For the Love of Sam

Where is heaven exactly?

Is it a state of mind? Is it a place?

Where does our consciousness go when it leaves our body?

Before I lost Sam, I always believed that heaven is just another dimension that it is as close as the next room. I am not religious, but that is an argument that I keep to myself. I believe that we are all created, and therefor, there is a creator. Some call him God. Others call him by other names. But he is all, the same creator.

I often feel my son’s presence. I have long given up trying to explain things as mere coincidence: I know that Sam is around me.

Recently, Cait, his former girlfriend let me listen to part of a recording of a reading with a Medium she had after my son died. He came in loud and strong, but only after stepping to one side first to let another friend of hers who had passed have her visit with Cait. Sam was always considerate in life. I wouldn’t expect any less of him on the other side.

The first thing he did, was apologize. He said he was so sorry for what he had done and the pain he had caused. The medium said he wouldn’t show her his cause of death, other than difficulty breathing. Throughout the reading, Cait never told the medium that he had died by suicide. He spoke of a few other things, and then the Medium suddenly asked Cait if she was still in touch with Sam’s mom. Before she could reply, through the Medium, he said ” tell my mom I love her”. He said to tell me that it was not my fault; it was his own and there was nothing I could have done to stop him. He said, to please, tell her ( me) to stop the ” would haves, and the should haves”, and that he was so sorry.

She told Cait that Sam showed her a picture of him with his arm around Cait in a frame, and that it was on a mantle. Cait told her that she thought I had that picture, which I do. It isn’t on a mantle, but on my piano. She also showed her a table that was set up, with some of Sam’s things on it: like a memorial. Cait didn’t understand, but later I showed her the little table I have here, with some of Sam’s things. It’s a little makeshift memorial that I set up. I live 5000 kms away from Cait, but the medium, was seeing things at my house that Sam was showing her.

The rest of the reading was pretty amazing but was about Cait, and her children that Sam loved as is own.

I listened to that recording for many nights. ” Tell my mom I love her”. That brought me so much comfort.

I reached out to the medium, to ask if she could do readings over video. Which she does. So I set up my own reading.

I had it a week ago. I looked so eagerly towards it. And he didn’t let me down.

The Medium, whose name is Sheila, is a Psychic healer, Medium, and a Minister. She started off our meeting with an energy healing, and when she finished , she told me that she felt so much pain and grief from a very recent loss. I hadn’t told her anything about me or why I had reached out to her.

As she started her reading, Sam came through. Again, she told me that she could feel difficulty breathing. She kept grabbing at her chest saying she felt a real struggle to breathe. I did explain to her that his death was by suicide at that point. This made her sad. But she described Sam, and was pretty key on with his personality. Again, he apologized over and over and told me how much he loves me. He also told her to tell me how proud he was of me ( and she brought up ” something like a tribunal” that he mentioned I was going to be speaking at.) He mentioned ” falling through the cracks “, ( something I have been planning on talking about at the Board of Inquiry in two weeks).

Sheila told me how much he appreciated the funeral we had for him, and she asked if it was a military funeral ( it was). She said Sam showed her me being presented with the flag, and his beret. She also said that I have his hat ( at which point I showed her his baseball hat that I had been holding below the view of the video camera). She described his funeral as if she was watching it on a movie.

She asked if Sam was living with me when he passed: because he was showing her things of his at my house. He wasn’t, but there was the table: the memorial I had set up here with his things that she had seen in Caits reading. She said that he hears me when I sit in front of it and talk to him. How could she have known that I sit and talk to the pictures on this table? We talked about so many things. But near the end of the call, she asked if we had a family dog that had crossed over because Sam had a beige colored dog with him. The night before my reading, when I was asking Sam to please come through the next day, I asked him to bring our old dog Reggie with him. Reggie was our 17 year old Corgi cross that we had lost 9 years ago. He was beige.

My reading with Sheila was truly amazing. I know that there are many skeptics, but I feel that this was a genuine communication with my son. And I feel very fortunate to have been blessed with it.

