…anyone who thinks you’re going to completely heal or get over it is nuts. This kind of grief changes you and you can’t go back to being who you were before it, no matter how much anyone wants you to.- Liliesofsnow

I so agree with you. Each day is torture. It gets worse.

My theory of why she said what she said: to her there is still the stigma to “psych wards”, which is not what this place is at all. It’s an old mansion in Berkeley. No white tiles and flappy gowns and Nurse Ratchet.

I’m going to call Mama myself to tell her in my own way how I felt about how she word-whipped me.  Wish me luck.

Again, thank you

 

hugs,

sean

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Mother

I’m rooting for you, kiddo. Glad you are choosing life and health. You are far stronger than you think or may know.

Thank you, girlforgetful

Had lunch with my mom and dad and a couple of cousins and family yesterday.

At some point I announced I was voluntarily checking into psychiatric long-term care( detox first but I didn’t mention this). Then My mom said, “I’m glad you’re doing this because I’m stronger than you.” (remember, she lost a son, my brother)

I was hurt at the time but the Mister and I let it pass. But we discussed it tonight and he felt it best to tell her about how hurt I am.  As expected she became defensive. I will  speak with her soon about this. I will.

I’ve had enough of people’s shit. I AM DYING, AND OTHER THAN THE MISTER, NOBODY SEEMS TO CARE. Everyone has an idea about how we all should heal. Well, I never will, so you might as well talk about someone else.

am so tired of everything. And yes I believe it takes strength to do what I’m going to do. Yay me

a lot of people or friends want karma points by  helping the stupid grieving mother.

stop it.

Fuckem

The Found Weekend

 

This will be the last weekend I’ll be home.

Let me explain:

Mother’s beloved child took her own life. Mother feels every arrow.

She starts drinking to numb herself. It escalated to drinking much earlier, like 8 in the morning. Almost five months she does this every day.

She knows she can’t sustain this routine.

So on Monday, 24th of November,  she will check into a detox program,

transition into a long-term facility.

She won’t be around her online friends for a long time 30 to 90 days). Her online friends whom she thanks for their kind words.

************ I’m saying goodbye for now. Love you all

There are caring people out there and you’re proof of this.

Please take care

 

LOVE,

Sean

 

 

Totally Cracked

Humpty Dumpy sat on the wall

Humpty Dumpy had a great fall

All the therapists and their attempts to ease her pain

could not put her together again

I am not going to talk about my daughter again. it’s my private pain and I’m not ready to fully share it.

Three

There are still three toothbrushes

Day after it happened I  set the table for three. A habit

It’s taken me a long time to say,

She’s DEAD, Dead, dead

She has been for a little over three months

Just framed a picture of us Three

She was three-years-old

We were beautiful

Just…

thank you for your hugs and thoughts and support and words of kindness.  It’s hard for me to reply because I have to re-live things. But I do anyway.

I have to be honest–i’m drugged up all day. It’s getting worse, not better.  I understand why that is. I miss her so much I’m going crazy.

Pardon for all the negative and depressing posts. I can’t post anything else. I miss her. I want to hug her. We visit her grave every week. Today another parent invited us over for dinner. Not looking forward to it but for some incomprehensible reason we don’t want to alienate people. I just know I’m not gonna be the life of the party.

The point for this post is, Thank you, lovely people, who care and think about us.  Thank you for your love,

Much love,

Sean

Funerals

 

A funeral is a show. You have the actors play their parts: the grieving parents, sobbing parents, while the audience watch, crying in turn.

Lachrymose music plays softly.

Oh nothing is a performance–all the actors feel are genuine, including your dignity–it’s more like a public display of collective grief.

What the others don’t see after the curtain falls  are the boozing, the sobbing nightly while sniffing your daughter’s favorite sweater, which still smells very much of her, the fantasy of suicide, the misery from missing her, your beautiful child. The gnawing guilt. The hate of seeing people happy. The desire to be alone so you can booze it up to feel miserable in the dark. The feeling of being useless when your child had been the center, the yolk of your universe. The deep cuts, figuratively, all over your body, which makes it hurt to do anything. That it is not getting better. The sense of impotence from being helpless that it may not get better. The obsession to do the same as she did.

The profound and moot desperation to forget.

Nobody sees any of this. And  nobody should.

My daughter was buried June 27, 2014.