April Showers

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...

That's how old you would be.  27 I've realized this year that there will be times I can do something for your birthday and there will be years I can't.  This is a can't year.  And while that should make me feel guilty, I refuse to let it because I know exactly how I remember and honor you every day. It's visible to everyone, they just don't realize it.  In the 2 years and 7 months since you've been gone, I given up a few things. I've accepted some things I wanted to avoid. I might as well face it all because after losing you, there is nothing left that could be more painful. So, I gave up some stuff and accepted some stuff.  But the surprising way is how that break, that shift, that canyon of change - showed up in my daily life.  I bought the brightest, fun clothes. Just like I've always wanted to. I started buying clothes that felt comfortable and lightened my mood. Lots of pink. And tons of cherries.  It felt right. Then it spilled over into the ho...

Learn to comfort people without mentioning God. Your comfort isn't my comfort. Speaking of God and heaven is not comforting at all to me. Why? Because I was taught God sends people to hell for taking their own life. As a child, I was told "there's no chance for repentance" when that happens, so they are "condemned" to hell. I remember those words specifically being used. Talk of suicide was highly uncomfortable in my teen years. Especially after a school acquaintance took his life with a shotgun in a house I could see from my window. We rode the same bus. Months later, when his brother visited our church, the speaker talked about the "Word of God" being a weapon (specifically a gun) to blow away the devil. I did not take my eyes off that young man for the entire night. How fucking awful. I watched classmates & groups of kids from the "popular clicks" try to help him. He didn't want their help. Where were they before this h...

It's 84 degrees and the sun is setting.  Today was such an amazing thing to experience.  I'm delighted with life. Good things are happening. I'm genuinely happy.  A few months ago I was afraid of not reaching this place.  Tonight, I wish this barn had a bed. I don't want to leave. 

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...

⚠️Warning⚠️ This post contains details about suicide and descriptions of death. Reader discretion is advised.  *names have been changed. About two hours have passed since officers stood in my house on February 28th to tell me my son was dead. It was now in the very first hours of the first day of our lives without him. That's all I could think. It's been about 3 hours and I can't think past "this isn't real."  It was me, my husband, Enzo's biological sister and her fiancé standing there. The conversation was quiet. I had called her first after officers left. She came over to speak in person. "We only know the detective said he seems to have waited until an officer arrived on scene before he shot himself."  My head was an awful whirl of in and out of awareness. The words moved closer and farther away as I heard them.  But when my  phone rang a few seconds later, I was instantly in focus. It had something to do with Enzo. No one else is calling at ...

I've been so angry with Enzo. Not a "you died" kind of mad.  A "where the hell are the signs you promised me" kind of mad.  He did say more than once he would haunt, send signs, do something to contact this realm if he "ever dies." I had no idea the breadth of those words. So for months I've waited. For something. Anything.  Nothing, and I mean nothing, ever showed. A specific song has played twice on the radio. That's it.  That's it!?!?!? I began to question it all. The adoption never actually happened. I have no proof of his incredible presence in our family, the connection we built, cried through, laughed through, grew into. I have pictures. That's all.  Scrolling through the internet, I came across a reminder. A single word. One word.  Serendipity.  The occurrence and development of events by chance in a happy or beneficial way.  Enzo talked so passionately about Serendipity. He loved the idea, the concept. He connected events, circ...

There are days when I simply dwell on the moment two officers stepped inside my home and said "I'm afraid we have bad news."  I just sit and think of that exact time over and over. Hours passed in those 5 or 6 seconds. I lost every family member in my life and tried to decide how to respond in those moments.  I moved thru each one with decisiveness and thought of the next steps after they said a name. And yet I waited. I waited what felt like an entire lifetime. My soul screamed violently.  "JUST FUCKING SAY IT"  but even that took a lifetime. "Do you know Josiah Brooks?"  Oh God. "That's our son" my husband replied instantly. He understood how long those moments were.  I was dialed in on the officer's black shiny shoes. I could not take my eyes off of them. I felt myself leave my body.  "You can't be here for this" I felt it more than heard it. Don't say it.  I don't want to hear this.  "We're sorry to ...

Yesterday was two years.  I've taken a shower the evening of both anniversaries during the 10 minute window I believe Enzo pulled the trigger. It's the only place I feel safe from the clock. I can't stare at it. So sometime during my shower, the minute my son fired his gun comes and goes.  Or at least that's the plan. I miscalculated the time I was in the shower last night. When I looked at my phone, it was the exact minute he sent out the Tweet: "after careful consideration I have decided to exit the simulation. I love you all so much and I will see you in the next one." I hate 9:01 pm on February 28th. A jolt went thru my heart. I got out of the shower too soon. Unable to decide what to do, I stood there. I took my nightly medication. And stood there.  Shouldn't I be doing something? Some action at the moment my son took his life that would honor him? Something. Anything.  But I didn't. I stood there. Then I went to bed.  I've done a lot to honor...