A week later I was talking to my oldest son. I was telling him about the reading. I forwarded him the recording and about an hour later I noticed the recording was sitting in” draft” of my outlook so I hit send again. He had already received it so I was confused as to why it had been sitting in draft. When I hit send. It went to Sheila. The following morning, Sheila emailed me, saying that it was strange, because for some unknown reason, she had been thinking about Sam and I the night prior and awoke the following morning, to the recording she had sent me a week before sitting in her inbox. She said she had never felt such a strong pull from the other side as she had felt from my son. We have decided to meet, even just to have coffee when I fly to Ontario for the Board of Inquiry in two weeks.

I am keeping an open mind. If I don’t, I feel that I won’t get through this. My mind has undergone such trauma in these few short weeks : the loss of my son is unsurmountable in so many ways. But I know in my heart without a doubt, that my sweet Sammy is still here with me.

Last night, was another Ativan night. I try to avoid that bottle, but sometimes, it just can’t be helped. Sometimes, the unsettled darkness in my head is more than I can deal with alone.

As I tapped just one tablet into my palm, for one brief moment, I looked at the remaining pills in the bottle and thought about how easy it would be to take all of them. I looked at my cabinet and noted how many bottles of unused pills of various kinds there are , and how easy it would be to make a cocktail.

But I closed the bottle, put just one Ativan under my tongue, turned off the kitchen light and went upstairs to bed.

It’s a rare day that passes that the thought of joining my beautiful boy doesn’t cross my mind. I just wish, that I could have the life back that we all had before he left. I wish that there was a way that an alternate could have played out that night, that would have left my perfect little family intact. I wish, that I knew my phone would ring tomorrow and I’d hear his familiar ” hey mam” on the other end. I wish, I could feel joy again.

I’m laying here on the very spot where we spoke our last words to each other. And the same spot where I would wake up to a phone call just hours later telling me that he was gone. I curled up here later that morning: after talking to my ex husband, and each of my surviving children; After talking to my father; After the official military knock at my door where I opened it to greet three offcial men in uniform, one being a Padre: all three of them witnessing me fall to pieces before their eyes. After all of that, I curled up on this spot and I screamed. And as Randy wrapped me tighter into his arms I screamed even louder.

It’s this spot, that I fall asleep on, if I fall asleep that is, at night. And it’s this spot, where I awaken every day to a new day : a day that comes with the re:realization, that Sam died.

So yes, on the inside, to most people who see a much more composed Judi, there is a much darker version of me now that I hide, and that I have to fight against, most days, to stay alive.

To anyone who is thinking of taking their life tonight, I wish you could have seen me earlier when I couldn’t catch my breath as I tried to hold it all in. I wish you could have seen my face twisted in anguish, and in agony. I wish you could hear me begging God, for just one do-over. This… is what you will leave behind. This, is what you will do to those who love you.

And now I, have to remind myself of this, every night.

I’m laying in a hot tub, letting the water flow over me, while i watch a bath bomb sizzle as it gets smaller and smaller, changing the water from clear to pink and putting a pleasant aroma into the steam around me . I used to love taking a hot bath after a long day.

The night before Sam died ; just a few hours before he tied whatever it was that he used to hang himself with, he called me. He was in the bath. He didn’t tell me that, but I could hear the water as he moved around in it. That worried me: I knew that he took hot baths when he was feeling particularly vulnerable and sad. He was down that night. I could hear it catching in his voice as he talked to me. He talked about a nightmare he had that was recurring from his childhood. He told me how he was awful to his younger sister when they were young. He told me that he didn’t fit in with his two older brothers: they were friends and he was an outsider. He told me that he felt he wasn’t good enough to be in a relationship with anyone : he was ruined from the two failed relationships ( the second being his marriage) that he had been in when he was younger. He told me how he felt like he had to work harder than anyone to make things happen. And he told me that he was tired, and he didn’t want to do this anymore.

I tried to address all of these things: assuring him that he and his sister fought, like ALL siblings fight when they are young. I pointed out all the good things about him, and how, things would get better. I really felt that by the end of that call, in a better headspace. But I was wrong. And that phone call…. and the sound of the bath water, haunt me. That night, when I should have really heard the things he was trying to say to me: I missed them.

