Someone one street over me rides a motorcycle so I hear it all the time. Whenever I hear it, I pause the TV or whatever sound is going on, close my eyes, and just listen. I let myself pretend, even just for a second, that he is the one making the noise out there. That it is Bryce revving and driving down the street. That he will pull into the garage at any second. I’ve never had a good imagination, but I try to let myself pretend just to feel better, even for a few seconds.
I have done a shitty job of caring for myself since I lost Bryce. I am doing what I can to take care of Carter. I am trying to be a support for Bryce’s friends. I am trying to be a support for his girlfriend. But I am doing a horrible job of taking care of myself.
Is this due to my nature as a nurse? Being used to caring for others? Is it due to just being a stubborn bitch? Is it part of my grief process? A way to push off having to think too much about the reality of the situation, even though helping everyone else is still talking about it?
Maybe it is a combination of all of those things. All I know is that it has been two months now and I am still sleeping like shit. I still have a shit appetite most days, but on others, I sometimes seem to want to eat my feelings. I still feel like shit. I still cry almost every day. I still often have full breakdowns similar to panic attacks.
I have never really publicly talked about my mental health before this. I have struggled with depression and anxiety for years and have been on meds for a long time. It runs in my family on both sides so it was inevitable. Before losing Bryce, I was steady…my meds had me nice and steady…I was feeling good…
Now…I am lost. I am not okay. Far from steady.
After two months of taking care of everyone else and I guess I finally need to listen to everyone who has told me to take care of myself. I called my PCP today. After hearing why I was calling, she did a last-minute telehealth appointment for me. We discussed increasing my antidepressant dosage, she called in a script for a temporary sleeping aid since I am still barely sleeping, and she insisted that I set an appointment for counseling. She is the sweetest. I am glad I found her. She is a NP…I tend to prefer them because us nurses tend to listen better than doctors.
I’ve known that I should start counseling and I had been procrastinating. I haven’t had good experiences with it in the past. But I know I need to try. I know I need to try again. I know I have parts of my life that needed “therapizing” even before losing my baby. Fuck. Probably my whole damn life. My childhood wasn’t necessarily traumatic, but it wasn’t great either. My relationship with my mom wasn’t great. She had mental health issues and almost treated me more like a little adult than a child. Like a friend. My relationship with my stepmom was horrible, we constantly fought, and the woman never even reached out to me after my son died, even though she called my dad multiple times while he was here to support me and attend the memorial after the accident. Two months later and I still haven’t heard a word from her. Not even a text. I have strained sibling relationships. Both of my ex-husbands cheated on me, though I now have a great friendship with one of them after years of hard work. I was later in an abusive relationship with an alcoholic.
But all of that…
Cake. Fucking cake. Delicious cake with chocolate frosting. Cake I’d gladly eat every day if I didn’t have to deal with this.
This loss is like nothing I have endured.
I have learned that, for me, the grief of losing my child is like nothing I have ever experienced. I lost my best friend when I was 18. I lost my mom when I was in my 30s. I’ve dealt with the grief of two failed marriages, the betrayal of those men, and those losses. But this…this is a different feeling. This is like nothing else. There are days that I feel like I want to lay down and join him…wherever he may be…because I can’t handle the pain of being here without him. I can’t handle this pain. I wish I had a way to numb the pain. To get rid of it. All of the years of feeling like I had a handle on my mental health and now…I just don’t.
So now I will be open and honest about my pain. Open and honest about my mental health before losing my son. And open and honest about my mental health now. I will be open about my need for medication for my depression and anxiety. Because needing medication for mental health and the hormone imbalance involved in depression is no different than a diabetic needing insulin. It isn’t my fault that I need to buy my serotonin. We shouldn’t be ashamed of it. So I will take my newly increased dose of my SSRI. I will take my sleeping aid on the nights I need it. And I will give therapy a try again. And I will still keep writing here.
Because I can’t help Carter with his grief if I don’t help myself with mine. I can’t help R with hers if I don’t help myself. I can’t help J with his if I don’t help myself.
Grief is a bitch and it’s a long ass process. I don’t know how long it will be before I feel even a little settled. Will I ever?
Shit. I don’t know. Because this isn’t real life. This is the kind of thing that happens to other people. This is the kind of thing that you read in the paper and think is so horrible. This is the kind of thing that you hear about happening to other people. You talk about it to friends, family, or coworkers and say that it is so horrible and you can’t imagine it.
And then it happens to you. The baby you conceived, carried, delivered, raised, and loved for almost 20 years was taken. In an instant. Taken in an instant because someone didn’t look to make sure that it was clear before making a left-hand turn at an intersection. In an instant, that baby you loved for almost 20 years went from being full of life to just gone…literally in seconds.
The only thing that gives me even the slightest bit of peace in this whole fucked situation is knowing that it truly was in seconds. He barely saw it coming. Probably barely had time to feel fear. Wouldn’t have felt pain. Seconds. My baby taken from me in seconds. Over someone needing to make that fucking left-hand turn before the yellow light turned red.
See why I am struggling? See why I don’t want to face reality? Why I love those seconds when I close my eyes and listen to the neighborhood motorcycle driving by, pretending it is my baby boy coming home happy from another day of riding with his friends?
So for now, I will keep taking my bought serotonin, I will keep crying, I will be waiting for my first therapy appointment, and I will just face the fact that I will likely be a hot mess for a very, very long time…if not permanently…and that is completely okay. Because this level of pain and grief is life-changing so it is only natural for it to permanently affect me. I am not the same person I was 60 days ago. She is gone and will never return.
Grief is a B!tch 