I think we all go through cycles. Different kinds of cycles at that. Right now, I’m not happy. I’m not happy about a situation I’m in, and I am sad about this because I had some hope for this situation.

The past two weeks have been hard. I realized over the weekend some things could have been handled differently. During this last week, I tried doing it differently while staying in alignment with myself. After a conversation yesterday, I felt disassociated and detached from my surroundings. I couldn’t quite put into words what had occurred or how I was feeling about what occurred. I went home with a headache that felt very much like a migraine. Who knows, I might have been clenching my jaw the entire 3-4 hours I was in that room.

I also decided I wouldn’t talk to anyone about what had been discussed. I had some clarity on how my own actions and emotions had contributed to the chaos I was feeling in that environment. I had some other moments of…clarity for myself, and it saddened me a little bit. I had attached an expectation to something, and that expectation had been shattered by the act of a few people. I can forgive. I can eventually let go, and the scar will still be there as a reminder.

I’m big on trust. It’s a thing with me. Authenticity and trust are huge with me. If you are fake and end up lying, and I find out, that’s it. And here’s the thing. I’m pretty damn good at reading people. I can usually tell when someone is lying, and it’s not a fun superpower to have. I am not capable of just lying straight up to someone. Especially if I care about them. There really is no filter. I’ve learned to filter myself in certain companies or learn how to speak about things without filtering. It’s something I’ve had to learn to do when speaking with others because I’ve never really been on the same wavelength with a lot of people.

In my recent therapy session, we uncovered that I don’t want to make a mistake. I don’t want to get it “wrong.” I need background and clear instruction when doing something, especially if it’s new. It’s a thing with me. I think I “need” to be perfect to be loved even though I hate being too restricted in my being me. But there are also scenarios where the structure is necessary. Boundaries as well. It’s a program I’ve been trying to re-program or just delete from the uploads I received growing up.

I’m still learning so much about myself. Sometimes I get so passionate about it, I become blinded until I hit a wall or fall hard. THen, it’s another learning process of using what I learned in a balanced way with me and what it is I need.

I’m a child still in some ways. Idealistic in some things. An old soul in other ways. While I know we all see and experience the world differently, there’s something about what and how I see the world around me that’s alienated people, and it’s caused some…loneliness. The kids experience the same thing with a good majority of their peers. And I know there are those out there who do and will understand. Will accept me without judgment and without expectation, and just love me as I am- broken and pieced back together and just scarred from head to toe.

And I’m not talking about romantic love. Good gravy, what a program I uploaded when I was younger! I didn’t know or even realize the different kinds and levels of love until I was in my thirties! Then, during all that, I realized that to be loved is one thing we all really want. Or at least accepted, which I believe is a form of love.

The highs and the lows

The highs and the lows

02/12/2022: This week, I did something I wouldn’t have done in the past. I spoke up about things to people that were above other people. Some things escalated, and after Thursday, I crashed into a sea of depression and paranoia. Then, I did something out of that paranoia on Friday, which might not have been a “good” thing to do.

I am a deeply feeling person. And I mean deeply feeling. When my mind and my heart both grasp onto something, I can become passionate about it. A lot of the time, it’s mostly just talking or just the need to express it out. I talk to people about my thoughts, wants, passions. I’ve rarely actually acted on what I want. Fear is a powerful thing. And over the past two weeks, I acted on something that had been with me for months. I had reached a breaking point. Again, fear is a powerful cage…leash…whatever you allow it to be.

It may not be complex, but my mind is telling it is. I spoke up at my workplace, feeling that some of the systems in place could be improved for the entire staff. Only, I might have come off so strongly that people don’t know how to react or how to take it. I explain things and use words that aren’t “normally” used when communicating. Even in my writing, I can go on tangents and lose my way to my point. The point is there, and sometimes it takes me a long while to get there.

I write things out to better communicate. Sometimes I”ll just write, and then, when it’s all out, review to see what it is I really want to say. It can take an hour or it could take days. This place is just one place that I dump my thoughts on.

