It’s the dreaded week again already. The first week of August. Honestly time has flown by. The last day I saw my son was August 3rd 2012. The last day I spoke to my son was August 7th 2012. My son, my love, died on August 8th 2012. I can’t get my mind around the fact that it’s been two years. How have I lived? How have I continued to put one foot in front of the other? If I think about it too deeply I feel like puking. It’s my worst nightmare. It’s the rest of my life.
Truly God has given me strength. No one can deny Gods presence in my life, least of all me. How else is it possible that I am alive? That I am – dare I say – a contributing part of society? It is not by my own strength. It is not because “time heals all wounds.” Some “wounds” never heal. Your only child’s suicide is not something you get past or get over. Only God can take such a horrific, broken, fucked up level of pain and teach you dependence, teach you He is still a good and trustworthy God. Teach you that even in – especially in – those dark days of despair He’s holding you. Holding me.
I hate this week. I hate it. I hate that I remember what Drey ate the last time we were together. Our last words. His last text. I hate that I somehow didn’t see my boy was hurting. I hate that I remember the detective’s words. Those fucking words. How hot it was that day, the look on Jeritt’s face, the shape of David’s mouth as Robbie told him, all of it. Mostly I hate that my love was not enough for my baby to choose life. God how I hate this week.
Thank You God for hating this week – this pain – even more than I do. Thank you for sitting with me in the depths of sorrow.
As I reflect on past journals and blogs I see a woman who is shattered but is clinging on to hope – the hope she has in Christ. I wonder where she went? I don’t feel hopeful. I haven’t in weeks. Maybe months? I’ve lost track.
I miss my son. I don’t understand why he killed himself. I want God to sit right here next to me and audibly tell me Drey is with Him. I hate my unbelief. I hate it I hate it I hate it. Yes, my son told me he accepted Christ as his savior. But that’s not enough for my broken heart. I’m so sick of reading books about the basics in search of a glimmer of rock solid, beyond a shadow of a doubt proof that my baby is in heaven. The knowledge I’ve acquired is nothing compared to the faith I wish I had. The faith I wish I FELT.
My heart is broken. I don’t know who I am. I’m supposed to be making plans for my boy’s 21st birthday. Instead I’m sleeping for 10 hours straight then waking up exhausted. This is new ground for me. And I hate it. How can I still be confronting new emotions, new levels of apathy and despair after almost 2 years? Isn’t 2 years enough time to wring out every last drop of emotion possible?
I visited a youth grief counseling camp last month and saw the art therapy they were doing. Masks. Painted on the outside and the inside. The outside displaying what they wanted others to see. The inside telling the rest of the story.
That’s how I feel. The one who is confident beyond a shadow of a doubt that Jesus Christ was fully God and fully man. He never sinned. He died for us. He rose! He overcame death! I can reference clear, factual proof for these things. Rejoice! Be glad! But the interior of the mask tells more of the story. It shows how little I care about the resurrection. The loss of my son is too heavy. It doesn’t feel like a “light and momentary affliction.” And I am so ashamed of my ungratefulness. God forgive me.
It’s still the same profile picture on FB.
The same memories.
They began and they ended.
No new memories to be made.
The pictures on your friends walls remain.
No new pictures of you.
No college graduation.
No new roller coaster experiences.
No more backrubs.
No more danka danka with Max the ass.
I’m very tired today. I’m very sad. Maybe I did too much this week… Or maybe I did the exact right amount of things and feeling the lonely ache today is good and right. Maybe it’s part of my new normal.
It hurts baby. It hurts so much.
Where are you?
Who am I?
Were you real?
Who can possibly understand this?
Understand these questions?
There aren’t words.
I’m all over the place with my thoughts and emotions today. I hate this. From peace and excitement to dread and anger. It’s painful. It’s confusing.
I got to baptize someone this morning… what a wonderful honor and privilege to be part of Debbi’s life as she learns more about God. So it was an emotional morning… listening to people’s testimonies is always so amazing. But like so many things it’s different now… Now I listen to a 20 something year old’s testimony through a different lens. He wore shoes like Drey. He was a few years older than Drey. He was built like Drey. He’d gotten into some of the same trouble Drey had got into. But this young man chose a different path from Drey. And he was standing there right before my eyes thanking his parents for always being there for him – and they baptized him. My heart was heavy with grief as I quietly wept and announced silently in my mind that I sacrificed so much to YOU GOD! I’ve given up so much. I won’t get to baptize Drey. I don’t even get to see him. Period. And I feel the anger swell up and it’s directed at YOU. YOU allowed this to happen. Damn it. There aren’t words.
When I’m triggered like this and these feeling show up I can’t always tuck them neatly away. God has brought me so far in learning how to handle Drey’s death, his suicide. So, so far. I mean, it’s not like I go for hours without thinking of Drey. He is on my mind regularly. So I’m triggered a lot but can fairly often stay “in check” and in the moment without spiraling.
I continued on with interacting with people throughout the morning… so many happy people. Sometimes I’m happy. But when I’m not it’s REALLY HARD when others are. I was irritable, hurt, sad, lonely and mostly angry with myself for not being able to be happy. No one can possibly understand the depths of this pain. This wasn’t just a normal death – if there even is such as thing. Why do I feel I must defend myself? Explain myself? Yea – I’m sad. My life has been shattered and I’m still figuring out how to put one foot in front of the other. Why can’t I just give myself some slack and rest in knowing I don’t have to have the answers. I don’t have 100% control of when the despair portion of this grief wants to resurface. I’m still learning how to walk this out. It is what it is. And I try to tell myself I don’t owe anyone an explanation.
My son is dead. My son took his life. Jesus God I don’t know how I got here.