I was worried enough that I thought about calling his brother and his fiance to check on him ( they lived 10 minutes away), but it was late, and I had asked them just a few days before to check up on him and they did, and they said he was fine. I didn’t call because I thought they would be annoyed. But I didn’t think he was going to die that night.

Everyone says not to blame myself. But how can I not? I could have stayed on the phone longer that night. But I was tired after driving for 6 hours to Victoria and back that day. And Randy and I had gotten into an argument when I got home. I was tired and I just wanted to try to sort that out and then get some sleep. I thought he was ok. And I missed it. My last phone call with Sam. I completely missed it.

I’ve taken very few baths to relax since that night, because I hear the water and it takes me back to that phone call. I’m trying to desensitize myself from all the little things, like: listening to his videos of him playing his guitar and singing; listening to music he liked; listening to anyone play guitar; taking a bath.

Two steps forward, five steps back. That is how this works.

I don’t know if I can do this.

Once upon a time, not a long long time ago, there was a girl.

She was happy and found beauty in everything around her. The clouds, the sky, the mountains, the sea, the birds, the glisten of dew on a spider web, and the sounds of this life on a beautiful earth that we are blessed to walk for such a short time.

Time. What is time? It is a concept of human-kind: invented to make our lives easier. But there is no such thing as time.

We are here but for a blink of an eye, and then we are gone. We return to energy and this life is a lesson for the soul to evolve.

But, for me, the earth has both sped up and slowed down. The days and weeks have passed at a dizzying speed. But the moments of my grief linger and move in slow motion. The hours of longing for what has been lost: a constant struggle.

There is still beauty all around me. That hasn’t changed, nor how I see it hasn’t changed. But everything feels different for me now. There is a void: an emptiness that will remain with me as I finish this lesson, and move on to the next.

Sam is still with me. I know he is. I see him in the beauty that is all around me. He rides the currents in the blue skies above; he dances in the dragonfly as it swoops and dives on a beautiful summers day. He is in the sound of the echo of the eagle as it soars overhead. He is in the energy of this life: of this earth. As we all are. And one day, he will meet me with open arms and an unconditional love that awaits all of us when this journey is done.

That girl is still here. But she is different. She is just facing the hardest lesson that she was sent here to learn.

You know, one of things I have hated hearing on this journey is ” you’re so strong”. I think most parents who have lost a child to suicide….for that matter ANYONE who has lost a loved one no matter what the cause of death is, those words make us cringe.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate that someone cares enough to reach out and offer their support and comfort. And I know that if the shoe was on the other foot, I would struggle to find the right words to say too.

But those words ” you’re so strong” , and they are usually followed by ” you will get through this” : I just hate them .

If I decided by choice to do something difficult : like when I decided to move more than half of the continent away after the breakup of a toxic relationship, yeah, those three words might have fit ( they actually didn’t : I didn’t leave because I was strong . I was a mess and I was just running away from my problems …but that’s a long story I’m not getting into). I have no choice in this. There is no strength involved at all. It’s not something I chose. Most days I just want to put my head under the covers and hide. Most days I don’t want to face at all. But no matter what : the sun rises every morning and I have to wake up and do….whatever the hell it is that I do. There’s no strength involved. Not at all. If I had any say in it, I wouldn’t do.

The truth of it is : I’m tired. And I’m weak. I have had to be strong and resilient all of my life and there just isn’t anything left. The slight gust of wind might send me tumbling to the floor now.

My life has not been easy. My youth was a turbulent one. My father was an alcoholic. And he was a violent and angry one. I remember when I was three, hiding in the locked bathroom with my mom and my big sister, while he went on a rampage. I remember my mom washing the blood from her face. This was a regular occurrence. And I remember always being afraid.

