Donna said it first.
The night before Mother’s Day, “This time of year sucks. It triggers me.”
I knew what she meant.
This week we already passed Star Wars Day, which Caleb and I always celebrated together even if remotely. We passed the 5th, the day I last saw him alive in 2018. We passed the 6th, my birthday, which he celebrated with me a day early on the 5th. Friday was our 35th wedding anniversary. Saturday was the 9th, and every 9th of every month is harder than the days around it because the 9th is the day he died. Then Mother’s Day on the 10th, which Donna stopped celebrating before Caleb was born, when we lost Alex who came before him.
That is the runway.
I have written about this week in some form every June since he died. I went back and read them. They all say the same thing in different words.
Eight Junes starting tomorrow. The wound is the same.
Two years ago I wrote about a thread of hope I keep holding. The thread is the belief that if anything changes, it should not get worse. How could it. It already has, multiple times.
I am still holding the thread.
It is gossamer. It cuts to the bone.
I have asked why I do not let go. Letting go is the abyss. I am not romantic about it. On my own, I would not force death. But I would not avoid it either.
I am not the one keeping me alive.
Christ holds me here. Not in captivity. In support. The resolve is His, not mine. I do not fully understand.
The thread is in my hand. He is holding me.
This week sucks. The month sucks. So does June.
I am still here.
This post I began writing weeks ago sparked the book I am now writing, Still Dead, Still Here: Long Grief After Suicide. See StillDeadStillHere.com for details.
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