In any case, I came home last night so depressed and paranoid I went to bed at 5:45 p.m. And slept. I woke up a few times to use the bathroom and later to talk with the Boy after he got home from work. I didn’t want to get out of bed. While I didn’t feel “depressed,” I still felt worthless and out of place. Like I don’t belong anywhere. It was like I had come down from some sort of manic episode.

02/13/2022: See? What’d I tell you? I’m in a better mental space now that I was the past few days. I spent some time last night with one of my soul sisters, whom I hadn’t seen in several months. I haven’t laughed that hard or long is such awhile. It felt good to feel good. She reminded me that sometimes people just won’t take who I am, and that’s okay. And this concept is something I’ve been working on for years. Even before Ted took his life.

I’ve never liked being “normal.” Which seems weird considering I’ve had the tendency to want to be wanted and accepted into a group. Only, as I’ve gotten older, I’m not so sure that it’s a want to fit into a group or be accepted by a group. I just want to be accepted as I am. For the past few years, starting in 2016, I think, I began to question who I really was and what I was really meant for me. Then, those questions really hit me after Ted died.

While grieving, while helping the kids navigate through their grieving, I was trying to find out who I really was. Not who everyone else wanted me to be. I get it – our families and friends want the best for us, and as we move along in life, they project those wants for us. It’s become a natural scheme of things, right? They are all doing the best they can with what they know.

And as I’ve found my voice, while still navigating through life, raising teenagers, and whatnot, I’ve had a lot of losses and a lot of strange moments of clarity. And some of these moments, I haven’t shared with anyone but my therapist because not a lot of people I know will get it. Yet, there are moments when I can’t seem to use my voice. The fears I’ve carried with me throughout my life are so deeply ingrained, that one little thing can throw me back to that one younger version of me who was so hurt, she couldn’t speak.

Understand this, I have been going to counseling/therapy for at least five years; this year will be going on six. I’m not going to quit. I’ve been through different types of treatment with my therapist, and they’ve all worked up to some point. The current method has me emotionally raw after the session. For all I know, this might have triggered my speaking up.

I’m still trying to find my voice. I’m still trying to understand we are all different, even though I believe deep down inside we just want to be loved and treated with kindness. I’m still working through my “issues” one day at a time. I’m not perfect. And thank goodness.



I struggle with two things: the want for freedom and the want for structure. The want for structure is most likely from my childhood and nearly 19 years in a lab setting where structure and protocol were held with utmost importance. The want for freedom comes from not liking being told what to do, the realization that I had (and probably still do to some extent) lived my life how others wanted me to live it. I become overwhelmed with too many choices. I have so many passions that I overwhelm myself sometimes trying to figure out what it is I want in my life, out of my life.

I’ve learned that being perfect, trying to be continuously in a state of perfection is exhausting. I’ve also learned that there is some benefit in striving for “perfection.” Granted, I’ve also learned nothing is ever “perfect.” I don’t even tell my kids to seek perfection. The phrase, “Practice makes perfect,” is basically a forbidden phrase in our household. “Practice makes you better….” The perfectionist mindset has been passed onto the kids, and it’s also something we’re all working through. We see how it affects others who strive for perfection. Just witnessing it is exhausting.

Writing is a passion of mine. I tell stories. I write about my life. I just write. It’s a release for me. Writing allows me to be unfiltered and feel unjudged. Even if I know people read my words, I know that they are still my words, and whatever the reaction is, isn’t mine. And there have been times when I’ve wanted to write a book about something. Fear has/is a big obstacle I struggle with. There have been two times where the book dream was worked on. Then, life happened. I still have things saved with what I’ve written on my own or with others. It’s fun reading through it all, and seeing how my writing has developed.

