This Grief.

This grief is vast and hollow and angry and intense. It is confusing and debilitating and agonising and lonely. This grief annihilates everything in its wake. I could select a thousand different words in an attempt to explain the feelings associated with this grief but none would suffice. Words are feeble. But if you know, you know.

There is nothing in my world anymore that isn’t consumed by this grief. I guess that’s because my world is no longer whole. It is shattered and broken beyond repair. I am grieving for the loss of what once was and what can no longer ever be. Ever. For the happy memories that I can no longer retrieve. Were there any happy memories?

This grief that greets me like a punch to my gut every single morning and during the night, knocking the breath right out of me. It seeps into my nightmares and deprives me of sleep. It makes me nauseous and causes my whole body to physically ache, all day. And the crying is something else. In fact, it almost feels as though someone else is making the awful noises at times. I am absolutely unable to think of anything else, other than this life that can not possibly be mine. This hellish life that can not possibly be real.

This grief consumes all I am and it makes me want to die. It torments me with all the relentless ‘whys’ and ‘what ifs’ and should’ves’. It rips at my heart and fills me with anguish and dread. Sometimes I sob quietly and other times I howl and scream. I lash out and throw things and rock on the floor. I can’t listen to music, I don’t like leaving the house, I don’t enjoy eating, I can only read about this. I only ever talk about my son and about this grief. There is nothing around me that is not associated with this loss and this grief.

But from what I can gather, I think this is okay. Well, it’s not okay. It will never be okay, but at least it’s okay to feel whatever it is you feel. I don’t want to use the ‘normal’ because I don’t think anything within this situation could be described as normal. This is certainly not grief as I ever knew it to be. But, after experiencing the worst almost 3 months of my entire existence, I have realised how this grief has affected me and, seemingly, others around me.

Some people care about you. They want to help but they are unsure if they are potentially saying the wrong thing. You appreciate their efforts nonetheless. You are very much aware no one has a clue what the right thing to say is. That said, some people really don’t have a clue and manage to spectacularly put their foot in it, usually giving it little or no thought at all. The ones who care though, they will put themselves in your shoes as best they can. They will try and it will show. These are the ones you will always be grateful for. The ones who stuck around when you had no clue what you needed but they tried giving it a shot anyway.

Some people will make an obligatory call or text that will tick a box for them and then they will go about their lives, barely giving you a second thought. People seem to follow this weird notion that this gets better.

Some people will ask you how you are doing and if you tell them honestly, they will be massively unprepared for your response. They will go about their lives and probably never think of you again. Some people actually seem to go to great efforts to draw a response out of you, encourage you to talk to them but then leave you hanging and feeling like you needn’t have bothered.

Some people will tell you how sorry they are for Your loss and how deeply sad they are for you, heartbroken even, then immediately share ‘the funniest video ever’ on Facebook or share pictures of their ‘amazing’ day. Leaving you wondering why on earth they couldn’t experience their joy privately for a short while.

Some people become instant grief experts and ‘know just how you feel’. They are not only experts on grief, but sometimes even experts on grief after losing a child to suicide, despite never having experienced this. I can’t quite fathom this one. I have come across hundreds of parents who have lost a child by suicide and I wouldn’t have a clue as to how they might feel or how they can best be supported to deal with this. Whilst I can relate most to other parents bereaved by suicide, I am aware that our loss is still very different. I am unsure how someone who has experienced the loss of a family member to a terminal illness, for example, can liken it to my experience and can confidently tell me what I should expect on my journey through the stages of grief.

It become apparent in the instant that my child died, that despite my angry protests and absolute horror, the world is not going to stop. This is hard to deal with but it happens anyway. The neighbours continue with their garden parties and home improvements even in the days after the funeral, the mail still comes (albeit my sons redirected mostly), the sun still rises and sets and, despite not being pleased about it, you continue to put one foot in front of the other. For now.

I realise that it was only my own life that forever froze in that moment and immediately became a ‘before’ and ‘after’. It was only me that died inside but continued to breathe. Only me that curses the universe every morning when I realise I am here for another impossible day. And I know that this is just how it goes. I don’t know what I expected. A little more compassion from others maybe? I know nothing can change the situation but maybe I half expected others to make some effort to gain a tiny bit of an understanding of grief associated with this kind of traumatic loss. I also didn’t expect that others, who were practically strangers, would make such an effort to offer help and support.

Maybe due to the colossal amount of overwhelming thoughts (many intrusive) in my mind, I no longer have the capacity to respond to or care for well meaning platitudes or insensitive comments. Either way, I have decided that I do not need to engage with unnecessary small talk or communication that isn’t helpful to me. I just have nothing to give to anyone, myself included, and it is so tiring pretending otherwise. I also absolutely refuse to do that. I recognise that to enable me to manage my own grief, I must focus only on what is helpful to me and let go of what is not.

MY CHILD DIED BY SUICIDE.

I have every right to speak about this whenever and however I choose. I have every right to say aloud that I have nothing left in me. I have every right to have no hope, to find nothing at all positive in my life anymore. I have every right to be angry and to not care about how uncomfortable other people are when hearing about my grief. I do not have to pretend or be quiet.

I am no expert in managing grief but I am an expert in my own grief, as are you. Don’t let anyone try and tell you otherwise. Make as much noise as you need to, for as long as you need to. Maybe we all need to make more noise and let it out. Keeping things in is what led us here in the first place.