trust me…i’m not strong.

I have been called strong a lot lately.

Friends. Family. Coworkers.

Bryce’s dad said “you’re better than I am”.

Fuck no, I’m not. I am a hot fucking mess. I break down all of the time. It’s been a month and I still break down all of the time. I don’t know how long until that isn’t a “normal” occurrence for me.

For context with my ex, he said it because I have been taking care of so many of the tasks that need to be done after someone dies. Closing banking accounts. Taking care of expenses. Turning off his phone.

It made me think about why I have wanted to do these things. Part of it is simply because having the accounts closed means less mail coming to the house in Bryce’s name and, therefore fewer things to trigger me.

I think that another part of it is because he is my baby. I feel the need to take care of my baby, even in this way. In some weird way, it feels like I am taking care of HIM by doing these things for him. By doing them on his behalf. Just like I did before when he’d ask me to make his dentist appointments or do some other random thing for him.

My mom heart needs to take care of my baby boy in any way I can. Each task I complete still comes with a complete breakdown. I either break down in the car after visiting a place in person or at home as soon as I hang up the phone.

For some, doing these things would make it feel final. It already feels final to me.

I arrived at an accident site and was told by police officers that my son had been killed in an accident.

I got a middle-of-the-night phone call from the county medical examiner’s office only 2.5 hours after finding out that my son had been killed to ask me about his medical history and if he used drugs or alcohol.

I had to plan a memorial service for my son.

I had to see my once healthy and gorgeous 19-year-old lying in a coffin.

It is already fucking final in my mind.

So then tell me why I still haven’t cleaned his room? Or emptied his workout supplements out of my hall closet even though the damn things take up an entire shelf?

Or clean out the bathroom cabinet of his beard oils, razor, and toothpaste? Or get rid of the beard shampoo still in MY shower from when he used my bathroom shortly before the accident. I still have no damn idea why he used mine instead of his.

While it is final in my mind, and while I know it is real, another part of me refuses to deal with the things that would remove his mark from the house. It refuses to remove the things from the house that make it look like he could come barreling in the door at any moment, prompting me to remind him yet AGAIN not to slam the door (have you noticed how many times I have mentioned him slamming the door?).

So while I can accomplish the tasks because my mind NEEDS to do that for my baby boy, I can’t throw away his stuff. I can’t throw out his supplements because he worked hard to get fit and build muscle. I can’t throw out his beard care stuff because he loved that beard. I have to admit that he looked good with facial hair too. I made a really pretty baby.

So no…I am not strong. I am a hot mess. I almost always feel like I am about to crumble into a million pieces. I honestly don’t know what position I would be in if I didn’t have a 12-year-old relying on me.

Do people think I am strong because I am just that damn good at pretending? Like Oscar-worthy? Is it the years and years of trauma that have made me so good at disassociating, compartmentalizing, and pretending to be okay until I am alone behind closed doors?

So trust me. I’m not strong.