I write because I have something to say. I write because it’s safe for me. Speaking in front of others, especially strangers isn’t my thing. I can get passionate about things, and only tend to be expressive with people I feel safe with. Isn’t that how it usually works? By the way, I can already hear some of you saying/thinking, “But that’s how you get over a fear. You just do it. Or work towards doing it. Just go out and speak to strangers.” The introvert in me is laughing at you and your thoughts.

I cried this weekend. The kids were out of the house, doing their individual Sunday thing, and I decided to take a bath. During the bath, I was listening to music and texting a friend. I’m not quite sure what triggered it, and I think the music was a big factor, my chest, right around my heart became tight and painful. Broken would probably be the best word to describe it. My heart felt broken – shattered. I felt tears starting to well up and stream down my face, and I almost stopped it. Then, I blurted out to nothing, “You left me.” And I realized that I needed to say that to Ted. “You left me. How could you? You left the kids. How dare you? Why did you leave? You left me.” And the tears kept coming. Streaming down the sides of my face and into my ears, and then into the bathwater. After I spent about five minutes crying and just saying what came to mind, I felt lighter. I drained the tub, and started the shower, sitting in the tub and experiencing the water falling over me. I laughed at one point because I sometimes cry in the shower. I did a lot of crying in the shower after Ted died. Can’t feel the tears on my face while the shower water is running down it. And sometimes the noise of the shower, bathroom fan, and the music playing drowns out the sobbing. Drowns out the whimpers and blurted out thoughts I didn’t realize were waiting to be said and expressed. No one but me hears all this amongst the cacophony of the bathroom noises.

I have cried more the past few weeks than I had for quite some time. Might have been months really. At least since August. I really can’t remember just breaking down and crying. It’s not as if I don’t want to do it. I think part of it is a subconscious thing. Programming uploaded in me from my childhood years as well as other societal “standards,” or however you want to call it. Crying wasn’t allowed.

I read somewhere something that hit me in a way that made me rethink how I tend to just hide my pain, ” Promise me not to hide yourself when you’re in pain. It’s unfair that we laughed together but you cried alone.” Now that I’ve typed that, the memory of being at the funeral home and receiving Ted’s personal items comes up.

It was a moment where the reality of the situation hit me. I broke down, and just cried and sobbed and shook with loss and grief and disbelief and realization. Those who had come with me to support only sat there in silence, and witnessed my grief. The funeral director was asking my questions, and thank goodness some of those there spoke for me. Looking back, I’m grateful I had witnesses then. And a lot of times, I really wish I could run to someone to just cry. Yet, there is still shame I carry in crying in front of others. Hence, I tend to cry alone…and usually in the shower.

I write because there’s freedom in it for me.

Trigger me this 02/06/2022

Trigger me this 02/06/2022

Living with depression, anxiety, and PTSD due to experiencing suicide can be a tricky thing. There are things that will trigger someone living with the said above. Each person has their own set of triggers. Sirens and the sight of emergency vehicles is a trigger for Peanut. I’m working through that one myself. There are certain phrases and words that will trigger me. A missed call from one of the kids, a family member, or a friend without a left message triggers me. My brain immediately goes to the worst possible situation. The same thing goes when I don’t get an answer to a phone call by someone I know who should be answering their phone – namely the kids. A missed call from someone who I know the kids are with, and no message. Lease a message! Please! Even before I see the message, I can get triggered by seeing a missed call.

We all have triggered for something. Some of us work really hard to work through those triggers. Others are so overwhelmed by them that they don’t know where to start in order to work through them. We’re all different.

The kids can be a trigger for me. A trigger of the, “I’ll never be good enough,” inner child. I am constantly working with/through that one. My work experience and my childhood are also sources/triggers for that inner child. Really, it’s not the kids’ fault. It’s how I react to them, their actions, their reactions, their teenager ways (even their prior to teenager ways).

I grew up with a right or wrong mentality. I went through school with the right or wrong programming. I went through it in my work experience; in fact, I still do. Black or white. Even though, deep down I knew there is grey and a multitude of other ways of going about things. It’s difficult for me to stray from certain set standards/molds, and I also struggle with being forced into a mold. I dislike labels, trends, and being told how I “should” be doing this or that.

