I’ve been sad, real sad, for about a year now. Not just the sadness I’ve slowly been learning to live with since Drey died, but a different kind of sadness. It’s been another layer of emotional work that’s needed a attention but I chose not to give it the attention it required until these past few months.

I think it began in June of last year. Robbie and I had flown my Dad here for an extended Father’s Day weekend with us. His first visit back to Ohio in a few years.  He had called me several times in the Spring telling me how much he missed me, how he wanted to see me and Robbie but he just didn’t have the money to get here. I was genuinely excited to see him so we arranged the visit. While he was here he spent time drinking with friends – not with us. He declined our invitation to come to Home Church even though Robbie was teaching. He even asked me to drive him to the north side of Columbus where his friends were. I guess paying for his flight and serving as his hotel and food source wasn’t enough – he needed me to be his taxi too. He flew back to his home in Florida on Father’s Day.

Then in August my son’s grandmother died. I knew she had been sick and it wasn’t a shock but it was still very sad. Drey loved her so much. And she spoiled him something rotten. What I didn’t realize until after the funeral was how hurt I was that Drey’s Dad let me find out about her death over Facebook rather than calling or sending a simple text. I haven’t heard from Fred since then. Christmas, Mother’s Day, nothing. I’ve come to realize I had been solely responsible for keeping our relationship alive after Drey had died. The scrapbook I made for him, the occasional checking in, the picture collage gift with the accompanying trophy from that special day – it was always me worried about him. It was always me trying to grieve with him. More to the point, it was me wanting to somehow still be someone special – the mother of his child – to him. Losing your child sucks. Losing your child to suicide fucking sucks. Grieving the relationship loss of the person who feels the loss to the same gut wrenching depth as you is the icing on the shitty grief cake.

In October my parents (Mom & Gene) moved to Indy. It’s only a 3-hour drive, I know. But it was a hard adjustment, too.

Then my Dad called a few days before Christmas from the hospital. He had tried to kill himself. Of all people I know better than to be angry with him or to believe he was being selfish. I get what it’s like to hurt at a level so deep that your thinking is literally constricted and you don’t see any way out of your pain. You may even believe the lie that your loved ones and friends would be better off without you. But still… I’ve struggled with being angry with him since then. “How could he do this to me?!” It’s been hard for me to think of anyone besides myself and how his attempt impacted me. “Doesn’t anyone understand I’m still so flippin fragile and you can’t do this kind of shit?”

I started back in counseling a few months ago. With help I’m slowly realizing how lonely grief is and the importance of acknowledging that. The family who watched Drey grow up are no longer part of my day to day life in the way they were in the first 5 years after he died. So I’m slowly replacing negative self-talk like “it’s been almost 6 years you shouldn’t be this sad. What’s wrong with you?” with more self-compassion. The loneliness of grief is another layer to incorporate into my new life.

As I sit here typing next to the open window I close my eyes and enjoy the cool breeze coming into our home. In spite of everything I still have so much to be grateful for. I’m still in the fight, God. Thank you for never giving up on me in spite of my selfish pity party that’s lasted a year. I love you Jesus.

I “grew up” from a career perspective in marketing. My years at L Brands and then at Cheryl’s Cookies taught me a great deal about how to communicate with customers. I was good at my job and was part of a leadership team that saw significant sales growth over the years. I understood the importance of appealing to my audience in a way that would win their business.

From August 7, 2012 and prior, I would have told anyone who didn’t like how a business was being run where the door was. That would even include businesses I wasn’t that familiar with. If people would complain about how the media did their job my typical line of thinking would go like this: “They are reporters. They have a job to do. Their job means reporting in a way that garners as much attention as possible. It’s at least, in part, how they measure success. If you don’t like it quit watching/reading.”

On August 8, 2012 everything changed. My son took his life. So I found myself on the other side of suicide. A “survivor of a suicide loss.” Never in a million years did I think I’d be here. With the recent suicides of two well known celebrities, I have an entirely different perspective on how some reporters/news outlets do their job and here’s what I wish they understood.

When I stumbled across footage of Kate Spade’s body being brought out to take to the Coroner’s office I was horrified. Here’s where I’ve gone with it: “I didn’t watch my son’s body being brought out – I ran to the neighbors so I wouldn’t see it. Does that make me a bad Mom? What kind of Mom doesn’t stay with her boy for as long as possible?” 

