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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.

The feelings associated with grief are messy. And complicated. At least they have been for me. I’m sure it’s true for anyone. They talk about there being 5 stages of grief. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

I never went through denial. I could feel it when I got there that night. It was taking them way too long to come tell me what was happening. I have been in healthcare for too long to not know what that means. On the drive there, I was hoping he was just hurt. I had a sinking feeling, but I was hoping it was just a bad injury. I have had moments where it doesn’t feel real. Like he will just come through the door at any moment.

“MOTHERRRRRRR…MOMMMMMM…I am really wanting some Cane’s….”

But even though it doesn’t feel real in my heart sometimes, I still know it is. So I am not sure that qualifies as denial. Or is it? Shit. I don’t know.

Anger…fuck. Yes. There is a lot of anger. So much anger. I am angry at the world. I am angry at the man who made that left-hand turn. I am angry at myself for not telling him one last time how much I love him. I am angry that he ever started riding even though I’m actually not because I know how much he loved it. I am angry that my son doesn’t get to live the life he deserved. That it was taken from him. I am angry that I do not get to have the rest of my life with my son. With the future version of him that I envisioned. The one he envisioned.

Bargaining. I am not sure if I have done that. Maybe I have. I don’t know. Supposedly, the bargaining stage in relation to grief is usually “if only I had”. Other than wishing that last morning had gone differently and I had gotten out of my car to give him a hug instead of texting him as I left for work, my only “if only” situations are ones I have mentioned already, like “if only he’d have left earlier”.

And depression. That one is easy. One source I was reading online says it is the “quiet” stage. It hasn’t been quiet for me. I have really struggled. I have struggled with sleeping. I have struggled with my appetite. I honestly don’t even know if I want to be on this planet anymore. And no. I am not fucking suicidal. Calm down. But what is a world without my son’s light? How do I find a way to re-light the flame snuffed out when he was taken? I need to find a way. His brother needs me to find a way. He would want me to find a way. I know he would. He would want me to be happy. He would want us to be happy. But I feel like I am failing. Like I am failing myself. Like I am failing Carter. And like I am failing my Bryce. I can’t fail Bryce. I can’t fail.

I don’t fucking know how to do it. I don’t fucking know how to not fail them.

Acceptance. I know I will always have memories of my baby. I already know that. I already know that I am fortunate to have had almost 20 years with him. But knowing those things will never make me feel better. I will never rest in the acceptance phase of grief, where I find peace. I might find calmness. But I will never find acceptance.

Because I do not accept it. I do not accept what happened. I know that it is true. I accept that it is the truth. But I do not accept it. Those are two drastically different things in my mind.

I do not accept a world without my son. I do not accept a world without his smile. I do not accept a world without his hugs. I do not accept a world without his kindness. I do not accept a world without his love. I do not accept a world without his heart.

Sometimes you find words that speak to you and say what you haven’t been able to say on your own. I want to share some of those with all of you.

“She understood that grief is not neat and orderly; it does not follow any rules. Time does not heal it. Rather, time insists on passing, and as it does, grief changes but does not go away. Sometimes she could actually visualize her grief. It was a wave, a tsunami that came unexpectedly and swept her away. She could see it, a wall of pain that had grabbed hold of her and pulled her under. Some days, she could reach the air and breathe in huge comforting gulps. Some days she barely broke the surface, and still, after all this time, some days it consumed her and she wondered if there was any way free of it.”
― Ann Hood

Let us agree
for now
that we will not say
the breaking
makes us stronger
or that it is better
to have this pain
than to have done
without this love.

Let us promise
we will not
tell ourselves
time will heal
the wound,
when every day
our waking
opens it anew.

Perhaps for now
it can be enough
to simply marvel
at the mystery
of how a heart
so broken
can go on beating,
as if it were made
for precisely this–

as if it knows
the only cure for love
is more of it,

as if it sees
the heart’s sole remedy
for breaking
is to love still,

as if it trusts
that its own
persistent pulse
is the rhythm
of a blessing
we cannot
begin to fathom
but will save us
nonetheless.

-Jan Richardson
From The Cure for Sorrow: A Book of Blessings for Times of Grief

I opened my computer to maybe work on schoolwork for a few minutes while I wind down before bed…but instead, I find myself here. Writing to you.

It has been 8 weeks already. I don’t like thinking about that. I started crying recently when I noticed that the shelves I put up with some of your things, your ashes, and pictures of you were already gathering dust.