Criticism can be a trigger. I’m getting better with that one. It’s always a work in progress.



I got a new laptop. A lighter one, and one that I really want. Now, I just need to get used to the keyboard on it when I take it with me to other places.

I’ve been absent. I took an isolation retreat, trying to figure things out. Truth be told, being on social media from November through January is hard for me. It’s just a reminder of the hole left in our family. A hole that will never be filled by another. No one could ever replace Ted’s role in the lives he touched. I remember Peanut asking me about a few days or a week after Ted died, “Are you going to get us a new daddy?” It was such an interesting flooring question. I told her no, not for a long time.

I found freedom after Ted’s death. Through my counseling, I realized that I had conformed to what not only what I thought Ted wanted me to be but others throughout my life. Part of the people-pleaser in me, I guess. I’m still trying to figure myself out. In fact, I think I’m going through another cycle of shedding.

I stayed at a job I had begun to dislike out of fear, not only my own fears but the fears projected from Ted, family, and friends. While it was devastating to be let go after nearly 19 years, it was a gift. I hadn’t been in alignment with that place for such a long time. Something else was calling to me, and basically, the Universe basically pushed me off the pot.

I got another job, and a little over a year there, I left because it wasn’t in alignment with me. Now, I’m struggling with something very similar at my current job. New things look so shiny, and once the shiny layers get worn down, certain things get seen, right? Honestly, as I think back, there were red flags in the beginning. Now, I’m in this spot where I don’t know what direction to go towards.

I’m a fixer. I’ve gotten better at not rushing to fix things, and there are times where things do need fixing.I can’t really fix what’s going on. You can’t fix people. You can improve systems.

BK said that my two sides – the one that wants freedom and the that wants structure- are going head to head right now. She suggested I look at what their purpose is in keeping me safe – what are they keeping me safe from? And explore how they can both exist. We’ve been trying a new therapy technique she learned, and it’s brought up some things I haven’t addressed in months and I’ve been hiding from.

“I’ll never be good enough. No matter what I do or how hard I try, I will never be good enough.”

“Why bother trying?”

“I”m so tired of trying.”

“This isn’t fair. None of this is. My doing all this by myself. It feels like I’m doing it all by myself. And it’s not fair!”

Just a few things that’s come from me while going through the last two sessions. It’s layers. It happens in layers. That’s why I said I felt like I was shedding. Now, I’ve lost the steam to write. Erg….Love and light to you all!

02/02/2022 – A Hiatus…a break…a whatever you want to call it.

02/02/2022 – A Hiatus…a break…a whatever you want to call it.

I’ve been away. A slightly self-imposed break from the interweb and social media. I was getting overloaded and feeling the weight of things. I couldn’t focus, and I didn’t know where I was or even who I was. I still don’t know exactly who I am, and do we ever really know?

Another thing was, the laptop I had bought last year in hopes of writing more was given to my son for Windows Certification class, and asking to use it (yes, I said asking), became too much of a hassle for me. Even when I got the laptop, I couldn’t get myself to write or even really go online.

I’m hoping this will change. I’ve learned some things about myself, and I’m going to be working on those things. One of which is oversharing. That’s a subjective term, and I’m going to keep to myself what it means for me. I still won’t filter here what I want to say; I just won’t be sharing certain things with the rest of you.

Just a quick note really this morning. Y’all take care. Love and Light!



I tend to date all my entries. Even here. Why? If you haven’t quite noticed, I don’t always finish my posts, and sometimes it takes days for me to even get through my own thoughts. I tend to go on tangents sometimes. I’ve been accused of giving too much background and detail. That can be true. The thing is, I want the listener/reader to be able to experience it. A strange to want, no?

