103 days. As if it has been 103 days. 103 days since we spoke. Fuck this is hard. I think I am still overcome with shock. I absolutely blame myself for all of this. Everything. And that’s just how I am dealing with things right now. Guilt and blame, I am told, are normal ‘stages’ of grief. As far as I can tell, grief manifests in a whole number of ways and doesn’t care one bit about stages. I would say that I am currently in the ‘blame myself a lot, hate myself even more stage’. And, as with the many of the other feelings associated with grief, this stage takes up a lot of room in your head and can make you feel physically sick. I have been told I am experiencing ‘complicated grief’. You think? I wouldn’t expect the sudden death of a child to be anything else but incredibly complicated.
I have decided to cancel my therapy sessions. I don’t find it helpful to try and weigh up my negative thoughts with positive ones. I’m not even sure that’s possible since I have no recollection of any of Liam’s childhood. Literally no memories. This happens apparently and I’ve been reassured that they’ll start to come back. Either way, I don’t want to keep being reminded that I can’t remember my own child. It’s proving way too hard and I just don’t think I am ready to try. It’s easier to hate and blame myself.
I don’t want to try and work through the trauma of finding Liam and the events that unfolded thereafter. I have enough flashbacks without purposely reliving it. This is the one thing I remember perfectly well unfortunately. I remember it as if it had just happened. It’s easier for me to hate and blame myself.
I’m also not interested in being told I’m not to blame. I’m actually really tired of being told that. Because it isn’t true. I am completely to blame. I want to take full responsibility, not try to deny it. I don’t want to try and come to accept a version of events I am able to cope with, because it is clear to me what happened. It’s easier to hate and blame myself. And the version I know to be true plays every single day. Over and over. And, whichever way you look at it, it was all my fault. This is my version. And that’s what I’m not sure I can live with.
It’s all my fault because he was my child and I am responsible for keeping my children safe from harm. It doesn’t matter that he was an adult. And he was barely an adult. He was my first born child. My baby. And I failed him. If I hadn’t have failed him, he would still be here. Alive. And I wouldn’t be writing this blog.
I can’t even share the responsibility, I wish I could. But that would be unfair. I was the one who brought Liam up. Just me. So the blame lies solely with me. Which is a substantial amount of guilt for anyone to carry. And the thing is, It’s not as if I’m just anyone. I’m Liam’s mum. And I love him more than words. Which is why this is such a heavy burden to bear. So, however which way you look at this, I failed my own son.
And I failed him in so many ways.
I did not see this coming. And, as his mother, if anyone should’ve seen this, it was me.
I did not realise he was feeling this way, at any point.
I did not ever have concerns about him growing up. He had a nice group of friends, did well at college, he was smart, funny, witty, focussed and happy (or so I thought). Things felt good. I should’ve noticed that they weren’t. But, I didn’t.
Not only was it my job to notice those occasions when Liam might not have been coping so well, it was my job to teach him the many coping skills he required in preparation for his adult life. It was up to me make sure he was well equipped for everything life might throw at him, so that he was prepared, resilient and able to tackle what came his way, or at least ask for help.
I actually never felt like he minded asking for help, I often helped him out. And I did see him tackling various things in life and finding solutions to issues that may arise. He could compile a 5 star complaint email, no problem and he certainly wouldn’t think twice before addressing problems at work and dealing with issues head on, in fact, his previous employer commended him on his ability to manage difficult situations with his quick thinking and top notch communication skills.
But, it was my job to make sure he knew he could always come to me for ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING. Because clearly he didn’t feel able to this time.
So if anyone is to blame, it’s me. I accept full responsibility as his mother. It wasn’t intentional but that doesn’t make me feel any better. And I am struggling to keep going with this heavy burden I’m now forced to carry. I guess as parents we are bound to make mistakes but we usually have the rest of our lives to make amends, to do better next time. I don’t have that luxury anymore.
I don’t have the opportunity to fix this. I can’t learn from my mistakes and do it better next time round. I can plead the rest of my days for a do over but I can’t have one. That’s it. It doesn’t get more final than this. I don’t hold out much hope for the future. I always had hope in abundance. In fact, Hope is my daughters middle name. But the hope has all gone now.
So, this is where I am 103 days in. A whole lot of blame and hate. For myself. It’s all consuming and extremely tiring but doesn’t often allow for sleep. Sleeping tablets continue to be particularly helpful.
There are other things I have found helpful too; writing is still helpful some days, online groups for bereaved parents have probably (almost certainly actually) saved my life on a number of occasions. The support from those parents is invaluable. Blogs, books and podcasts by other bereaved parents continue to help. I’d be lying if I said I saw a future now. It’s so hard to see a future when the person who’s life held more value than your own, isn’t here. So for now, I will continue to take things minute by minute or hour by hour, doing whatever I feel I can manage, whilst hating on myself.
Not This Ending. 