You have been gone long enough that items I put up after you were taken from me have started collecting dust.

I cried when I noticed.

I cried as I dusted everything.

Grief is definitely a bitch, but can she at least be a little LESS of a bitch? The rapid shifts in my emotions make this much harder, and I wonder if it makes things harder for those around me.

I was told it was okay to write to the truck driver from that night. I got permission and I know his name and address. I haven’t done it yet, though. I know it will be hard to do. Even harder than writing all of these. They told me that he was the one who called 911. That he saw it happen. He jumped out of his truck and ran to you as fast as he could. He did CPR while he waited for paramedics to get there. The fact that a truck driver was there with you at the end is bittersweet. A truck driver like grandpa. You know how much grandpa loves you.

I decided to keep your truck. I know your sister is upset, and I hope she doesn’t hate me too much. But the more I have looked at it sitting in my driveway…I just can’t let it go. I want to fix it. I want to have it ready by the time your baby brother is ready to start driving. He misses you so fucking much. I did promise her that I would give it to her if he decides that he doesn’t want to drive a truck. And I will keep that promise. Your friends will still help fix it, just like they were going to do for you. I’ll buy parts…they will fix it. I want to help. I want to get my hands dirty on it. Jeremy wants to see if he can coax Carter to help. I think that is a fantastic idea.

Fuck. I just miss you so much. I miss our talks. Even though you sometimes drove me nuts with how much you talked. And I thought I talked a lot… You had so many dreams. Dreams for your career and the business that you swore you’d someday start. Your life with Rory. Your future. I grieve for you, but I also grieve for that life. The life you didn’t get to have. I grieve for Rory. And the life she didn’t get to have with you. I know she will be okay. She is amazing. You know that. That is why you were devastated when you two broke up for a while. And why you worked so hard to fix things. But I also know you want her to be happy, and I know she will someday find happiness again. I will be so happy for her when that happens. I want to see that for her; I know you do too.

I have so much I wish I could tell you right now. I have something I want to tell you that I can’t tell you on this fucking computer. I know you would understand and support me too. Rory knows. She even says you guys joked about it before. She says you’d have been supportive, and I know you would have too because I know you loved me and just wanted to see me happy. You know everything I had been through.

I am so happy that you could find happiness again before you were taken. You found your Aurora again. Your true love. You and your dad were good again. And you and mom pt 2. You were able to get close to your siblings. Find a little peace over that asshole situation. You know the one. I know Jeremy was a big help to you on that. Rory too.

I don’t know what to do without you. I know that they say that grief never goes away. That you merely learn how to cope. That you learn how to love again. I am sure that is true. I know other mothers have learned to survive after losing their children. I just don’t understand how they do it. I have read those articles about one spouse dying not long after the other and they say that they died of “broken heart” and that now makes complete sense to me. My heart feels so completely shattered that I am trying to understand how I am currently still alive. How is it even still beating right now? How can the human heart be this broken…be this compressed…and still function? But yet, I still have to find a way to survive. I have to find a way to wake up every day, go to work, pay bills, do the daily things, take care of your brother and make sure he is okay, and any other random ass thing that comes up.

Your brother isn’t okay. Sometimes he is. I guess. But he is really struggling. Last week was hard. The second half of this week was better. He even randomly googled your name today and found the news article about you. He said he was curious. He showed his science teacher, and she said he was telling her about you. I am proud of him for that. He has had a hard time talking about you, so that was a big step.

Have I said that I miss you?

Fuck, kid. I miss you so much.

I stopped by the memorial tonight after work.

We had Bryce cremated. That is what he wanted. He didn’t want to be “put in the ground”. He even knew that at 19. So we honored it. His dad and I split the bulk of the ashes…which sounds like a weird way to phrase it. Each of his siblings has a small portion. His best friend has a portion. His girlfriend has a portion. His niece has a portion. Each of us who loved him more than the world has a piece of him.

But the memorial site…I don’t know why, but it feels almost like a gravesite for me. When I go there, despite the noise of the busy road, it feels peaceful even though it is also heartbreaking every fucking time.

I sit there and stare at the post I made with his name and his date of birth and the date he was taken from us along with a photo. I stare at the candles. I stare at the stuffed bears. I stare at the photo of his smiling face.

Every time I drive away, it almost hurts. It feels as if I am leaving him behind, which I know is silly. And every time I drive over the spot where I know he laid for the very last time as his heart stopped, my stomach drops and a lump goes up my throat. I can’t avoid driving in that spot. I wish I could.