It could be a result of all the books I read as a kid and growing up. I was reading books beyond my age starting in fourth grade. Started reading Stephen Kings books around then. A neighbor had a big collection at that time. Reading was one of the few avenues of entertainment when I was a kid. My mom still has my collection of Nancy Drew books and Baby-Sitters Club books. I was reading The Scarlet Letter in fourth and fifth grade. I was reading The Idiot by Dostoevsky my freshman year in high school. Now that I think about it, I never finished it. Might have to dig that one out, along with a few other books that have recently pique my re-interest.

In any case, these books offered detail where I could experience it. It’s fascinating because all authors use their words differently to transport their readers. Even in some of the more simplstic writing, one could experience the words. It certainly helps having a wild imagination, right?

Reading was an escape for me. At times, it still is – especially when I pick up a fiction book. Writing became an escape for me more when I got into college. I’ve been writing a lot of my life. It seems it’s the best way I can express myself. I had a friend say I was a “prolific writer,” and to be honest, I had to look prolific up. I thought maybe it was a slight poke at my writing, like I wrote too much for anyone to stay engaged, especially in my social media posts. Then, I realized my friend was complimenting me. Eventually, it came to a point where I really didn’t care if people read my posts or not.

Google Search:

pro·lif·ic/prəˈlifik/Learn to pronounceadjectiveadjective: prolific

  1. (of a plant, animal, or person) producing much fruit or foliage or many offspring.”in captivity tigers are prolific breeders” Similar: productive creative inventive fertile
    • (of an artist, author, or composer) producing many works.”he was a prolific composer of operas”
    • (of a sports player) high-scoring.”a prolific home-run hitter
  2. present in large numbers or quantities; plentiful.”mahogany was once prolific in the tropical forests” Similar: plentiful abundant bountiful profuse copious luxuriant rich lush proliferative fertile fruitful fecundriferank plenteous bounteous proliferous
    • (of a river, area, or season of the year) characterized by plentiful wildlife or produce.”the prolific rivers and lakes of Franklin County”

And honestly, this blog is one of the many avenues I write. I have numerous journals and notebooks laying around, “ready” for me to grab when something demands I write of it. And sometimes, there isn’t anything available for me to get the words out. The thoughts. Oh, the number of thoughts that attack and beg me to be released onto screen or paper. At times, they’ll be forgotten among the busy streets of my mind, or they’ll suddenly swerve out of the lines, and I can’t do anything but write.

The Boy found this blog. He told me a few months ago. My first thought was, “OH, shit. Is he mad for what I’ve written?” Then, when I asked him what his thoughts were, he didn’t seem upset. The more I thought about it, and when I became honest with myself, I knew it was eventual the kids would find this. My words. And I had promised myself when I started this blog, I wouldn’t edit for anyone. This blog is for me. If I get readers, so be it. If I get loyal readers, I’m further blessed. Like I’ve learned, said before, and have been told, I cannot control how other people react to me, my actions, and my words. That’s been a hard lesson to grasp and understand, and it’s offered me so much more freedom.

In college, I found chat rooms. Oh, what a rabbit hole that was for me. Eventually, I found a chat room that was basically folks role-playing characters of their own design, even if based on different forums. It became an escape for me – for me to be someone or something else. I made some amazing friends through those chat rooms; friends I still talk with after 20+ years. They taught me how to write, how to improve my writing skills. I learned from each of them in their own writing styles and even of the worlds they created of their own imagination and desires.

It occurred to me recently, that my writing was actually a form of therapy for me. A way for me to express the repressed voices in me. The characters I created had some connection to what I felt lacking in my life, or some wish of what I could be in my real life. Strangely, I found out playing male was easier than females. If I played a female, she was angry and bitter or very doelike and complacent, a giver.

I find I can’t write like I used to, nor do I write quite like I used to. One develops over the years. Different styles. Different perspectives. I can still be very detailed in my descriptions. I do want the reader to experience it, even if they can’t really know every single thought or movement that happened

This blog was intended to let you in on one life affected by the aftermath of a suicide. It will happen, adn you will also witness other happenings of this life. I will time-travel with you. You will experience things with me that if you do know me, probably would never have guessed it of me. Then again, as a saying goes, “There are some chapters that aren’t made for sharing…” or something like that.

