Can I tell you why this year has been so effed up? Seriously, I mean that I get that my son died, I get that the very worst thing that can happen to another human being happened to me. Was it the result of a game? Yes, I believe so. A stupid dangerous game, but not intentional. I don’t believe that my son would ever do that to me.
But the really messed up part of this is that not only did my son die, but my long time boyfriend who asked me to marry him one month before my son died and after 6 years of taking his time deciding that this is what he really really wanted and then giving me his dead mother’s (a rather unpleasant woman whom I cared for while all her sons ignored her up until her dying day, I might add) emerald and diamond ring as proof that he loved me and wanted a life with me, freaking left. He just up and left. Told me that this was too hard and that he had to ‘get on with his life’ and, he literally said to me: “I am not one of your therapist friends, I am out of compassion and you cannot use your grief to control me and make me feel guilty anymore.” Wait, what??
Where in all of the heavens is this about you?
Let me explain something to everyone who is listening. My son died by accident and he cannot come back. This man promised to love me and take care of me and chose, by his own free will, to bail. Talk about insult to injury. Talk about kicking a girl when she is down. I mean really. Who does that? Abandons a grieving mother because..because what? It was too hard for you to see me on my knees pulling my hair out in clumps?
Was it too difficult for you to bear the sight of me in my son’s bed crying until my eyes swelled shut and I was dehydrated? Was it the sight of me lighting candles for him, all the while thinking that if I could just create a ceremony that was just right that he would come home. Was it really that hard to hold my hand on Saturday nights because that is the day of the week that my son died and I couldn’t bare to be alone? Or was it worse for you on Sunday nights because Billy always came home on Sunday nights and now he never would again. Was it when I would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat from the nightmares or was it worse for you when I was conscious and had flashbacks, seeing my son’s hand print on your ceiling beam where he tried, in vain, to save himself. Was it the times I asked you to help me understand what it was like to strangle to death..did it hurt?? (Oh my dear Lord does it fucking hurt? Did he think of me with his dying consciousness calling out silently for me to save him?) Or the nights I begged God to take me instead; or in addition to. Did you feel left out on the nights I prayed for my own death because nothing matters more than being with my son. Or when I asked you to believe with me that I would get a sign from him that he was ok? Was it hard to watch me stare at the door like a lost puppy waiting waiting waiting.
Which part was the hardest for you to endure? The screaming or the crying or the silence? Because in my head it was always screaming.
I guess in some ways I should be grateful that you left. It taught me what I am made of and what I am capable of.
You leaving taught me that I am made of fucking steel. And I am all heart.