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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.

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!


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.

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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