I was a mom for the first time at 20. And a mom, five and a half years later, to 4. I was married to a career soldier who was always away. I raised those 4 beautiful children mostly by myself. But the 5 of us were a team. My children were my best friends and my most proud accomplishment of my life. I made a lot of mistakes while growing up. But the 4 children I brought into this world were just beautiful. They were a true blessing. We moved on average every 2.5 years. It felt like we were having to start fresh more than most as my ex husband chased career dreams that took us to the arctic; to the east coast; to the UK and back; crisscrossing provinces and cities : my children always having to start new schools, and I: new jobs.

The kids grew up as kids do. The two oldest were close. Sam was the 3rd boy, followed by his sister. She was ” daddies little girl”. She could do no wrong in her father’s eyes. And she was a great kid. But Sam always seemed to be the odd man out. He never really found a place to fit in with his siblings. And as he grew older, he and his father fought. Alot.

We almost lost him when he was 17. No matter what he did, it always seemed to piss his dad off. Where his sister could do no wrong, he could do no right. One summer, it got particularly bad and he begged me to let him spend a week with his old friends 5 hours away in a small town where we used to live. I felt hesitant, but he and his dad really needed a break from each other. I drove him out, with the intent of going back 5 days later to pick him up. I had reservations about it, but I trusted him when he said he would stay out of trouble. I didn’t make it home that night. I got a call from his father when I was on the highway, telling me Sam had been rushed to the hospital. He was unconscious and unresponsive. He and his friends had polished off a bottle of Jack Daniel’s shortly after I left him. When he lost consciousness, his friends put him in a bath of cold water. Thank God whoever’s house they were at, the father came home and found him before he drowned. But Sam’s alcohol/blood level was enough alone to kill him. By the time I got to the hospital, he had been there for two hours, was wrapped in a foil blanket: was hypothermic, and was in an alcohol induced coma. He did survive the ordeal, and never really drank after that. What was really sad about that night, is that when his father called me to tell me I had to go back: he was annoyed at his son: no, he was angry at his son because it was an inconvenience that he was hospitalized. That poor kid could never win.

I spent 25 years in that marriage. I spent most of those years acting as a buffer between Sam and his father. When I was 42, I joined the military. I went through basic training with 20 year olds. I trained as an aviation technician and 4 years later, his father and I separated. Sam moved in with me.

I feel like I have always had to be strong to get through this life. Tonight, I spent 3 hours writing out a testimony in a class action lawsuit against the military for sexual harrassment. I’ve known for months that the due date for this was coming up. But what happened to me, was emotionally difficult to deal with and having to write out an account of what happened, was something I just kept putting off. And then in August, Sam died. I got a call from the law office dealing with the lawsuit today telling me they needed the details asap so that they could proceed as the due date was nearing. Today, was a particularly emotionally hard day: my grief was just bursting at the seams to escape, I worked late, and then I had to spend 3 hours on the lawsuit.

I am done. If I had nothing in me before, I definitely am running on a deficit of ” strong” now. I feel raw. I wish I felt nothing, because then I would be dead. What doesn’t kill you, makes you stronger. Right. What doesn’t kill me leaves me exposed and vulnerable to the next blow.

No. I am not strong. Far from it.

I’m not depressed. I can get up in the morning. I shower. I get dressed. I eat. I sleep….well, sometimes i sleep. I don’t have a ” foreboding sense of doom”. I don’t feel like I need to stay in bed all day. I’m not suicidal.

But; sometimes I want to die.

I have suffered from depression on an off throughout my life. I’ve been treated for depression. I’ve even been suicidal.

But; I’m not depressed.

I’m not suicidal.

Sometimes I just want to die.

Grief is different than depression. And I can see how quickly it can turn to depression. Who knows: mine just might if I don’t stop forgetting to take my meds. Or, maybe my meds are why I’m not suffering from depression now.

Grief is different. Or at least mine is: I can’t speak for others. It comes in waves. I’ve had people comment that I am grieving well: whatever that is supposed to mean. Of course, my neurodivergent brain ( I have ADHD) will run rampant with rumination on those words, for hours and even days. I grieve well? What should grief look like to an onlooker? Should I be disheveled? Should I have greasy hair and pillow creases on my face from lying in bed for days? Should I have sunken eyes and have to be gently reminded that I need to shower? I’m really not sure how I am supposed to look.

