a world gone mad

my friend called it 

perception of control

this need I have to 

clean and organize

declutter, all the things

rearrange the furniture 

sort things into piles

I am so desperate 

to feel like 

something 

is under my control

desperate to make sense 

of things 

in a world gone mad

this is how I found myself 

sitting on the floor 

in the living room

surrounded by empty bins, trash bags,

piles of clothes, a pair of skates

some old sunglasses, a dusty fedora

wood carving tools, pocket watches

a pair of cufflinks, some flashlights,

a pink stuffed bunny 

and a brown teddy bear

scribbles on notepads, 

a kindle and an old phone

this is how I found myself 

clutching a carhartt jacket

sobbing and retching

great heaving sobs

keening and wailing

while I crawled into a pile 

of t-shirts, sweatshirts, 

dress shirts and ties

curled in a ball

covered with tears and snot

this is how I found myself,

three days after Christmas 

drowning in despair and

surrounded by the detritus 

of two lives

lost too soon

alone and still trying 

to make sense 

of a world gone mad

I Didn't Know What to Say

"I didn't know what to say" 

More than one person has said that to me. People that love me. People that have completely ignored the fact that my son died. Because they didn't know what to say. 

So they said nothing. They didn't call. They didn't text. They didn't show up at a funeral home and stand in line waiting to hug me. 

They didn't send a heart emoji or a hug emoji or a sympathy card. 

They left me to grieve without their love and support. Because they didn't know what to say. 

Here is what I know... 

If you don't reach for me, it is very unlikely that I will reach for you. 

If you don't invite me to talk about him, I won't. 

There are maybe three people that aren't my therapist that I will talk to about what I am feeling right now. 

No one says his name. No one. It feels like the world has forgotten him already. 

No one checks on me. No one. Perhaps because no one know what to say. 

Asking 'how are you' in a store as we walk past each other does not count as checking on me. I'm fucking fine. And if you really wanted to know how I am, you'd call. 

That said, I won't answer your call, because I don't want to talk to you about it, unless you are one of the aforementioned three people. 

Voicemails that say you love me are always welcome. 

If I love you, I will hug you when I see you in the store, but only for a minute, because I don't want to start crying. 

I am angry. 

Here is what you can say.... 

I'm so sorry. 

This sucks. 

I can't imagine what you are going through. 

I'm thinking of you. 

I wish this wasn't happening to you. (Me too!)

I hate that you are going through this.

There are no good words. 

I love you. 

I don't know what to say, but I'm here. 

Don't... 

Tell me you know what I'm going through. (You don't!)

Ask me what you can do to help. (Nothing!)

Ask me how I am when you see me in the store. (You could say, 'nice to see you.')

Expect me to call you.

Expect me to ask you for help. Ever. 

Get offended when I ignore calls, texts, messages. 

Here are more suggestions for when you have no words.... 

Send a picture of a rainbow. 

Send a heart emoji. 

Share a Facebook reel of a cat doing something stupid, or cute. 

Tell me something you are grateful for. 

Share something that you find magical. 

Share an inspirational reel that reminds me that I am brave and strong and shit like that. (It does make me smile.) 

More things that I know... 

Grief is complicated and messy, especially so when you are grieving suicide. 

There is no heartbreak like that of losing a child. Or two. 

Grief breaks your heart and your brain. 

Talking about him may make me cry, but it will also remind me that he is loved. 

The discomfort you feel when you don't know what to say is nothing compared to the heartache I feel. 

Sitting with someone who is grieving can be uncomfortable. Sit with them anyway.

No one should have to eat cake alone. 

the moth

there is a thought 

fluttering 

like a moth 

around my head

a glimpse

out of the

corner

of my eye

I purposely

turn my head 

away

so I don't notice

I can't 

look

too closely

I don't 

want 

to see it

the moth 

is death

screaming 

at me

and if I don't 

look,

if I don't 

see it

I can ignore

the words

screaming 

in my head

Ben is dead. 

16 weeks

November 9, 2025

16 weeks

I woke up this morning to an alert on my phone. Bens marathon, starts in 28 minutes. Ben is not running a marathon today. Ben is dead. 

Instead of meditating, I start to cry. But not real tears, not keening and sobbing tears, just leaking and shuddering tears. I hold myself so tightly,  determined to not feel, not fall apart. 

For months I have been avoiding. I don't count the days, weeks months. I don't think about him dying every Sunday afternoon. I don't wallow in grief. Instead I get on with the business of living. I cancel his car insurance and close his bank accounts. I clean out his bedroom and collect his mail. And I do it all without fully experiencing grief. 

Instead I am angry. So angry I want to smash things. So angry I want to throw things and scream and curse. I am avoiding people. Avoiding thinking about it. Avoiding talking about it. Avoiding feeling it. 

But this morning my phone reminds me that Ben wanted to run a marathon. Ben wanted to go to college and become a doctor. Ben wanted to fall in love and get married. 

This morning is a Sunday. 16 weeks since Ben ate his last cinnamon roll. 16 weeks since Ben went on his last hike. 16 weeks since Ben decided that living hurt too much. 16 weeks since Ben took his own life. 

16 weeks of trying not to feel. 16 weeks of trying not to cry. 16 weeks of trying not to fall apart. 16 weeks of trying not to grieve. 

Today I wish that he was with us, to celebrate birthdays, to watch football, to eat Thanksgiving pie. Today I wish he was with us, to laugh, to joke, to hug. Today, I wish that Ben was running a marathon and I was there cheering him on.

