#grief #parenting #writing

My middle child passed away a little over 2 years ago. He was 18 years old. Among many other hardships and tragedies in my life this pain is sharply unique. In some ways I've been coping well, in other ways not so much.

I am a reader and a writer. Words, language, and stories are nearly as dear to my wellbeing as food and water.

I have been writing less and less over the last couple years.

Sometimes my feelings of grief and outrage and near-relentless sorrow well up and I can breathe into the pain and make room for it and let it flow through me and out. Some of the feelings are knotted tight, coiled into nooks and caves in my inner being. I think the only way I can release or incorporate these trapped feelings is by sharing and being seen.

Whenever I try to choose a memorial piece that my child’s bones will be incorporated into, I feel as though I will shatter, as though the next breath, or the one after that will begin the cracks that will spread irreversibly through me. I know this is not true. Still, I stopped looking at memorial art.

I believe I need to share my experiences, both for my own health and for the possibility that my words could positively affect someone who needs to hear them. I kept putting it off because I wanted the right words, the right timing, the right platform, the right schedule, the right persona. Because it is my learned inclination to be reserved and private and to keep most of my Self hidden most of the time.

This morning I cried suddenly, missing his smile, his laugh, his hug. I knew it was time and I promised myself that I would write AND SHARE something TODAY, and here it is.

#suicide #mentalhealth

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