I don’t ever recall feeling as misunderstood as I do today.
Or more accurately stated… I don’t ever recall feeling such a need to be understood.

I’m tired of it. Thinking about myself, my life, how to integrate my boys life – and death – into my “new normal.” On the surface of this exhaustion I scream out to God and ask, “why can’t I be the old me?” But when I give it more than a few seconds of thought I know I’d never want to be “the old me.” Drey’s gone. And for me the hardest part about it is that he choose this. How could this not change a parent?

I don’t want to feel a need to explain myself. My mood swings, my desire – at times – for isolation, my intolerance towards selfish agendas – including my own, my joy. Yes, joy I experience over things that never brought me joy before. Joy I can’t put into words. Joy that satan tries to strip away by reminding me that the people closest to me can’t fully understand how I feel and that somehow that means I’m alone or that I can never have the same closeness I used to experience with them. Joy because I’m meeting new friends who I feel a bond with quickly. A desire to hear about them, who they lost, what kind of support they need. A concern for others I’ve never experienced before. This brings me indescribable joy!

And and and…
A deeper awareness of how black my heart is. Yes. Yes I feel more dependent on God than I ever have. Yes it is because of my son’s death. But it’s much more than that. This even deeper dependence on my savior has come about because somehow in spite of the most tragic event of my life I still try to do things my own way apart from God. If the violent suicide of my only child was not enough to once and for all force me to my knees, consistently humbled and dependent on God, NOTHING apart from Christ’s death and resurrection will free me from my selfish self. NOTHING.