I don’t know if it is because I don’t have any other physical place to go since his ashes are in my living room…or if it is because that site is only feet away from where he took his last breath and where his heart beat for the last time. But when I sit there, I feel him with me. I feel him as if he is hugging me and telling me that he loves me too.

How do I do this? I don’t know how to do this. Someone recently told me that I am doing better than I realize, but I still feel like I am losing my mind. I feel like I am failing. Failing myself. Failing my other son. Failing everyone else who needs me. Failing to keep the motivation for grad school like I had before the accident. Failing at all the random shit that I need to be doing around the house because it is hard for me to find the motivation for cleaning and laundry. Or cleaning Bryce’s room…

I have been doing my best to keep myself sane. I am writing here often. I used to hate writing. Honestly, I still do. I have never liked writing. Never liked journaling. I have never felt I was good at writing and haven’t ever been able to stick with journaling. But this…this has helped me. It clears my mind, I suppose?

Grief has a way of clogging your thoughts. Preoccupying everything in your mind.

But how the fuck do you help a 12-year-old with their processing? A 12-year-old who was already dealing with depression and anxiety? He is seeing a counselor, and I know that is one of the best things for him.

I talk to him often. I let him know that it is okay to be sad. That it is even okay to be happy. That I miss Bryce too. We all do. That we will never “get over it”. We will simply learn to live with the sadness in a new way. We will learn how to live without him here. I let him see me cry when I am sad, so he knows he isn’t alone in his pain. I let him see me laugh, so he knows it is okay to still laugh.

I know it is part of the process. Grieving. For him, just like for me. There will be good days. There will be bad days. There will be good hours. There will be bad hours.

He has days where he seems his “normal” self. There are days when he barely even talks to me, let alone anyone else. I smile when I hear him giggling at some random YouTube video. Makes me think of before…

I never know what will trigger me. It can be the most random thing. Sometimes it is something big. Sometimes something small. And it is the same for him. Sometimes I say something and I see him get teary-eyed. He says, “It just makes me miss Bryce more”. And I get that. It usually does me too.

I bought him a present for his big brother’s birthday. The first birthday since we lost him. I knew it would be hard for him when I gave it to him. And hard for him means hard for me because it breaks my heart more and more every time I see him cry. And I honestly don’t know how much more my heart can break. I thought it had been destroyed the night I was told that Bryce had been killed. I didn’t know there was anything left to break. But seeing him cry? Seeing his heart break more every day at the loss of his big brother?

His present was a purple bear from Build-a-Bear. Purple…his big brother’s favorite color. Wearing ripped jeans and a white t-shirt…common for his big brother. With the company logo on the paw…that happens to also be his big brother’s initials. And a sound pod in the paw with his big brother’s voice from a silly video he’d made. He chose to keep it on his dresser with his heart urn with his portion of his brother’s ashes.

Fuck. I don’t know how to handle the pain of seeing my younger son suffer heartbreak any more than I know how to handle the pain of losing my older son.

Today is Valentine’s Day.

20 years ago today, I spent this day in the postpartum wing of the hospital, recovering from an emergency c-section, eating pizza with my now ex-husband, and cuddling with my newborn Bryce.

Yesterday, for what would have been his 20th birthday, the first of his birthdays without him here and only weeks after we lost him, I spent the day with some people who loved my son the most.

I initially wasn’t sure how I should spend my son’s birthday when he wasn’t here to celebrate with us. I have been told that while grief will always be difficult and I will never 100% heal, which I already feel will be the truth, the hardest days as the years go by will be his birthday and the anniversary of his death. Every year. No matter how many years go by.

I did start my morning with tears. Because I was waking up on my son’s birthday, and he wasn’t here to celebrate…and grief is a bitch.

Then Carter, Rory, and I went to buy some birthday balloons and fresh flowers for his memorial. Because he deserves it.

Rory and I had brainstormed a couple of weeks ago to decide how we should spend the day. We decided to spend the day doing things that *HE* would have chosen to do. Last year for his 19th birthday, she took him to a rage/smash room. He’d always wanted to try it. I’ve seen the photos and videos, and he absolutely loved it.

He loved it so much that he had planned on going back this year. Only his life was stolen from him 7 weeks before his birthday.

So we went in his honor. I took his girlfriend, his best friend, and his big sister, and we went and broke shit and raged in his honor. In honor of his birthday. In honor of his life. Raged about the asshole who took it from him.

