It’s all really simple…

by whatiwastryingtosaywas

I want my son back. Things never feel better.

Never.

People ask where I am, where I’ve gone. I wonder who I am and can’t remember the me who existed before this.

Who I am today doesn’t fit. Anywhere. Or into anything.

This is going to sound awful but I have reached weird levels of missing Hudson. It is a true fact that, if I knew exactly where Hudson had gone (like heaven, or wherever) and I knew that I could go to him, I would. My mother would receive a pretty note saying “don’t cry for me, Argentina” and I would go to him.

Of course that’s not going to work. Cos if heaven exists that means god exists and if god exists we all know he doesn’t tolerate suicide. So I’m screwed if that’s the story. And the alternative, the belief that there is nothing after this, is just too much for me to contemplate. I cannot let myself believe that was it for him.

Not knowing where he is has been a painful part of this death thing. Not as painful as realising that the only active memories I have of my son actually moving (memories that don’t look like non-moving snapshots) are the constant flashbacks to the morning he died and stopped moving forever – not even close, but painful nonetheless.

Not knowing he’s okay is impossible for someone who always had to know he was okay before.

And people are kind. They tell you they saw him in a dream and he’s happy or he visited them and all is right with his world or he chose this journey for a reason – hell, I even said those words in my eulogy. But if I knew all of this to be true and I knew dying now would mean I could spend more time with my baby boy, I would go.

Does that sound strange?

I’m not brave enough to test the theory, though. And I couldn’t do that to his dad.

Death is horrible; it’s miserable and sucky. More death wouldn’t solve the problem.

It might be preferable to some though as I’m becoming that snippy ball of intolerance people warned me I might become. I see pansy-pants posts on Facebook with long, plagiarised bits of copy telling me, in a word, to man the fuck up cos life ain’t so bad. And my first instinct involves swearing and defriending because it fucking is that bad and my attitude determining my altitude isn’t going to bring him back or turn back time or undo the last phase of my life.

So where do I go? What do I do? How do I feel better?

Maybe the answer is… you just don’t, Andrea. You just fucking don’t. Deal with it. Welcome to your new life. It’s miserable but it involves breath entering your body and exiting it and you should be grateful for that.

Maybe that’s it.

The one thing I do know now is that I get it. I get those people who die soon after losing their lifelong spouse or children.

I get it.

I thought my heart had been broken before – broken by men, broken by family, broken by unachieved expectations.

I was wrong. And stupid. And naive. Nothing breaks a person like this.

My heart is breaking today. Now. Every second a tiny piece tears away from the organ and floats into my body – I know it’s happening, I can feel the physical pain and longing.

Those people… their hearts broke.

They couldn’t live without their person.

And I don’t know how we will.

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