, and the loss of hope and dreams. Others have survived a world full of social injustices and police brutality, coupled with an ongoing fight for equality.

Whatever the case may be, if you’re reading this, you’re still here. If you’re still here, you’re a survivor. If you’re a survivor, this book is for you. You may not understand why the trajectory of your life has been totally contradictory to your annual vision board, but you still have purpose.

Don’t quit, don’t give up, don’t surrender. You will get the victory over everything that has been tormenting you.

I wasn’t sure if I would ever live to write these words, but I’m a survivor too. I’m still here and I’m just getting started pursuing all that God has for me to accomplish on this earth.

Here is my story.

A story of loss, grief, rejection, and despair.

A story of hope, survival, faith, and victory.

A story of battling and struggling with many mental illnesses.

A story of how God gave me the grace and power to overcome everything that was causing me extreme pain.

A story of how I learned to fight for peace.

CHAPTER 1

Everything Explodes

On April 18th, 2018, I lost one of my closest friends to domestic violence. I vividly remember being in the hospital all night as the team of doctors in the emergency room did everything they could to save her. Unfortunately, there was nothing else that could be done, and the immediate family and close friends were called into the operating room to have a final moment with our loved one. She was completely unrecognizable because of her injuries, and this was such an unreal moment as we had just spent the entire weekend together, three days prior, attending a wedding and going to brunch the next day.

Two weeks later, my father passed after a seven-year battle with multiple myeloma. I was fortunate to fly to Dallas and spend the last few days of his life together with him. We didn’t say too much during those last days, but just being there made both of us feel at peace. As I sat in his intensive care unit room and stared at his practically lifeless body, I was multitasking to help put together the final touches on my dear friend’s memorial service, which took place the day after my father transitioned.

I wasn’t extremely close to my father, though we had an amazing relationship and a great understanding of each other. The long distance definitely didn’t help with me living in Los Angeles, and my family in Dallas. But I always tried to make the most of our phone conversations, our text check-ins when he would remind me to make sure I was getting my oil changed every 5,000 miles, and our in-person visits when he would educate me on everything going on in the world.

Glynn Godfrey was his name, a phenomenal man who taught me so much about life. He was fascinated with engineering and technology, and he loved sports, politics, and career advancement. But that’s who he was, a man of many talents and interests; a man who helped shape who I am today. He shared so much wisdom and so many life lessons, mostly learned through his own trial and error, so I could make better decisions.

My parents were first-generation college students, and my mother was fortunate to receive a master’s degree. They were high school sweethearts from Port Arthur, Texas, a city known mostly for its oil refineries, great seafood, and its large portion of residents who live below the poverty line. But my mom and dad were determined not to let their childhood circumstances dictate their outcome. They were hard workers and set the bar high for their siblings and children, while giving us hope that we can make it out of any situation we face.

My mother, now a widow, is bold, confident, and highly esteemed in many spaces within her community. A natural leader with a heart of gold, most people refer to her as their second mother. She’s the matriarch of our large extended family and loves to cook and gather everyone together for family functions. She is known simply as Mrs. Godfrey in DeSoto, Texas (a suburb of Dallas), and as Tricia to her family members. She’s an amazing supporter and passed down many gifts and talents to me and my sister, Dana.

I was blessed to grow up in suburban neighborhoods outside of Dallas, attend private school as a kid, and always have my needs met. My parents endured racism while living in the ‘60s and ‘70s and wanted to create a better quality of life for me and my sister. They didn’t have conversations with me about race as a young child, because they wanted me to see everyone as equal, regardless of the color of their skin. They wanted us to have access to the best educational opportunities, something they weren’t afforded as kids.

My sister Dana was an amazing basketball player and was highly regarded within the amateur women’s basketball circuit in the mid-90s. She played collegiately at the University of Texas, and it was through her that I was blessed to travel the country as a young child as we attended all her basketball tournaments. It wasn’t easy growing up in her shadow, as she was one of the top women’s basketball players at the time in Duncanville Pantherette history, a perennial nationally ranked basketball program, but I had no problem being Dana’s little brother.

We were seven years apart, and as we grew older she would spend most of her time with friends when she wasn’t playing basketball. My parents both worked long hours to provide for the family. My father worked overnight shifts as an engineer for Amtrak, while my mother worked countless hours as a finance manager for AT&T. This caused me to spend a lot of time alone. I became very independent and very self-sufficient while learning to take care of myself at a young age.

My mother always told me there was something special about me. I thought it was because I was relatively tall for my age, somewhat clumsy and uncoordinated, and spent much of my childhood impersonating Michael Jackson daily. But in actuality, she was speaking to my ability to dream further than those around me, to having a tenacity that would overcome all odds, and to possessing a determination to never quit. I inherited these traits from my hard-working parents, and further developed them as I strengthened my relationship with God. I never knew there was a fighter in me until everything exploded.

Grief

As I flew back to Los Angeles on May 4th, 2018, after spending a few days in Dallas with my father as we watched him take his final breaths, I didn’t have too many emotions that I was feeling. I wasn’t sad; I wasn’t upset; I wasn’t even remotely concerned. Actually, I don’t recall feeling anything. Maybe because I was still trying to process what had just happened. Maybe because I was so mentally tired and drained from everything that had transpired the past two and a half weeks, I didn’t have any emotions left to give.

