Christopher and I were walking through a parking garage on a gloomy January day roughly 11 months ago, and I raised the camera high above us to take a selfie. He leaned into me and, head-to-head, we smiled. It was the last picture I would ever take of us.
As I come upon the one-year anniversary of Christopher’s death, I realize I’m as frayed and disbelieving as the day I learned he was gone. It’s because I’ve had no rest, physically or emotionally, since he died and I doubt I ever will. A part of me searches for him every minute of every day. I hear his voice in the quiet moments and the middle of the night. I see him in my two older boys.
In reality, the whole year has been wretched. I’ve lost family and friends before, but nothing could have prepared me for what it’s like to lose a son. It never gets better, it’s never okay, and you never feel whole again.
When you’re grieving, especially the first year, you know that certain situations and calendar dates will be emotional landmines. Sure, Christmas will be a bitch this year (and probably forever). But shopping for two children instead of three is a special kind of hell. Don’t even talk to me about what would happen if I had to unpack Christmas stockings.
But it’s the nuances no one can warn you about that keep you from forming anything but the thinnest scab. The little things no one can predict will be your undoing at a moment’s notice.
I can’t handle small talk with strangers anymore because the question inevitably comes up if I have children. The follow-up question is always, “how many?” How should I answer?
I can’t see movies or watch television shows without having them vetted first because suicide comes up way more than you’d expect. I can handle mentions of the topic but not methods, which takes new mystery shows (formerly my favorite genre) right out of the running for me.
Christopher was fond of a lot of the music I enjoy, so I rarely listen to music anymore. Too many memories.
So what can I do?
I can work to destigmatize suicide every chance I get. I am open about the fact that he took his life because I want people to talk about suicide. I want people to shove this epidemic out into the open and shine a white-hot light on it. I never want anyone to think suicidal thoughts or mental health issues are something to be ashamed of or hidden. Talking openly about mental health saves lives.
My baby is gone. I wear a locket with his ashes every day, I have his memory inked into my skin, I keep his laughter in my heart, and his generosity in my soul. But none of that will bring him back.
After nearly a year of trying to live without Christopher, I can honestly say time doesn’t heal all wounds. I will never be okay.
I’ll never have another picture of him. He’ll never have another birthday. He’ll never grow up and become all the things he had the potential to be.
All I can do is honor Christopher by staying in grief counseling, well, basically forever and continue to watch over my older boys. All I can do is keep trying to get through my days and hope they get a little easier.
Maybe this blog will help heal the acute pain and turn it into a dull ache. Maybe it’ll act as a release valve when the pressure cooker of my life gets to be too much. I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.