It was hard. But good. And cathartic. And I don’t know what other words to say. Because he should have been the one there. Not me. I feel like I repeat myself a lot when I write things here, but I suppose that is to be expected…especially during the grief process. Your mind is going to just keep thinking the same things over and over. Your mind will race repeatedly with “what if” and “I wish”.

We wrote a nasty message on a plate to the man who took his life and smashed it to shit. We wrote messages on the wall. Both happy birthday messages to Bryce and nasty ones to that man, just to get the feels out. It felt good to let the rage and anger out.

Later, I took them and a few more people out to dinner. We went back and forth between two choices. Bryce often went back and forth between Olive Garden and Texas Roadhouse when choosing birthday dinners. As he got older, the choice often went to Texas Roadhouse when it was on mom’s dime…because big ass steak…and rolls…and rolls…and more rolls…and, damn, that boy could eat.

Jeremy took Bryce’s place for the evening with his intake of rolls and Roadhouse butter. I now wonder how many baskets they’d have downed if I’d ever have taken them both at the same time…

Shae got a Bloomin’ Onion in his honor and her and Kyle took advantage of that amazing bit of carbs for him.

Our waitress even humored us when we explained why we were there and asked if they’d do their birthday “yee haw” for him. When she heard why we were there, she didn’t just bring a couple servers…she brought all of them. They brought the saddle. Me, Shae, Jeremy, and Rory put our Bryce necklaces around the saddle horn. And she announced that they had a very special “angel birthday” for Bryce who would have been 20. It was so sweet of her.

So even though I said it yesterday, Happy Birthday to the first boy who made me a mommy. Who showed me the true meaning of unconditional love. The boy who never argued when mom asked for pictures or selfies. The boy who never argued when mom asked for a hug. The boy who never hesitated to say “I love you” back when I told him how much I loved him. The boy who would have been my baby boy no matter how old or big he grew.

Happy Birthday to my beautiful boy.

You should be waking up this morning happy. Celebrating the fact that you are 20. No longer a teenager.

20 years ago, I was being rushed to an emergency C Section because your stubborn ass couldn’t just do things the easy way. Big surprise.

I wish you were here. Enjoying your day. Hanging out with your friends. Spending time with Rory. Asking me for money for your birthday instead of presents because you’re still trying to get that damn truck fixed up and need to buy parts or tools.

You didn’t even get a chance to live your life before it was taken from you. Now I am here. Crying. Resting my hand over the fucking scar left on my abdomen when you were born as I feel the scar left in my heart from your absence. Wishing you were here with me to celebrate your birthday. The first birthday in all of these years that I haven’t been able to give you a hug. Been able to tell you how much I love you.

I still sometimes ask just what the fuck. Seriously.

WHAT THE FUCK?!?

Why you?

Why that guy at that moment?

Why that second?

Why *MY* baby boy?

If I could have a wish for your birthday, I’d wish for time travel. I’d go back and tell you not to go out that night. Or at least not to come home yet. To wait at LEAST a few minutes to leave. I think I have said that before but it’s only because it crosses my mind a lot. I think about how I wish I’d have had some weird ass premonition that night to tell you to wait to head home.

I wish you were here. I know I said that already. You did always make fun of me and say that I repeat myself. But I do wish you were here. I wish you were asking for Texas Roadhouse for dinner. Bloomin’ onion. Big ass steak. Sooooooo many rolls. Where the fuck did you fit all of the food you’d eat? *Insert hollow leg joke here*

I am still not okay.

I am sad. I am hurt. I am in pain. So much fucking pain.

And I am angry. So fucking angry.

I am furious.

You should be here. We should not be living without you. You should be here with us. With your friends. With Rory. You should be here still in foreman training. You should be here with all of your siblings. With your dad and Tina. With me. You should be here planning your future. You should be here planning a future where you are able to get married. And have babies.

And I am fucking furious that all of that was taken from you. From all of us.

Today, you’d have been 20. You were so excited to not be a teenager any longer.

I am sorry that you didn’t get to have the life you dreamt for yourself. I am sorry it was cut short. I am sorry that I couldn’t protect you when you truly needed it. I am sorry that I wasn’t there for you when you needed me.

I am so sorry, baby.

Happy Birthday.

My Bryce.

I have gone back and forth about whether or not to write about this, but it has bothered me since my son’s memorial. It has stewed in my brain. I don’t want to offend anyone but I write this in hopes that maybe people know what NOT to do in this situation. I know that I have spoken before about my personal beliefs about religion. My being unsure about the existence of an afterlife. Of the existence of things like spirits.

