For the Love of Sam

It’s only been five weeks and one day. My son left me on a Rollercoaster of emotions and sometimes, I’m not even sure what it is that sends me into the most intense bone racking convulsive fits of crying. It can be anything. The thought of Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Years, his birthday, Monday, Wednesday, a trip to Walmart….. I miss him more than I miss my own breath when I try to hold it too long. It’s still so fresh for me. I wonder if it ever won’t be. You know, the pain I can take. It’s missing him that I can’t.

I’m a mother of four, wonderful grown children. But one is gone now. Although I’m still a mom of four … the balance is off. Who am I even? I love my 3 living children, but what good am I as a mother when I am broken? I find myself not wanting to face the grim reality of a world without Sam. I find myself praying daily, for a short life. I’m between two worlds , drifting in and out of each…

I used to eat moderately healthy. I used to do yoga regularly. I used to walk. Now I eat candy : a lot of candy. Caramels for lunch. Molasses candy for dinner. I just don’t care anymore. I haven’t done yoga but for twice in the month since he decided to go. I pop pills – not caring if you shouldn’t mix lorazapam and Ativan and wellbuterin and Tylenol and advil – let’s throw in a edible into the mix. Why not. I just don’t care.

I cry. Alot.

They say that when you commit suicide, you just pass your pain on to those who love you. And it’s so true. I’m not mad at my son. I’ll carry the burden for him if it lifts him up. But I really wish he had just called me to talk that night. Or decided to sleep on it until morning. Because maybe he would still be alive. Or maybe he wouldn’t.

But now, I look for signs everywhere I go, in hopes that he will send me something to hold onto. I say goodnight, and I love you to a picture. My son is the first thing on my mind in the morning, and the last thing on my night before I sleep. If I sleep. So what about my other children? They lost their brother. And, they lost their mother pretty much as well.

I returned to work today: one month plus one day from the loss of my son. I found that people were uncomfortable around me ; as was I also, around them.

How, someone can just return to their old life, when there is a gaping hole through them…is just not possible. I am an aircraft mechanic in the military, and with my mind absent 90 percent of the time, and my GAF factor ( Give A Fuck) at near 0, I certainly wouldn’t want to fly in an aircraft that I signed off as being air worthy. Well, that is not true exactly , because right in this moment, I could care less if I live or die, and I’m leaning closer to the dying side. But, not wanting to be useless in my first day, I opted to empty the toilet and urinal on the plane when it landed. And then I went home, 7 hours early.

But going back to work this soon, is what I wanted. It gives me a distraction from looking at these house walls that just blend into my grief.

Returning to normal, is going to be a lot harder than I thought. I suspect, it will be impossible.

The pharmacist told me today that the risk of becoming addicted to the Ativan I’ve been taking most days since Sam left us, is pretty low because of the constant stress my body and mind is under. So, an Ativan night it is.

We need to talk about mental health. I, need to talk about mental health. And depression. And suicide. Right now , somebody, somewhere, is struggling. It could be you. It could be me ( well, that’s a given considering….). My point is – people are hurting. And although we may not be able to ” fix” what is hurting them, we sure can do our best to help them, and maybe let them know that people do care and people do love them and maybe, that little bit of reassurance will be enough to get them through the crisis that maybe you or I don’t understand, but that is slowly eroding their mind and their life.

Today, marks one month ago, that was the last day that my son Sam was alive. Tonight, marks one month since the last time I ever got to talk with him – to hear his voice. In the last conversation I had with my son, he said ” I don’t want to do this anymore”. Those words, haunt me. They reverberate inside my head over, and over. I knew he was down : but Sam was good at covering up his feelings. We talked some more, and I felt that I had left him in a better state of mind by the phone calls end. How wrong I was. At least, the last words that Sam heard from me, were ” I love you”, as we ended all of our calls that way. Sometime, in the few short hours that followed our call, Sam decided that he wanted to go home. He died by suicide. He hung himself. I have not hidden his cause of death, because it was just his cause of death. It doesn’t change who he was. He was a kind, sweet, gentle soul. He wasn’t perfect – as none of us are. He just struggled with the cruelties and the unkindnesses of this world.

Covid has heavily effected all of us. But for those who are alone, and struggling with mental health issues, it has been harder beyond words. While we can’t change their circumstances, we surely can take the time to notice them. We can show an interest in their lives. We can ask them questions about who they are. And we can listen. Even if you don’t necessarily like someone, you can always show some compassion ; some empathy. Some kindness. Sometimes, the smallest gestures that aren’t much to us, can give a person something to hold onto as they go into their darkness. It might just be the difference between life and death for them. And you may never even know that…but wouldn’t it be good to think that maybe, at some time, an act of kindness that you showed to someone, somewhere, saved their life? Be it a stranger…a co worker…a friend….a loved one?

We are all in this big mess together. Let’s all try to help one another. Phone that person who you think might be lonely. Include the ones who sit alone. Ask the questions ” are you ok”, or ” do you want to talk”, when you think someone needs it. Notice the changes in even those who seem to be the most together – because they aren’t immune either.

I’m not ok right now. I’m trying to be, and I suspect that I may never, be fully ok again. But I’m not suicidal. I won’t lie : I don’t particularily want to be alive right now because this pain is like nothing I have ever felt, nor want to feel again. But I have loved ones who would be destroyed all over again if I left, so I wake up every day, take a deep breath, and carry on. Please don’t worry about me. But please, in my son’s memory, be kind to EVERYONE you meet. We are all on this journey together.

If you want, feel free to share this. Maybe if we spread a message of love, and compassion- maybe, we can save a life together.

Bless and love to all of you.

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.

Struggling.
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.

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.