You’ve been gone two months today…..sixty-two days to be exact.
And every day, I sit here and think about you. I do the things I’m supposed to do – get up, shower, care for the kids, take them places to enjoy time with them – but you’re always there in my mind, always.
I’m trying to figure out ways to honor your memory and to help others. I can’t even bear to think of others facing this loss, this heartache.
I’ve always wanted to start a non-profit organization, but I’ve never been sure what exactly. It’s always been in my mind to help women and children mostly, but since this has happened, since suicide has become personal for me, my focus has switched to helping fight suicide. People need to be educated on suicide and how to prevent it. I’ve spoken to some people. I have the plans in my head, but fear holds me back for whatever reason. The financial aspect of it also weighs on my mind…..
When I’m not thinking about that, I’m just remembering you.
Remembering your eyes.
Remembering your smile.
Remembering the sound of your voice and your smell – don’t worry, everyone has a particular smell that’s all their own….
Remembering your hands.
The other day when I spoke with the grief counselor, she mentioned some about the loss of her son – right around your age when he took his life in almost the same fashion. She told me all she kept wondering about – after the shock of losing him – was his shoes. She wanted to know what shoes he was wearing at the time of his death. It’s funny the things moms think of during such tragedy.
For me, it was if you waited for help. Did you wait for someone to come to you after you texted Christina? That’s what haunts me.
When I got to see you in your coffin the morning of the funeral – you were behind a shroud so I didn’t see much – I touched your hands through the shroud. I touched your arms and your legs. Your fingers were laced together so neatly at your waist. At that moment, I simply remembered your hands, your fingers so long and skinny. I remembered how you used to let me hold your hands, studying your fingers for only seconds at a time.
I have so many memories, good and not so good. Disagreements we had and laughter. I always wanted you to talk to me, but you weren’t a talker if it involved anything emotional — your words: I don’t know why you try to get me to talk, I’m not going to talk, mom….I don’t talk about stuff like that, never have, and never will.
Oh, how I wish you had…….
My worst fear came true the night you took your life. My very worst fear….
Now, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to live with you gone. I’m the mother, the parent, I was supposed to go first. You were supposed to help bury me…not this. I was not supposed to bury you!
Now….I replay every conversation in my head. I try to remember the last day I seen you, the last vocal conversation we had. I am pretty certain I told you I loved you because I know me, but I second guess myself sometimes.
I look at our last messages to one another, searching for clues as to why and I come up empty.
Your friends text and call me sometimes, especially Alex and Tyson. They miss you a ton. We all do.
I know I need to go on living, but how?
How do I do that when you can’t?
I just want you back here with me, with us.
There is no better place for a child than with his/her mom so I wonder why you can’t be here with me.
I love you.