As I was going through some boxes today, I came across some of Sam’s clothing and a pair of dress shoes that I had bought him when he was still living at home. The shoes struck me the hardest for some reason. I’m not sure why.

It was like ripping a scab off.

Six months in, and I have good moments; good hours and even good days. But then I’ll turn a corner and something will set me off. It can be an item of clothing, or a flash memory that comes into mind. Some times, I can’t seem to stop the flow of memories as they cascade from one decade to the next. Even yoga is not exempt from the thoughts that seen to dominate the forefront of my mind.

Today was particularly brutal. It’s March on Canada’s west coast. The sun is a rarity and dark grey skies and rain permeate the forecast. It really doesn’t contribute to happy days for the best of us. But when you are already struggling, it’s hell.

I stopped taking my anti-depressant medication in Dec. I had been taking it for three years and it always helped me. Sam was on that same medication and it did nothing for him: it seems to have made things worse in fact. I’m not an expert but I attribute that medication as one of the factors in his death. It doesn’t seem fair that it worked for me but not him. So I won’t take it anymore. I know that seems counterproductive. It is. But nothing makes sense to me anymore. I’m in a messed up, fucked up world now that I no longer belong in.

My own suicidal ideation is more than just looming in the background now: it’s present most days. Either Im wishing for a disease or I’m trying to find a quick and easy solution to this pain that engulfs me daily. But there is nothing easy about this. I can’t go. It wouldn’t be fair to those who love me.

How is a mother supposed to live on after burying her child?