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Broken

I remember writing on grief, and how my method was to "deal while I heal". Grieving my youngest led me to the hospice field. In that essay, there's a section about how grief differs, especially when there's trauma. I've endured one of the most tragic events of my life- I became an inevitable tear.

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December 17th, I buried my eldest son. That's right, the one who made me louder & prouder. When he was born, he bettered me. As a mom, I wanted him to experience life differently. There'd be no talks about being macho, gender was not used in conversations about dating, he learned not to judge a book by its cover & to clarify if he didn't understand the pages. He learned to love people for who they were. He'd say things and I'd beam, because he just got it!

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I've written about him in the blog, because he was at an age (18) where I needed a better understanding. During his funeral I realized that, once again, the anxiety was mostly mine. I heard these stories, saw videos and looked upon the faces of people who'd taken the time to know him.

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Yes, I was grateful. Honestly I want him back, more than ever. There's was so much to say, and do, and I'm feeling ripped off. Because of the accident, & stroke, I missed out on the last months of his life. These aren't things I can say aloud. People want to be optimistic, and make you feel better, but the only thing worth hearing is "this is shit".

Right now I am a giant tear. Just beneath the veil, a tear is always threatening to fall. The lesson here is, part of grieving is needing to talk. I needed to talk about him 💔


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