My Ben

I don't want to do it. That is what I keep repeating. I don't want to do it again. I don't want another funeral.  I don't want to cremate another son. I don't want to do it. But I will. Because there is no other choice. 

I'm managing better this time around. I don't vomit over and over every day. I have been able to eat a little. I have been able to sleep, some. We all started making jokes the second day in. It makes me wonder, did I love him less? Am I grief numb? Is it the shock? 

What I think is that I've walked this road before. We walked this road together seven years ago. We learned so much about grief and life, that even though we are devastated again, we know. 

We know that the world keeps turning and the sun keeps rising despite our sorrow. We know that in the beginning grief is all encompassing, but our life will grow around it. We know that we will find reasons to smile and to laugh again. We know that he will miss things, weddings and holidays and such, but we also know, that we will find ways to honor him at those events. We know that there will be new babies to love. We know that there will be new friends to laugh with. 

We know that he is not gone. We know he is still with us. His presence felt, though unseen. We know that love does do not die. But mostly, we know that we have been so incredibly blessed to love and have been loved in such a way that we grieve like this. 

The Journey To Peace

 I have walked through the fires of hell. One foot in front of the other. Day after day. My tears putting out the flames that would consume me. I have walked through the fires of hell. 

I lost my son. I lost my best cousin. I lost my guy. I lost my best friend. And then I lost myself. I lost the will to live. I lost joy and wonder and magic. And yet I kept walking. One foot in front of the other. 

Day after day I walked through a world that held pain and grief and loss. Day after day I contemplated giving up. Day after day I cried. But I kept on walking. 

I lost integrity. I lost faith. I lost hope. I held love in one hand and fear in the other, and I chose fear. I chose fear every day, until I was drowning in it. I couldn't catch my breath. 

I was lost in a hell of my own making. And still, I kept on walking. While the flames licked at my feet and the tears burned my cheeks. 

Until one day, love walked into hell and smiled at me. One day, love took my hand and asked me to choose. One day, I held fear in one hand and love in the other and I chose love. 

I chose love. I didn't want to go on. I didn't want to live. I had nothing left. But I chose love, and I walked out of hell into a world of magic. 

I found love in a world full of tiny, beautiful things. It was there in the frost on the window, the falling leaves, a baby's laughter. It was there, waiting for me to find my way out of hell. 

Today I am unapologetically joyous. The world is full of wonder again. I do work that feeds my soul. I am surrounded by people who love me. I love and am loved. I see beauty and goodness everywhere. 

I have walked through the fires of hell, and I have come out the other side. I do not regret the trip, or how long it took me. I have earned peace, love and joy, with every flaming footstep and burning tear drop. 

 Now instead of walking through hell, I am dancing through life. I have held fear, and I have held love. I once chose fear. Today I chose love. Today I chose laughter. Today I chose life, in all its wonder and magic.  Today I chose peace. 

Death Day

Dec 17, 11:21 pm

I don't want to turn the light off and sleep. I don't want it to be tomorrow.  I don't want to feel the grief of the death day. 

I turn the light off anyway. 

Dec 18, 5:08 am

Suddenly awake, still dark, too early.  I don't want to be in this day. Not yet. I turn on meditation music and close my eyes. 

6:29 am

I get a message from my friend. She is eating cake today. She never forgets. She is with me in spirit. 

6:30 am

The best cat in the world stretches out on my chest and begins to purr. I am not alone. 

7:03 am

A warm body crawls into my bed and snuggles with me. Comfort, not tears. I've never started death day like this before. 

7:42 am 

I see a Facebook post from my friend. Her baby turns one today. A year ago I resented her for having such joy on the death day, for holding her boy when I will never hold mine ago. Today I wonder if I can hold both, my sorrow and her joy. Possibly. 

8:17 am 

I get in the shower and sob. Hot water washes away my tears while happy music plays. 

9:02 am

I am sitting cross legged in my bed, sharing cake for breakfast. I ask him why did he offer to eat cake with me and he replies "You shouldn't have to do this alone." I cry and eat cake. With company. 

9:19 am

A message from a friend. Her son died too. I know she grieves, with me and for me. I hate that she is in this with me. But her message makes me feel seen, not alone in my grief. 

10:00 am

I am wrapped up in a hug. The same person, every year on death day. This is my ritual, to spend the morning with her. I feel her love. 

3:13 pm

Walking with my feet in the water, icy cold toes, sea glass and pretty rocks. Zac is here, in the Atlantic Ocean, with me.

3:25 pm

Wrapped in a blanket, starting to warm up, the sun hits my face through the windshield. I close my eyes and take a breath. It feels peaceful.  

4:30

Eating pizza, I am exhausted.  I don't have anything left. I want to go home and curl up and cry. No more adventures today. 

6:59 pm

I watch the time ticking closer to the moment, seven years ago, when life ended. I feel like I should be crying, wailing, ripping my hair out. I hold myself so tightly and I am held. Not alone. 

7:15 pm

Two big boys home with me. Make pizza. Turn on a movie to watch the fighting, shooting and saving the world. Noise, talking, laughter. 

10:46 pm

Still not alone, tucked into bed with dogs and cats on and around me. Comfort comes in doggy snores and kitty purrs. 

11:01 pm

Turn the light off. Close my eyes.  Death day comes to an end. Today there were pockets of grief and pockets of peace. Today there were tears and there was laughter. Today there was comfort. Today I was hugged and held.  Today I was not alone. 

There has never been a death day like this before.