I’m going to be as honest as it feels in aligntment with me. Because this is for me.

There’s a Countdown – the starts of a post….

There’s a Countdown – the starts of a post….

The end of May and the beginning of June are hard. As much as I’d like to deny it, it’s just downright hard. I want to be able to move forward and leave all the pain behind. All I’ve been doing is working on letting go of the pain. And I still hold on because deep down I’m fucking afraid that if I let go of the pain, I’ll be letting go of Ted…permanently. Logically, I know that isn’t true, and all those years with him…what would I be denying? Nothing but myself, right?

Today was a tough day. All day I had this heavy weight on me, in my chest, and a knot in my throat. I could feel the tears, only they wouldn’t come. Not until I had left work, after I watched my daughter’s recitals, and I took my son to work. As I drove my daughter home, I realized I couldn’t go home.

Dear Ted (Part 1) – an unfinished post

Dear Ted (Part 1) – an unfinished post

Dear Ted,

I had planned on writing you a letter every single day in May. I haven’t exactly done that, and guess what, I’m starting now.

May is a heavy month for me. We got married May 14, 2005. Mother’s Day is this month. Your birthday is this month, and you would have been 43 years old, and a week later, it will be three years since you took your life.

I’ve been working with a personal development coach since October. A way to invest in myself. it’s what people talk about a lot. “Investing” in yourself.

Anyway, two weeks ago, my coach and I talked about how to make this season this. How did I want to make this month different from the past years? How did I want this “season” to look different for me? I told her I had the idea of writing you a letter every day this month. I told her I wanted to feel grateful, rather that weighed down and sad this month. I’m tired of feeling sad. She suggested writing you Thank You letters.

For a moment, I didn’t like the idea. There’s times where I’ve started writing you letters in the the journal I keep just for writing to you, and just all this emotions pour out. I mean, that’s why I started the journal – to have conversations with you without interruption or judgement. Say things to you I’ve never been able to say, and to also tell you how much I miss you and love you. To tell you how the days are going with me and with the kids. Only, I’m never really consistent. A lot of those entries are intense emotions needing an outlet in the moment as long as the journal was available.

Anyway, I’m getting off topic. I’m here to write you a letter, and the Thank You letter fits into how I want to feel this month- grateful.

It’s taken me nine days to even get this far. I started this on Monday, May 04, 2020. Interruptions happen. Life happens. And you’re gone.

This isn’t exactly an exercise in exploring all the good things that have happened since you left us. This is going to be a hard thing. An exploration in all the things – emotions, fears – “stuff” that. Stuff I was struggling with and exploring before you died, and stuff that’s come up since you died. And it’s those things I want to thank you for.

Thank you for showing me my need for control. My planner personality was part of my need to feel in control. Your spontaneous trips did a number on my need for things being planned. I guess that got passed onto Alex. Even well before you died.

I had thought my going to counseling would help you as you went to yours. Yet, after, what?, three to four months you quit counseling because you didn’t think it was helping you. I kept up with mine. I felt I needed to fix myself in order for you to get better. I wanted to change me for you, and that’s not what I really wanted.

After you died, it took me awhile to realize that I had shaped my life around everyone else’s expectations. Around everyone else’s thoughts of what my life should be. I realized I didn’t know who I was, or even what I wanted to do with my life. I had to go about redefining parts of my life that I had become to believe were permanent.

You made me face the fact that I had absolutely no control over anyone. I have no control over how people are going to react to anything I do and/or say. I have no control over how people perceive me. I can only do the best I can with what I know and have. I still have my hard days.

And now, we’re on the day before our wedding anniversary. It would have been 15 years married to you. As the days have passed, I feel myself feeling slower and not wanting to face the day. I have this conversation with myself where I tell myself I have the choice of being happy, and the other part of the conversation tells me to just stay in bed and it’s okay to start sliding down into the sadness that’s coming up.