Whatever the case, I came back to my home. I needed some time to be alone, but that would have to wait. I can’t say I honestly remember anything that happened the next few weeks after that. I know I attended two funerals in consecutive weeks. I remember a lot of traveling back and forth from California to Texas. I know I gave a lot of hugs, and I definitely received a lot of condolences from friends that let me know they were praying for me, which I greatly appreciated. Outside of those vague recollections, everything else is a blur.

Dealing with the loss of a loved one is a tough pill to swallow. One moment you feel like you’re on top of the world, the next you feel like the world is on top of you. I don’t wish the pain of losing a parent on my worst enemy. I know it’s inevitable for all of us, but I never realized how death is so final. This makes my faith even more important to me, as I believe that I will see my loved ones again in Heaven. However, that belief alone doesn’t ease the pain that comes with loss.

There are five general stages of grief: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.¹ I certainly experienced all five stages in their totality. However, I seriously struggled with stage 1 for a long time, as I was in denial of the fact that my father was gone. Were we the absolute best of friends? Not necessarily, but I feel we had a very solid relationship. Especially as I matured as a young adult, I grew to really appreciate the method to his madness.

Though I was extremely grateful for everyone who reached out, I craved an end to discussions about these events. When people seriously ask, So how are you doing? How are you holding up? How’s the grieving process going? trust me, they all mean well, but sometimes you don’t want to constantly rehash and rehearse these painful memories every time you speak to someone. It can become overbearing. Every conversation is built around your healing process, that in my case, was practically non-existent at this point. Every time someone checked in on me, it just made the pain worse. I was trying to move on, but I couldn’t seem to escape the feelings of being pulled back into reliving those last moments in the ICU room, as everyone kept checking in.

As a side note, I’m not sure if there is a formal process to extend condolences. But I would like to offer that it’s much more appropriate simply to let those you care about know that you are sorry for their loss, that you are praying for them, and that you will be there for them, than it is to offer any additional commentary, such as interjecting your own feelings or ideologies about what happened or why God took a loved one. Also, we must remember to give the grieving some space to process everything. It’s amazing to know how loved you are by so many people, and it really warms your heart. But if someone has experienced a traumatic life-altering moment they may need a bit more time to grasp what has transpired in their life.

I was in denial for much longer than my closest family members, or so it seemed, which made things even tougher. The people that I really wanted to talk to about this situation essentially appeared to have moved on much quicker than me. Maybe this was because I didn’t get to see my father routinely, and we were relegated to less than a handful of in-person interactions each year because of distance. Maybe it was my guilt for not making a better effort to travel to Texas and be by his side in his final months because I was busy pursuing my dreams. Maybe it was because the last time he called me to thank me for wishing him a happy birthday, I practically rushed him off the phone because I was headed to an engagement party for my friend and his fiancé. That was my life, always on the go, always on the move, always busy. But did I neglect to create precious memories with my father, and now I couldn’t go back in time to make up for my own mistakes?

I guess I was in denial because I never fathomed what life would be like without him here on earth. The glue to our family, the ultimate problem solver, and the self-proclaimed gumbo king. Who was going to fry catfish and shrimp on Friday nights or make that famous pot roast on Sunday afternoons if he was really gone? Those are the questions I never thought about until after it was too late. None of these thoughts essentially mattered at this point. What mattered most is that it was time for the healing process to begin, even if I wasn’t ready to accept this earth-shattering reality.

When dealing with grief, I have learned through experience that although the person is physically gone from our presence, God gives us beautiful memories to cherish in our hearts. Whenever I think about my father, it always puts a huge smile on my face as I reflect on the good times we shared. We were blessed to have an amazing person in our family for so many years, and we will do everything to honor his legacy. His life will live on through us and we will always hold close the phenomenal moments we were blessed to share with him.

Walking Wounded

I once heard that losing a loved one is like losing a limb, and I couldn’t agree more. You’re still alive, but you feel like someone has chopped off your right arm or your left leg. But despite these feelings, life goes on. Walking wounded is how I would describe this season of my life. I was walking around without something vital to my existence, something that would not be returning.

Time heals all wounds is not just a solution to cuts, scrapes, and other bodily injuries. Time really does heal all wounds, physically and in our hearts, when we take the necessary actions for healing to manifest. But exactly how much time would it take for me to heal? That I was unsure of, but I really wanted my missing limb back. It’s funny how you don’t realize how much you need something until it’s gone. We often take for granted the people that are in our lives, but this loss caused me to appreciate everyone that was still here.

Hurting, broken, and wounded, I was still here. I was walking with a limp, not fully understanding why life has taken this completely unexpected bad turn, but I had to keep going. I didn’t feel or look my best at all, but I had to figure out a way to keep walking, even if I was completely unaware of the journey and challenges that were ahead of me.

My father had been diagnosed with cancer almost seven years before he passed. That clearly should have been enough time for me to mentally prepare for this day to come. But you never can fully prepare for the moment when your world is flipped upside down. To make matters worse, I pushed people away so I could have some space to breathe and process what had just happened in my life.

Two major losses, back-to-back, and now I was left to navigate life without my father and one of my closest friends. How would I get through this? What would I do to