It’s Friday. Dameon was sad on a Friday when most people are excited to start the weekend. I was told you left work early to go to the hospital and get some “help” on a Friday. Your Papi found the paperwork after you were already gone. I was shocked. I had no idea you were broken-hearted or that your mind was making you think bad thoughts. I look to place blame, but that only makes me angrier. I wonder if I’m feeling terrible today because it’s a Friday.
I read an article recently on “suicidal comas” and how matters that push you to the point of no return are irrational thoughts that can’t be rationalized by a rational thought process. The article focused on choices and the true meaning of those words. A decision compared to: Would you sit and burn in a building, or would you jump out the window and end it all? I think my baby just didn’t want to burn, and that’s why he made the choice he did. It had nothing to do with me, even though I have been blamed. I’m not mad at Dameon. I don’t think he was weak. I think he was put in an irrational situation and made an irrational decision. Metaphorically speaking, he jumped. And it sucks. And it hurts. And I can’t change it. And neither can he.
In the beginning, grief was predictable. Crying, lots of crying. Literal shock set in. Lots of irrational thoughts brought on by grief. Sadness overwhelmed me, all to be expected. All the bad things you think it’s going to be, but worse. Words can’t describe it; sometimes I feel like I’m close, but really, I’m not. Feelings I never knew existed came alive. Yet still somewhat predictable or to be expected.
Now grief is unpredictable in its appearance. The crying has slowed, but the pain is still there. Under every surface, it lingers. On the outside, I think I look okay. Maybe a smile appears on my face from time to time, but the pain is still very much there. I’m literally screaming on the inside. I’m clawing at my own skin from the inside out. It’s in every wrinkle around my mouth, every line around my eyes, every breath is labored. How do people survive this? Figuring out how to make room for so much pain and so much love at the same time, a task I never knew existed.
It’s been 4 months living in this new body. Four of the most earth-shattering, soul-snatching, chest-crushing, breathtaking months of my life. I knew I loved you, but I had no idea about a love like this. So much love with nowhere to go. It swells up like a balloon and then it pops, and tears fall, and breaths are hard to take. The ache in my chest is comparable to a heart attack. It has to be, right?
I long for words or fine details to articulate what’s happening. Trying to put a label on every emotion or feeling that comes over me. I’m tasked with trying to describe what’s happening to me in full detail. Naming it helps to understand it, and I can’t overcome what I don’t understand. You can’t overcome what you don’t know. I’m in the fight of my life while still fighting for yours.
My biggest fear has always been something happening to one of my kids. Unlike others who try to overcome fears, I don’t have a sense of accomplishment. I don’t feel good like I met some giant obstacle holding me back. It’s quite the opposite. I feel hindered even more so than I’ve ever been. It is the absolute worst thing as a mother to see one of your children hurting. So now I’m tasked with not only my own grief but the grief of my living children. It’s not something I choose. It just is. It’s being a mom.
I know that I can’t speak for all moms or even dads because I know quite a few shitty ones. Leaving their own kids a time or two or for good, for their own selfish reasons. Not really ever knowing the real bonds between them and their child. I speak for the parents that stayed and loved on those babies every single day, even when they themselves were broken.
I miss you as much as I love you, Dameon. I would do anything to have you back. Anything.
If you’re looking for a sign, here it is. You matter.
Please stay.
Love Always,
Jennifer