Skip to main content

Second Death

 Enzo set up Tweets to go out for 6 months after his death.

While this is morbid and it absolutely destroys me to read them when they go out, it's also VERY Enzo. He talked about this very thing with Brad and I several times, about how funny it would be and controversial. The conversation always ended with "No, but really...." as if to indicate it could happen.

For awhile these Tweets became my life. Every notification from Twitter sent me into a tail spin of emotions and panic attacks. That's subsided, thank the universe. Now I read them with the weight of everything on me.

I know what most of them say because those closest to him saw the Tweets he set up just a few days after he took his life. So it's nothing I haven't seen already, but the words going out into the void of the internet- it's shocking. My son is still talking after his death. Seeing his thoughts after he's gone, there are no words for that. 

"My body is gone, but my spirit remains. I will love you always. 💜"

"If you think what I did was selfish, I urge you to reconsider. I didn't do this to take myself away from you, I did it bc the pain of existence was not worth the experience I was having."

"Should've won an Oscar the way I acted like everything was okay."

"This Twitter account is no longer of this earth. Hot takes, bangers, and shitposts coming at you from the ethereal realms."

I read them over and over. I beg for one to be directed specifically to me only. It won't happen. Enzo is talking to the entire world with these Tweets. His pain and humor is on display for everyone to see. His jokes, his funny quips, his serious thoughts are no longer just for my living room. The entire world can see him. Yet there's only 46 followers as of today. 

And as excruciating as these Tweets are for me, I dread the day the Tweets stop. I dread it so much. I know I will lose him all over again. The end of these Tweets is like he will die again. I will no longer have him speaking via Twitter. It will end. It will all go away and I will  never again have his exact thoughts or opinions ever again. These Tweets have allowed me time to accept his death while he still talks to me, but they will stop.

I know what day they stop. I know the end is coming. I don't know how to deal with that. How do you seek out counseling for your son's Tweets when they stop; Tweets he purposely set up to go out after he completed suicide? I feel so alone in this. How many other parents of a child that died by suicide have to mourn the loss of their social media coming to an end 6 FUCKING MONTHS AFTER your child dies? 

How? How do I accept that? How do I deal with losing Enzo all over again? How do I repair a completely shattered heart that will become even less of a heart when these Tweets stop? Is there a counselor that specializes in this? I know the answer to these questions. There is no accepting it, there is no dealing with it. There is no repairing my heart. There is no counselor for this. There is no place I can hide. My healing cannot start until his second death is here.

When these Tweets stop, I will lose my son again. I can never be ok with that. I can never be prepared. I can never deal with that. I will lose my son twice. I feel like every other parent that lost a child to suicide loses their child once. So I'm alone in this. There is no changing that.



Comments

  1. I love you April no one knows your pain but I am here if you need to talk

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

part 3: the recipient

I didn't know how this would end when I began writing. I just knew I needed to pen my anger.  I had a lot of things I needed to get through: thoughts that take over my brain and I think about over and over. Knowing what I know about myself, I'm stuck here until I take the time to write it down. It's gonna be a lot. I need to write about what happened in the hours after his death, how I remember the last time I saw his face, what exactly I saw & how that April is sooooo separate from the April I am now. I've learned what that is: dissociation.  I've also realized I've used dissociation my entire life. I'm not ready to write about that yet. I need to write these facts down. Facts that sound a little too weird if you've never suffered the loss of a child. I have. So whatever I need is ok as long as it isn't harmful to me or anyone else.  In the middle of writing how angry I am about not having signs from my son, about this deep turmoil I'm addre...

the years that come after

It's not true what they say.  "The first year is the hardest."  That's so far from the truth.  My beloved friend and hair stylist lost her 14 year old son in a tragic gun accident 12 years ago.  Today, as I sat down in her chair I asked her "How long did it take you to enjoy the holiday season again?" In the middle of my question, my breath caught and burst into tears. She shared with me some things that are deeply private, but she did say it.  "The first year is not the hardest." That was exactly what I needed. It was permission. It was my acknowledgement.  I'm not crazy. I'm not losing my mind.  The first year isn't the hardest.  While there IS joy in my life, this year, the third Christmas without Enzo, has been more difficult than the others.  What do I do with that?  No one can answer that. Not even me. Moscato didn't work. Quiet doesn't work. Loud doesn't work.  Smiling doesn't work.  The only thing that HAS helped...

Forty Minutes Past the Time

Yesterday marked four years since a significant moment split our lives into before and after. For the past few years, I’ve handled that hour the same way. When the clock crept toward the exact minute it happened, I would step into the shower. I’d let the water run hot and loud — loud enough to drown out the memories that insist on resurfacing. It became a ritual. Armor made of steam. Some grief doesn’t leave. It just waits for its time slot. But last night was different. My daughter came over with her new wife. We sat around the table. We talked. We laughed. We shared a couple of shots. It was warm and easy and ordinary in the best possible way. At one point she leaned forward, placed her hand on my knee, and said softly, “You made it past the time, Mom.” I looked at the clock. Forty minutes past what I needed to survive. And I hadn’t even noticed. What strikes me most isn’t just that I “made it past the time.” It’s that I didn’t survive it alone this year. For years, I’ve stepped into...