43 days

He is never, ever, ever not on my mind. My heart is never light. I never feel good, or normal. Avoiding the subject of Damon’s death may save you the discomfort of seeing me cry but it does not do me any favors. I don’t presume to speak for other bereaved parents. I don’t know how they feel but Damon’s name is precious to me. His life is precious. He is precious.

It feels like the world has moved on. For me “normal” still makes me sick. I can’t do normal. No, I’m not feeling better. Are you kidding? No.

Will and Isaiah are reading books in the living room and I can’t bring myself to leave this bed. The ache is too heavy to drag myself anywhere. Besides, I would have to pass Damon’s room.

I’ve been fighting the tears all day today, pushing back against the pounding waves. It’s a battle I won’t win but I’m so tired of being the cripple. I’m so tired of being beaten again and again and again by the waves. I ache for my son. I ache for his smile. I ache for his laugh. I ache for his little body in my arms. Have you ever wanted to die? I mean really wanted to die? I want to die. Some days that’s all I can say, over and over and over “I just want to die.”

Those who understand, as much as someone who has not dragged themselves down this black path can, tell me there is no time table. Grief lasts as long as grief lasts. Each season lasts as long as it lasts. Yet, I feel the pressure. I feel the pressure to “look normal” to “act normal.” The world is moving on and I am left in my sackcloth and ashes, alone.

God reminds me that He alone will never tire of my grief. He alone will never tire of my tears, my wailing, my anger, my endless ache.

I try to cling to this but I have no strength left. Today I told Him “Just let go. Just let go and let me fall into the abyss. I’m so tired of fighting.” He didn’t let go, even when I begged Him to.

So, I march. Today my armor is so heavy. My bones ache with exhaustion and my heart cries for Damon and for home.

Home.