When I saw specific details about how she took her life I thought I would puke. I don’t even know those specific of details surrounding my son’s death, by choice. “What kind of Mom doesn’t pour over every ounce of the Coroner’s report trying to find a reason why why why her boy did this? Did my son suffer? Oh my baby how could this have happened!” And the thoughts continue down an unproductive, painful path.

This week has been difficult and yes, it was brought on by how the media reported on Kate Spade’s death.

As a suicide loss survivor I – like many of us – have become a magnet for people who are impacted by suicidal thoughts, for people who are supporting someone who is struggling, and for people who have been personally impacted by a loss. I have received several text messages, phone calls, instant messages this week. What I hear most is “why why why,” then that leads directly into their personal experience. They question themselves. They doubt themselves. They communicate regret, pain, and guilt. Some people even wonder out loud what the point is of staying in the fight. These are hard thoughts and hard conversations. My heart aches.

The detailed media coverage stirred all of this up… I can’t help but to feel like the news media stepped into a room of people who are coping with emotional pain and stirred it all up then left the room without a care in the world. I know I’m generalizing and I’m making some assumptions about reporters that may not be fair. But my heart just aches so much. I want people to understand the impact of their words. In an effort to be “the best” reporter, there lies a trail of hurting people.

For those loss survivors that follow my blog… I am thinking of you. You are NOT alone. I ask myself, “why am I being so triggered by a complete strangers suicide? This isn’t rational. I didn’t even know them?!” If you are beating yourself up with thoughts like this please stop. Please hear me loud and clear that the coverage we’ve heard – and perhaps are about to hear with the loss of Anthony Bourdain – is triggering. It is hard. And it may be causing us to revisit our own pain and even question past decisions. One breath at a time. Talk to someone! We are in this together!

Crisis textline: 741741      Nat’l Hotline: 1-800-273-8255   

Franklin County Local Outreach to Suicide Survivors (LOSS): 614-530-8064

This is the first year since my son died that the dates line up with the actual day of the week. Another first…

Six years ago today, Sunday May 6th, at this exact moment we were landing in Florida for what would be our last family vacation. Drey had insisted on going to prom at another girl’s school the night before and was operating on just a few hours sleep. He slept on my shoulder and drooled. It was my right shoulder. He was sitting by the window on the plane, I was in the middle seat. I tried my best not to move much so I wouldn’t disturb him. I remember feeling especially grateful for him. I knew my days of having “my boy” were coming to an end. He was graduating high school in just a few weeks. He was considering going into the military and college – wasn’t sure which. He already had a job he really liked and was getting 30 hours a week. He was a man and from my vantage point high school graduation was going to seal the deal. I was proud and sad. He was – and is – my boy. I wasn’t handling his transition so well.

Drey, I love you. Always. I miss you so very much. I have anxiety. Today marks the first day of the shit season. May 6th. May 13th. May 26th, May 27th, July 10th, July 11th, August, August, August. I don’t know how but it seems like yesterday and like decades ago since I saw you. I want to watch a video, listen to your voice, look at pics I haven’t seen yet. I want to experience you in every way possible apart from you physically being here. But I only have so many unwatched videos. Only a handful of unseen pictures. It feels like these have to last me the rest of my life. How will I feel when I see the last memory we captured? That’ll be it. It’ll be over. I will have seen every memory and then what?

I’m tired. I’m sad. My soul is downcast.

Psalm 43:5 Why, my soul, are you downcast? Why so disturbed within me? Put your hope in God, for I will yet praise Him, my Savior and my God.

In 2014, I started a non profit organization that exists to be an instillation of hope to people personally impacted by a suicide loss. I love love love what I do.

Sometimes people ask, “isn’t doing what you do like ripping the bandage off over and over and over?” My answer is simple: No, it is not.

I hate more than anything that my boy, the most important person in the world to me, my pride and joy, died by suicide. It’s sickening and horrible and I miss him every day all day. The heartache is real and it will always be part of me on this side of heaven.

I sometimes hear, “I couldn’t do what you do, I’ve decided I don’t want my parent’s/child’s/spouse’s/sibling’s suicide to define me.” This is a slap in the face. Stop saying that. There is no “wrong” way to grieve and there is no “wrong” way to integrate the loss into your life.