Sometimes I worry that if I’m “grieving well” it means that I couldn’t have loved my son as much as I was supposed to. I worry that I wasn’t a good enough mother. But I know that is not what they mean. I still wonder if I am wrong . Should I be depressed?

The logical me knows that’s not true. I love my son beyond measure. My heart is beyond shattered and the thought of moving on with life without him, is incomprehensible. Most people don’t see me laying on the bathroom floor hugging my dog tight as I bury my face into his fur and bawl my eyes out. No one saw me crying in the shower this morning when I was getting ready for work. People dont see me or hear my heart wrenching sobs when I’m driving my car or walking deep in the woods with my dogs, where I think no one will hear me. Sometimes, I feel like grief is going to suffocate me.

I’m not depressed. I’m grieving. I’m not suicidal but I want to be dead more often than I care to admit to. I want to die, but I don’t want to kill myself.

My grief is not a mental illness. It’s a profound sadness that sometimes will let me walk amongst my peers undetected. It let’s me smile, and it let’s me laugh. It allows me to shower, and dress and carry on a conversation. It actually fools others into thinking I’m doing well. It even fools me: until it gets me alone and then it unleashes its power that sometimes feels, like it will destroy me. It’s in those moments when I want to die. It’s those moments, that I’m not grieving well at all.

I’m really not sure what people expect to see when they see me. Maybe that is the problem: I worry too much that I will make them uncomfortable, when I am the one who is uncomfortable. I need to let them, let me grieve.

Grief, is not the same thing as depression. But they can both make you want to die.

A friend recently posted a meme on my Facebook, that said something along the lines of ” when a husband or wife loses their spouse, they are called a widow. When a child loses their parents they are called an orphan. But there is no name for a parent who has lost a child”.

I thought about this for a while, and tried to come up with something appropriate.

The word ” dead” was on the tip of my tongue, but that was just the negative energy I’m feeling today leaking out of me. While I don’t deny there have been many moments that I have felt that being dead might not be a bad thing under the circumstances, I know that my living children, my spouse, my parents and sisters, my friends and my dog and cat might not agree. So the word ” dead”, did not make the cut.

A “shell” might be an appropriate moniker. Many days I feel that the very essence of who I once was before all of this, is gone and all that remains is an exoskeleton that once protected the soul that lived inside. But I’m neither a snail nor a lobster and my skeleton lies beneath my skin. So ” shell” doesn’t work.

I do feel like a ghost at times. I feel like I’m not fully in this realm of the Living. But I’m not fully in the realm of the Dead either. The part of my heart that went with Sam is there with him ; and the part that belongs to my other children is here. Does that put me in pergatory? Am I a ghost trapped between two worlds?

There really is no word for us: just as there are no words that comfort us. There are many words to describe how we feel: broken; shattered; fragmented; lost; numb; destroyed come to mind. It is unfathomable to any parent that they would ever face the day that their child would not be in. And when that child chooses the day? Well that just puts us into a whole new category. If we can’t come up with a name for a parent who has lost a child, we definitely can’t come up with a name for a parent who has lost a child to suicide.

So who are we then?

Many have said to me when offering their condolences that ” there are just no words”. And they are right. There really are no words for this. There is no real defining title to give to us. None of this should be real. This is what nightmares are made of. I think that there is no name for a parent who has lost a child, because it’s something that no one wants to ever even think about. No one wants to write down, or come up with a word for something that is too terrifying to even consider. It’s the last thing that anyone wants to allow to cross their mind.

I am Judi. And I am still Sam’s Mom and I forever will be. Thats the only name I need. I am still the mother of four beautiful children. The difference now, is that one of them lives in heaven. That is all that I need to define who, or what I am.

I had a rough night. I’m never sure what triggers these, aside from the obvious… but most days I can get through hiding much of what I’m feeling from the world. This ” bomb cyclone” weather we were hit with over the past two days was great weather for walking the dogs as my tears just blended into the rain.