I know I’ve mentioned that I used to be a part of organized religion, and I used to believe in that and a god. So did my son. Bryce was born into the LDS church, aka Mormons. He went through the usual rites of Mormon children growing up in the church. Infant blessing, baptism at age 8, and the various rites as he turned 12 and progressed through his teen years.

By the time he moved with me full-time a couple of years before the accident, he had started questioning his faith. We’d discussed it. I lended myself as more of an ear rather than a voice because MY transformation away from religion couldn’t influence him. I had told him that I would answer direct questions only and would otherwise only listen as he spoke. And that’s how we left it.

By his accident, he still partly believed but not entirely. He had a lot of questions that he hadn’t fully answered. He still believed in god as far as I know, but I don’t know where he stood regarding that particular denomination and its specific beliefs. I never asked because I stayed true to my word and never told him what my research found.

Now to my point of this post.

When we were planning Bryce’s memorial, his dad and Mom pt 2 were very respectful of the fact that I do not share their beliefs. They asked if I was okay with incorporating a small amount of religious elements into the memorial. Which I was. We chose to have it at a funeral home rather than an LDS chapel to respect the combination of beliefs. We even agreed to let a member of the church lead the memorial because he’d known all of us for many years. He had known Bryce since he was a toddler. It was only appropriate for him to lead it for us.

The memorial went well. I wasn’t bothered by the prayers. I wasn’t bothered by his other 2 parents adding religious statements in their speeches. I wasn’t bothered by Tom’s opening speech and its inclusion of religious elements.

But the end…

The end of the memorial.

It took everything in me to stay seated.

To not stand up and say, “THAT IS ENOUGH. YOU ARE FINISHED. THANK YOU. BUT THAT IS ENOUGH.”

It started out okay. No issues. Even stating, “We believe we will see Bryce again…” was okay. Many religions have that belief. Even many people who don’t share traditional religious beliefs share that belief.

But it went too far for me. There was mention of the temples. There was even a statement about flagging down or calling the fucking missionaries if anyone was curious about what they believed.

And this is where I had to fight to stay seated. It was lucky for everyone there that I had my crying 12-year-old on one side of me and my son’s crying love of his life on the other.

My son’s death is not your fucking missionary experience.

My son’s death is not your opportunity to tell people how to find out more about your church.

This is an essential lesson for anyone who loves, cares for, or even simply associates with someone dealing with grief and loss.

Even if I shared their belief, I would have been highly offended.

As a mother grieving her child.

Because my son’s death is not a missionary opportunity to encourage people to reach out to Mormon missionaries.

My son’s death is not a missionary opportunity to tell people about the “blessing” of temples.

My son’s death is not a missionary opportunity to tell people about how *YOU* believe he’s in a better place.

So please remember this…if you encounter someone who is grieving…

Belief in a god is amazing…for YOU.

Belief in an afterlife is amazing…for YOU.

Belief in a religion is amazing…for YOU.

You are not helping their grief process if you use the death of their loved one in an attempt to benefit your religious organization. If they share your religious beliefs, it is okay to share words of comfort with religious undertones. But in my personal opinion, even when they DO share your beliefs, it is NEVER okay to use that death as a missionary tool.

My son was fucking 19 years old.

NINETEEN.

And your words at the end of his memorial did nothing but add even more poison to my feelings about your church and the harm that it does to its members.

Someone again told me today that it seemed like I was handling things okay. It was a coworker. He didn’t mean it in a bad way. He was very kind about it. Asked me how I was doing. Said he didn’t know how I was doing it. Said that he didn’t think he could do it. Didn’t know how I was able to go back to work when I did. He said that he looks at his kids now, thinks about what I am dealing with, and knows he would never be able to get past it.

I paused. Looked at him. And said that I am not doing okay. I am just apparently a really good actress.

Fucking Oscar-worthy, dude.

We talked for a while about how I am really doing. How stressed I am. How I still cry every day. Still have breakdowns. How my 12-year-old is doing and how that affects me too. And I told him WHY I went back to work when I did.

How I knew I would sink too deep if I didn’t go back when I did.

That there would be a chance that I would want to curl up in bed and never get up again.

What I didn’t tell him what that there would have also been a chance that I would have wanted to go lay down in the exact spot in the road where my son’s heart made its last beat and just lay there until mine did the same.

But since I am an Oscar-winning actress, everyone who sees me thinks I am handling this just fine…