Only I don’t want to let the sadness overtake me, and have an overbearing presence when these kinds of days come up. This is where I do have control. I have control over how I make these days mean something for me. BK said I’ve reached a point where I can see it as a choice, and to not all together ignore the sadness. Just to acknowledge it, and to let it exist alongside what I want to feel and do for the day.

I miss you. There are so many happy memories attached to those days. It’s those memories I want to celebrate and focus on. Not on the fact that you aren’t here to celebrate our special day. Then, my brain will go down a path that my mind has gone down a lot.

Unflitered? – one before and on April 01, 2020 – unfinished post

Unflitered? – one before and on April 01, 2020 – unfinished post

When the idea to start this blog came to mind, I told myself I wouldn’t filter anything. I told myself I would write every single day because it would be good for me, and I enjoy writing. I told myself a lot of things when the idea to start a blog came to mind.

I haven’t written every day here, or in the other journals I’ve started to help in my healing. I haven’t posted everything I have written here either. I’ve filtered myself, only keeping what I think may not be accepted by others. There have been things I’ve wanted to share, and fear has kept me from writing and from sharing.

And now…what’s happening to our world? While there are major physical health concerns going on with Covid-19, my world has had other things happening where my focus isn’t on making sure my kids wash their hands every single time they go to the bathroom, or not touching anything in general. I’m not making light of what’s going on, and I am making sure they understand the seriousness of hygiene.

Our own little world has experienced physical trauma recently, and has also experienced a big trigger in our PTSD. And while I was told we have PTSD, it’s never been really spoken about during our counseling sessions.

March 10, 2020, I received a triggering text from the father of one of A’s friends. I had been out most of the day with work and taking my daughter to a couple of appointments. I had a slight worry earlier when I had called A to let him know what was going on, and he didn’t answer the phone three times. While about to turn to go home to check on him, he called saying he had been asleep when I called. I left it at that.

Three hours later, as I park in our driveway, I check my phone and I have a text and a FB message. The text read, “Hey. Are you busy?” and the other read, ” Hey trish this is …Can you call me ASAP xxx-xxx-xxxx. It’s an emergency regarding A…”

Everything went black, and I began screaming my son’s name as I rushed into the house, leaving my daughter in the truck. I scared my son as I burst into his room, screaming his name. I have never been so grateful to hear him yell back at me, “What!?!?!What!?!?”

Seeing him alive, I left his bedroom. I honestly have never been so grateful for having my son scream and yell back at me. He followed me, and began yelling at me. My daughter had been unloading the truck, and when she was done, I sent her to a friend’s house because I knew the yelling upset her, and even triggered her.

I told A why I came running into the house. He yelled at me that he was in pain, and I asked why he didn’t tell me. Granted, I was glad he was telling other people. He said in the moment, when talking with his friend (and this was shortly after we had spoken on the phone), he was in so much pain he wanted it to end. He told her he wanted to cut, and she got scared, which led to a string of people trying to get a hold of me. I was on the phone with counselors and friends most of the night either via text or voice.

Peanut spent the night at a friend’s house. I spent the rest of the week sleeping on the couch, afraid for his health and mental wellness. The week before, he had admitted to being depress, of which his counselor and I had figured out…only this incident just verified it.

His grief counselor had told me there is situational depression and chemical depression. While it’s understandable that the trauma of Ted’s suicide would have us fall into situational depression, it would seem A slid into chemical. It was time to think about medication.

I’m not a big advocate of pharmaceuticals, and I understand people need it. My counselor, his grief counselor, and his school counselor are also not big advocates of medications. Until it appears it is needed.

During the session after The Scare, I realized that I also need help. I really thought I could talk my way through my healing. Only there have been some very intense moments during the past almost 3 years since the suicide that have been overwhelming, and damn near unmanagable.


It’s been several days, possibly a week or more, since I first started this post. A lot seems to have happened. Two Sundays a