I was informed yesterday of the date I am required to be in Trenton for the Board of Inquiry. I lay awake most of the night thinking about what to expect and what I am going to say in my testimony. Lack of sleep; a constant cycle of rumination led to a pretty rough go at 5 am.

I’m, so tired. 😦

Dear Universe,

Fuck you. I am not ok.

I spin round and round in a cesspool of darkness.

I hold my breath but you force me to breathe. And I don’t want to. I feel like I’ll choke on my tears. But you won’t let that happen either. I feel like I am being punished.

I’m supposed to learn something from this? Like what? Pain? How cruel life is? Tell me ! So that it makes sense to me.

There’s a big storm blowing in: they are calling it a” bomb cyclone” . Could I hitchhike on a gust of wind to heaven?

This is my dog Abram. Or, Abe for short.

Abe grounds me. He found me 5 years ago, and saw me through what I thought was the biggest crisis of my life ( at that time). Abe kept me alive in return for a roof over his head, a full belly, lots of walks, and love. Lots of love. Dogs give us so much and expect so little in return.

He was a ” lost” dog : found wandering with a thick chain around his neck, dragging a couple feet of the same behind him. Animal Control had to use bolt cutters to take it off. No one ever claimed him.

I foster failed, after I took in this bedraggled, crazy, terrified, hungry brute of fur and kisses. I nursed him back to health and some semblance of normalcy ( he is still crazy); while he in turn, saved my life.

There are moments in this pit of grief where I find myself, longing to cross to the other side. But there is Abe….looking up at me with the most innocent look in his eyes ( as he trashes the room since he is like a bull in a China shop), pleading with me to stay. Who would take care of him if I was gone? So Abe, once again, has the burden of keeping me alive for my loved ones. They alone are more than enough reason to stay. But at times, the grief is so intense; the world so dark; and the black hole so deep, that it is not hard to lose sight of what is right, and what is so, so wrong.

Sam had a deep love for animals. Buddy and Theo were his pride and joy. He would stop at Dairy Queen on his way home from work, to buy his boys ice cream as a treat. Buddy, a Terrier mix, is nearly 19. He had spent all but the first 11 weeks of his life as Sam’s best friend. Theo, is a 3 year old Australian shepard mix. He had some reactivity issues and that was a little isolating for Sam and his dogs. But they were ” The Three Amigos”. I never thought I would see the day that my son would leave those two dogs behind. Depression knows no boundaries though. The last words of the note he left asked us to take care of his boys.

On a different note, I’ve decided to make kindness and paying it forward Sam’s legacy. I’ve had cards printed, and I will start, with an act of kindness with his card attached, asking that the kindness and his card, be carried forward. I think I will also look into either a bursary or maybe purchase a guitar or other musical instrument once a year on Sam’s birthday, and gift it to an underprivileged youth who has an interest in music. I know that Sam found so much comfort in his music and his guitar. The donations I make to animal charity’s, are now always, in memory of Sam.

It’s dark and dreary today. There is a storm warning as I lay here in bed looking at the sky, listening to the rain through my window. I have to be at work in 3 hours and I welcome the rain. It’s the sunny and bright days that I find the hardest.

Gonna go hang with my doggo now for a bit.

I hit the 2 month mark 3 days ago and it was brutal. I felt like I had been thrown into that first week again.

It is a journey of healing that will see you ride out tsunamis and tidal waves, occassional calm waters, and then back to high seas and tsunamis.

It will never go away, but, there will be better days. And there will be bad ones too. You can’t escape or get away from it.

One day….one moment at a time.

Talk about it

Feel it.

In time, you will process it.

Don’t self medicate…. It only causes depression and you are already in a fragile state. See a therapist. Find an in-person support group. Join an online group. Write about it. Scream. Whatever you do, don’t go it alone.

Hugs to anyone going through this.

It was two months ago today. The time has passed in the blink of an eye even though the days seem so long. It all still defies explanation: It makes no sense. Most days it feels like I am getting through this. But then something snaps and I’m off again on on a carousel of tears and sadness.
The world feels so very bleak right now.
One foot in front of the other. Breathe.