I pause sometimes and I think about other options for how I can spend the final 1/3 of my life. Nothing else interests me. Nothing. I believe God entrusted me with this gift of suffering so I could grow from it and care for others. Who the hell calls losing their son to suicide a “gift?” Gross. I don’t know what to say… it’s what I believe. The ache is real and I still have complicated and intense emotions AND I’m confident I’m where God wants me. There’s a peace in knowing that. A peace I never experienced before. My son is safe in our Father’s arms. I will have eternity with him. For now, I give my agenda over to God and He continually gives me confidence that I’m right where He wants me.

I have the greatest son in the world. Just look at that face. I will be with him again. I love you so much, baby.

Happy Boy. Proud Mom. 5 years old

Grateful for sweet birthday wishes from new and old friends.

Anxious and unable to pinpoint why… which makes me more anxious.

Angry at suicide and stupid people.

Encouraged by Glenn, Alli, Charlette, and Alex.

Contemplative about priorities.

Stretched continually out of my comfort zone and ironically enough becoming more comfortable with that.

Blessed by Gods creation of animals.

Challenged by the desire to squeeze more into each day.

Hopeful. Ever hopeful. Someday soon this glorious, painful, temporary life will be over. Sweet heaven.

Exhausted when I try to do things with my own strength.

Energized when life-giving words come out of my mouth that I know aren’t my own!

Round and round it goes. Damn monkey bar brain jumping frantically from thought to thought, feeling to feeling.

Breathing in grace filled air and I’m grateful again.

Psalm 121: 1 I look up to the mountains— does my help come from there? 2 My help comes from the LORD, who made heaven and earth! 3 He will not let you stumble; the one who watches over you will not slumber. 4 Indeed, he who watches over Israel never slumbers or sleeps. 5 The LORD himself watches over you! The LORD stands beside you as your protective shade. 6 The sun will not harm you by day, nor the moon at night. 7 The LORD keeps you from all harm and watches over your life. 8 The LORD keeps watch over you as you come and go, both now and forever.

I recently prayed asking God to make me more dependent on Him. He’s faithful to answer…

Hard conversation today. How does someone say the things they do even after I tell them my son killed himself? Shut up already! I almost had a full meltdown after that phone call. Robbie is loving and patient. He’s learning – we’re both learning – how to handle the sudden onset of physical shaking, scattered thinking, and incomplete sentences. The rubbing of my leg or hand. All tell tale signs of being tossed back into trauma. “It’s moments like this that I don’t believe I’ll ever be normal again. And based on that belief I conclude it’s best to just isolate. To self protect.” I know that’s not really true. But I’m so fuckin sick of being “that person.” An unexpected conversation with an old friend got me out of my head and brought me back to the here and now – for a little while anyway. Coming up on six years and I still get triggered? Will there ever come a day when I’ll be normal again?

How did I get here? I miss my boy. I miss his physical presence. I want to touch him, to hug him. I just want to be near him.

I made it through the day in one piece. Thank You God for loving me. For reminding me I MUST take time with You every morning. I’m too vulnerable, too exposed, without my spiritual armor.

Laying quietly at night staring into the dark with eyes shut tight I scream in my head: NO NO NO! I try to push the thoughts out of my mind. “La la la la la. I’m not thinking of this. No, I’m not doing this. I won’t. Just think about anything else.” I give up and turn the light back on and read myself to sleep.

I still connect with my friend who was there for me just a few days after Drey died. On a few occasions she has wondered out loud, “why are you able to support others in the way you do but I am not?” My friend lost her loved one ten years ago.

I had a suicide loss survivor recently tell me, “it’s still feels like it happened yesterday.” She lost her loved one three years ago.

One of the FC LOSS volunteers recently attended a Suicide Prevention Gatekeeper training with the expectation on herself that she, too, would be able to train others. Instead she found herself revisiting the, “what did a miss” question. After some prayer and consideration she realized at least for now she needed to pause on this. She lost her loved one three years ago.

I sat at a restaurant last Fall with a suicide loss survivor and listened to her explain how she still goes into her closet daily, closes the door, and sobs. She lost her loved one four years ago.

