I’m laying in bed. My room is a mess. My house is a mess. My head is a mess. I can’t seem to take that first step towards cleaning or tidying any of it. I have Buddy wrapped up under the blankets with me. He is doing so much better than when he first got here, but I know that at 19, he is on borrowed time. I don’t know how I will be able to say goodbye when the time comes. He is Sam’s dog and I’m just taking care of him until they are together again. Will my heart be able to handle that day? It’s already completely broken so what will happen to me when that day comes? God only knows. I have no regrets for caring for Buddy but I wish my family might have considered how difficult it will be when that time does come, when they asked me to take him. Every morning I wake up and I look over at him to see if he is breathing. I want a peaceful death for him – in his sleep. Yet I watch for his chest rising every morning, dreading the day when it doesn’t.
I dreamt I was in an airplane last night, and that it crashed. I think I was flying it. I knew the dream with such clarity when I woke up, and I should have written it down but these last few days it’s been very difficult to even open my eyes when I wake up let alone find a pen and paper to write about it. I wish I could remember the dream but it is fleeting quickly out of the grasp of my memory as I try to recall it. It felt like it was important: there was an urgency to remember something about it. But it’s gone.
I had a good few days but, as it does….grief has clawed me back under the blankets where I just want to stay and never come out. Darkness is spilling out of me as it runs down my cheeks. My doctor prescribed some stronger painkillers to deal with what has become chronic pain and inflammation that is wreaking havoc on my physical body, yet I know that it’s linked to my mind, (and probably the excess grief-induced weight gain that is making me not want to put clothes on). I somehow need to will myself to get out of this bed: I need to be somewhere in a few hours. I made a promise to my body that we would do yoga this morning but, here I am….laying here in bed with Sam’s dog tucked in under the covers.
I wish I could be good again. But I wish my little family was intact: that Sam was alive. I wish for a lot of things but it all boils down to the emptiness that can not be filled. My usual go to’s: a bag of candy kisses; a trip to my favorite store; yoga; music; a walk along the ocean; ginger snaps – none of these bring me happiness aside from a momentary distraction that the tides quickly fill in again with debilitating sadness. I can’t close the portal to my imagination where I keep seeing his last moments. I wasn’t there when he took his last breath. No one was: Sam died alone. So my imagination keeps drawing a picture for me. And it’s brutal.
Life changes after suicide. We know that our loved ones were suffering. I’m happy for Sam that he is at peace. But my peace is gone. Joy is gone. What does my future hold now?