Some days there's a blank feeling that’s hard to describe in its nothingness. Not the absence of what once was, more like the subtraction of what should be.
To suggest that it gets easier implies that grief no longer requires effort to hold; that it is somehow more comfortable. It’s not—not at all. It’s different.
I realized that what I was searching for was proof. Proof that he existed, that he loved me and that he loves me still. I suppose in a way I was breaking my own heart.
In this fast-paced, disconnected world we live in, we discount how important we might be to the person sitting next to us.
It’s the one place where no matter what is going on, or how I feel, I can go to find peace. You took that away from me today.
The brilliance of the blue, like your eyes, caught my gaze and for a moment I felt I was floating. Not feeling pain or guilt; just love and peace.
On August 13, 2016, my Pops died by suicide. He sent a text saying goodbye and died. He died alone at a nature preserve in southern California.
I hate the three sentences above. I miss him every day.
Following Pops’ death, I did a lot of reading and spent countless hours researching suicide. The statistics are staggering. Those of us left behind have a long journey to get close to something that looks like healing. The truth is, I’m not sure a complete healing can ever happen. What I do know is after losing a loved one to suicide some grief paths can lead to extremely dark destinations.
I’ve been thinking about what I would write at the one-year mark. Over the past few days I created an outline for this blog post; each point I wanted to make listed on a tear stained legal pad. Sharing details about the painful…
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