8 weeks today.

I had to run to the store to buy batteries for my fireplace remote. And the song Rocketman started playing over the PA system.

Sam used to play the guitar sometimes when we would talk on the phone. He played that song often and we would sing together.

The song really meant something to him. He had a rocketship tattoo on his arm. I have his rocketship tattoo on my arm now. We had the same rocket ship etched into his granite urn.

Rocketman was the last song played at his service. The pallbearers carried his urn to the waiting Hearst in slow March to that song. All the guests followed. I can still hear the music, fading slowly as we left the building.

Of course I started to cry in the mall….yet I couldn’t leave the building while his song was playing.

Today, the officer in charge of his Board of Inquiry briefed me on what to expect over these next five months ( that is how long a military board of inquiry sits when a military member dies while serving ). He chose to fly almost 5000 kms to brief me in person rather than over a phone. That’s two days of long flights just to talk to me for 2 hours.

This has been a hard day. I am sitting here in my car, crying. I don’t want to go home. I just want to disappear from this world. I wish I could be with my son so badly. But know that my 3 other children are already struggling in the aftermath of losing their brother. I hate my life right now. Is that so wrong.

That’s how my grief feels. One minute I’m fine; then I’m not ; then I am ; then I’m not.

It’s endless.

Tonight I’m not fine.

People die every day. It’s the hardest part of life and love. It’s the cycle of our existence. At some point we all grieve the loss of love.

But this… when it’s your child that you grieve : this is unnatural. It’s unfair. It’s bullshit. Tonight, my heart isn’t in this world.

From the time my little family was small, it was four. I always counted. Four. Four goodnight kisses. Four good mornings. Four breakfast bowls. Four Easter bunnies. Four baskets. Four dinner plates. Four calls on Mothers Day. I have the constant feeling that I’m missing something, or that I’ve misplaced something. But it’s not something. It’s my third born child : my youngest son. My world is not the same without him. I’m not complete without him.

I’ve been experiencing anger a lot lately. I’m angry at the people who let him down. While I don’t blame anyone for his death: he chose it, I am feeling anger towards those who made him feel less. Those who did not support him. Those who didn’t believe in him. Those who set out to hurt him : His ex wife. His boss. His father’s wife. His father. Sam always felt like he didn’t fit in anywhere. Even within his own family. It always made me sad – to see him try so hard, yet he always felt as an outcast. I was told I coddled him too much. I was told I was a shitty mother, because I always defended him. Maybe I let him down too. I tried to make things easier for him because he always seemed to struggle. But maybe they were right: maybe I was a shitty mother and maybe I let him down.

Tonight, the struggle within me is strong. I don’t want to be in this reality. It hurts too much. And I don’t know how to make it feel any better.

It’s going to be a long night.

It’s “Thanksgiving”. I guess the appropriate thing to say, would be ” Happy” and ” Thanksgiving”. But, I feel no happiness in my heart or my soul right now, so it’s a hard word to use- for me anyway. I am thankful though…I’m thankful every day for my family and my friends; for my pets; for the warmth of the sun on my back on a chilly day. I’m thankful for all the birds that visit my backyard ; and the sound of the rain on my roof that lulls me off to sleep on the hardest of nights. I’m thankful to have that roof on this old house that keeps me sheltered from the heat and the cold, and for a refrigerator that’s full of food…. I know that others aren’t so blessed 😦 . I wish I could do more for them.

I’m thankful for everything that others have done for me, and I’m thankful for their support, especially in these: my darkest days.

I’m thankful for my life, and for being so fortunate to have shared it for 31 and a half years, with a beautiful soul named Sam. My whole family was blessed to share in those years. I’m thankful to have been a mom to the 4 best children any parent could ask for.

I wish for you all, the Best Thanksgiving ever. May your bellies be full, and your homes be filled with the most amazing aromas that only Thanksgiving can offer. May your pumpkin pie crust be light and flaky, and may your wine glasses runneth over with the purest of grape gold.

Have a Wonderful Thanksgiving everyone.