Based on what I’ve learned from others and in my relatively brief five+ years experience, we continue healing for many years. But if we don’t take the time to reflect on where we were two, five, or however many years ago we may miss it. We may miss the slow but steady movement from surviving to thriving. We may forget two years ago we couldn’t look at those pictures. We may miss out on being grateful to God for His steady, consistent, love.

I’m not proposing we should walk around 24/7 vulnerable and exposed; always ruminating on heavy emotions, intrusive images, and the why, why, why questions. I am saying occasional reflection on our grief journey may leave us feeling more aware, grateful, and mindful of others and their journey.

This is not as good as it gets for me. I believe as long as we lean into our grief – whatever that looks like –  we will all continue experiencing “healing” in our own way. In 2018 I will laugh, write, dance, and pause to re-read past blogs. I will take note of mile markers and where I was three years ago. I carry Drey with me always. I will never be the same. I may never get out those precious Christmas ornaments. I may avoid Worthington for the rest of my life. But still, I continue to heal.

This is the day the Lord has made let us rejoice and be glad in it. Ps 118:24.

I’ve experienced indescribable pain and loss. The holidays are reminders of precious memories and of what should have been. And (not but) I am blessed beyond words.

God continues to provide for me and my family in so many ways. I am a flippin walking miracle! Not because there’s something special about me but because there’s everything special about God!

Peace. Sweet glorious peace. Thank You Heavenly Father for Your gift of love, life, purpose, and eternity that begins NOW with You. You have overcome death, so we can too. Thank You for loving on Drey at this very moment. Tell him I miss him and love him so much. Tell him when I see him I’m going to kiss him, cuddle him, and call him fucker – but not in that order. Damn that kid.

Those eyes. Oh my goodness those eyes. I’m staring at him. He’s talking to me. No, he’s talking at me. I’m not listening. He looks at the cash register then he looks back at me and I’m still staring at those eyes. What am I supposed to say? “Don’t mind me staring at you. You’re about the age my son should be and you have eyes just like his?” Instead I just stare at him.  He probably thinks I’m some creepy old lady. I let my imagination go it’s own way for just a minute… what if’s, what should’ve beens. 

Why do these experiences happen at Panera so often? Damn you Panera, damn you. 

After a very well attended all day LOSS training I’ve spent the rest of the weekend without plans and taking care of myself. 

Last night I sat in our new hot tub on the back patio and thanked God for His blessings. It’s not lost on me that our peaceful back yard space was paid for with the money from Drey’s college savings. I look at it from the new view of our hot tub and reflect on it. I thank God for it and I let tears roll down my cheeks. I miss my baby. It’s been more than 5 years since he parked in “my” space off the alley. A space I gladly gave up when he was at the house because I knew he loved his car. It’s been more than 5 years since he’s walked up the stairs to the back door and said “hi mom.” 

I wish I could have saved you drey. It’s still so hard to know that my love was not enough for you to just chose life. I’ve got a slightly better understanding now. I’ve had suicidal ideas a handful of times since you died. A few times it’s been very intense but thankfully brief. In those moments nothing else is in focus except the pain. What feels like permanent, all consuming, PAIN. It doesn’t matter how much Robbie or Grandma & Grandpa love me. I just want the ache, the images, the last words you shared to get out of my head. I’ve learned to tell Robbie how I feel. To breathe deeply. And to recall I have felt that way before and it does pass. 

There’s a new thing I’m going to follow up on next week, baby. It’s a big step… one I haven’t been able to engage. Nationwide Children’s is willing to look into requiring their dermatologists do a brief suicide assessment of patients as part of their normal routine visits. Favorable feedback from kids and parents as well as an endorsement from Dr Bridge may be exactly what’s needed to roll out this assessment at all local dermatology offices… then Ohio… then across the country. I don’t know how much of a role that stupid acne medication played in your suicide, baby, but I’m chipping away at any potential “holes” in the system regardless. I didn’t understand how much AW’s suicide had impacted you. I didn’t understand the importance of postvention. Hell I never even heard of the word. But I get it now. And LOSS is up and running. It seems that now the time is right to find my voice – and to help other suicide loss survivors find their voice – in the prevention space. 

“Happy” world suicide prevention day my love, my baby, my drey.