I wrote the following a couple of years after burying

my 17 year old son, Christopher.

It isn't pretty and, at times, sounds downright ugly.

I decided not to edit what I wrote, so that

others can see the rough edges of grief.​
​

 

 

My fingernails aren’t sharp enough or I’d shove them through my chest and tear out my heart.
​
The pain would bring relief … it would stop my heart beating ... the beating that seems to tick away at the time I’ve lived without you.

How could that hurt me more than the pain I feel now?
​
The pain is from the middle of me … right where I held him, cradled him and protected him as he grew​.

 

Rocking back and forth I try to comfort myself like I rocked him as he grew inside me.​ 

 

He’s not there … he’s not anywhere​.

​

My middle claws at me like it’s never been fed​.

​

I think my heart isn’t where every one else’s is … mine isn’t the thing that beats in me but the thing that oozes life from me. It doesn’t leak – but pours out with no control at all​.

 

Torn from me​.

 

Why can’t I choose where the pain comes from? Maybe if I rip at my own skin, tear at my own flesh, rip out my own fingernails (I know I could) and with my own hands dig him up, just to hold him again​ ...

 

Just a few more minutes​.

 

Just let me see that he’s ok. Is he warm enough, resting, not hurting?
​
Could I crawl in beside him? Would everybody leave me there — please?​

I could cover myself with the dirt blanket that covers him now​.

 

I loved him his whole life, knew nothing could ever happen to him – God knows I could never handle this – it can’t really be real​.

 

A good mom knows where her kids are, who they’re with, what they’re doing and when they’ll be home. I don’t know where he is, who he’s with, what he’s doing or when he’ll be home. Never, of course.
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He has come to me in my dreams - at night looking lost and lonely. He’s cold. He’s scared. He doesn’t understand why I don’t come and get him.​

 

I don’t want to wake up because I know he won’t be there.​

I don’t want to go to sleep because of the horrors I’ll see.​

 

I am not safe anywhere – I can’t trust anything any more​.
​
My life is forever changed​. My worst nightmares have come alive​ and haunt me.

 

There is no escape – still I try​. Maybe if I eat this or drink that it will fill that aching place​.

 

If I hold my breath, will I die?​ Can I?

 

If I drink enough will I forget long enough to get a break from the agony so I can go on putting one foot in front of another?​

 

How long do I have to live?​

 

It’s amazing how long you can live in an empty shell​.

​

Amazing how good you can get at looking alive​.

​

Comfort – where are you?​

What can I do that will make me feel better?​

 

I am a wild animal grabbing at anything that will feel like relief – even for just a while​. Like a wild animal, I lash out at those who would help bring me back to life again – hit, claw, bite, yell at – avoid.​

 

Do I want to get better – yes!​

No!  If I’m ‘better’ will I be leaving him behind?

 

If I start to get better, feel better, my guard goes down. I can see life on the horizon – go toward it. Then out of nowhere I smell him, hear him, remember holding him and the agony stabs me when I’m not looking.​

 

I wish I had let him buy those shoes ...​

I wish I had listened more when he talked ...​

I wish I had made sure he laughed more ...​

I wish there was some way to say how much I loved him so he would really know ...​

I can’t even kill myself – what would that do to my family? They’ve already been through so much. I won’t cause them the pain I’ve known​. But I long for death sometimes … I imagine it would give me some relief. I don’t know what’s on the other side of this life – would I have to watch as my family suffers pain I’ve caused? That would be worse for me than my life now. 

 

I love them like crazy, too!​

What if I don’t tell them often enough?

What if I don’t buy them those shoes?​

What if I don’t help them laugh again?​
​
What if I lose another person? 

 

Oh, God help me.

​

 

 

 

 

Don't worry too much.

I wrote this long ago.

Joy and laughter have once again

found a home in me.

 

But sometimes

I stumble across something

like one of his guitar picks, an article of clothing or

his Christmas stocking ...