I can’t sleep

Grief is a wondrous thing. You make it through one day with little to no tears…. but the next day hits you like a wrecking ball.

I’m laying here in bed. My chest is tight. I’m having palpitations, or ” Butterflies” as they are often to referred to, but they feel more like big giant moths – there is nothing light and fluttering about them.

Everything tonight seems to trigger a memory. The aching in my soul is low and deep, and I feel like I’m going to lose it. I don’t want to laugh. I don’t want to cry. I don’t want to sit here, or lay here, or get up and move around the house. I want to quiet the voices in my head that feed me the memories that trigger the tears, and the missing of my son that I know I can’t do anything about.

It’s not yet been 4 weeks. It seems like it was only days ago. It feels like I just spoke to him on the phone. I can’t stop thinking about the last few minutes of that call. I can’t shake the ” what ifs” …. the ” if only’s”….or the ” I wish’s”. The voices are so loud tonight.

I think it’s a night for medication.

I miss my son so badly. Fuck you suicide. I don’t know if I am going to get through this.


I’m living between two worlds….I wish I could say I had one foot in one or the other…but I’m in neither. I’m just here.
Losing a child to suicide really turns you upside down, and backwards, and inside out.
I have so much support. But ive never felt so alone.
I was told that my lifeline on my palm is deep and it’s long. I lay here this morning contemplating that.
I don’t want it to be long.
I know that this emptiness will be with me for what’s left of my life. And I just, can’t imagine living for decades like this. My heart is broken. My spirit is broken. I, am broken.

I have no plans to hurt myself. I just don’t want to hurt anyone. But I feel like I’m hurting enough for the whole world right now.

A Roller Coaster of emotions.

It’ll be three weeks tomorrow. Three weeks ago was your last day alive. I wonder about that day. I like to imagine you walked your dogs and took in all the beauty and smells of the walking trails on your last day. But I don’t know what your day was like. You called me that evening. The words we spoke will be the last words I have from you for the rest of my living days. I knew you were struggling that night. But I thought I had cheered you up a little bit and you seemed like you would be OK. I told you to text me as soon as you woke up. You said you would. But you didn’t. I guess in one way, I am glad you didn’t txt me, because I would have missed that call or txt as my phone is usually set to silent through the night. I don’t think I would have survived that day had I discovered you reached out at the very end, and I didn’t answer your call. I still don’t know how I’m going to survive. I feel like I’m living in pergatory: in between two worlds. I want to be with you, where you are. And I want to be here with your brothers and your sister. I don’t know how to live this way. Somedays: in some moments, I have the urge to lay down and just join you. I’m told that is a normal part of the grief process. But, I will grieve you for as long as I live. How, is this any way to live?

You have given me a few ” gifts” since you left: just little things so I know you are still around me. Whether it’s a song I’m not overly familiar that I wake up singing, as if you whispered it into my ear as I slept, or an image on the TV that was something I would never have noticed except that it was exactly like the tattoo on your arm. Im getting that same tattoo by the way in remembrance of you. The dance of the dragon fly over our heads at the cottage was spectacular as I scattered the small packet of your ashes that I asked be held back from your burial. I just know, as we all did, that you were there with us as the sun was setting on that day.

My grief is a mothers grief. It is deep. And it is raw. Yet…it is beautiful in someways because it reflects the love I have in my heart for you. I only pray that what is left of my natural life is short and sweet. Maybe I won’t feel that in the months to come. But I feel it now as I walk through this pergatory.

I love you Sam.

Life after loss

It’s been 15 days. My world has stood still for 15 days. My son, Sam, chose to leave this world 15 days ago. His family; his dogs; his friends ….. he chose to leave us all. He was 31 years old. He is my third born of four.

I feel no anger … just a deep and profound grief that knaws away at my very existence every waking second. I miss him.

We buried him a week ago today. What a beautiful funeral. I know he would have scratched his head in amazement at such a turn out : full military funeral complete with an honour guard. At the end of his life, he felt such little self worth that this funeral would have made him look on in awe. I’m sure he was impressed. And I know he was there.

I’ve decided to write about this, while my grief is so raw. Perhaps it will help me through these darkest of days. It’s , I guess, a very public way of grieving. Maybe it will find its way into the hearts of others who are facing this same bleak reality. Maybe it will help someone who is standing on the edge, to step back on the safe side, to rethink.

“They” say that suicide is an act of cowardice. Who ever “they” are, well : I wish to congratulate them for having such a perfect life that they never had to face the kind of pain and anguish that one faces when they decide to leave this world by their own choice. Yay you. But the one thing I will agree with the “they say” group is this : when you end your own pain, you pass it on to those who love you, and who you loved.

This is the worst kind of grief.

Today is day 15. I can’t seem to get out of bed today. I don’t want to. In some moments, when I break down in the kind of body ravaging sobs that I seem to succumb to….I find myself hoping that in those moments that I can’t seem to catch my breath: that I won’t catch it. And I won’t have to grieve anymore.

But of course, I still have my three other children to think of. They are hurting too. They lost their brother. Their lives are also upside down.

I just got back from a walk with my partner. He never had the chance to meet Sam. But he spoke with him over the past two years often on the phone. He is angry. We ended up arguing on the walk. I understand his anger. But I fear that his lack of compassion and understand could cost us this relationship. At least that is how it feels right now. He doesn’t know my grief. He has lost both of his parents, grandparents, uncles, a friend…. but he has no comprehension on what it is like to lose a child. I feel like he thinks I should snap out of my grief and go back to being who I was before I lost my son. It’s been two weeks. I don’t know if the person who I was can ever come back to be honest.

For the Love of Sam

My name is Judi. I’m the mother of four beautiful children. On Aug 19, 2021 , I lost my third child to suicide. Sam was 31.

As a parent to four children, my biggest fear in life, was to ever lose a child : how could I ever go on and be a good parent to the remaining siblings, when I would want to die with the one I lost? Well, now that is my reality. I don’t know how to be a parent who has lost a child.

I started to write this blog, because, well, writing is good. It allows the author to release the words, and the emotions that reverberate and hover in their mind, and in their heart. Grief is a human emotion. It’s part of life, and it’s part of love. I honor my son with my grief. I wish I didn’t have to. My life was so much more when he was here. I’m fragmented now. But, for his brothers and his sister, I have to continue on this side of the veil, until its my turn to go.

My hope, in making my grief public, is that it may help someone going through the same ” hell on earth”, to know that they are not alone. And my hope, is that maybe someone who is reading this, who is struggling with the demons inside of their mind and thinking about leaving, may discover just how broken they leave their loved ones behind. I hope that they will get help.

The climate that we are facing in this current world, is hard. We need each other now, more than we ever have.

Be kind to one another. Just always. Be kind.