Saturday, January 30, 2016

6 months out.

  It has been 6 months since the death of my oldest. 6 months of crying and questions. 6 months.

  I remember when he was 6 months old. Now I have to go through the milestone of 6 months after his death.

  I think of all the things I want to say to him. How sorry I am that I got sick when he was young. How sorry I am that I passed it on to him. How sorry I am that I chose that man for his father and that he inherited his illness too. How sorry I am that I couldn't be a better mother. I spend hours thinking of all the ways I let him down. Then I start to remember good stuff, happy memories, loving times. I remember how beautiful he was when he was born, how cute he was learning to crawl, and how big and bright his eyes were when he was smiling. I remember holding him, rocking him, singing to him. I remember taking him to the park, chasing him, and listening to him squeal in delight. Pushing him on the swings, teaching him to ride a bike. I remember that he and I would talk all the way to daycare, a 30 to 45 min drive, with no radio on. He would always ask me to go faster and race the other cars and I would make racing sounds. He was so happy.

  I remember when that changed. Looking back I can see when he started acting different. I thought it was just adolescence but now I can see the mental health issue, the schizophrenia. He never did tell me about it. I can see how he was pulling away from me. I thought it was because I had remarried and had more kids, but if I look carefully I can see when he was fully there and when he wasn't. Still I got him out and we went places. Camping, museums, caves, concerts, hikes, swimming, yoga class, Tae Kwon Do class. I tried to be there as fully as I could even though I was disabled from my illness. I have to hold on to the good memories or I will drown in my regrets.

  I need to keep fighting my illness. I need to give the other kids the same amount of memories, take the same amount of places, love them just as fiercely. No matter how badly I want to give up, I can't. I have to keep going, keep fighting for the kids I still have.

  I need to remind myself that his death wasn't my fault. It is not my fault he has paranoid schizophrenia, or that he inherited my HEDS and stuff. I know more was going on but that wasn't my fault either. I tried to help him and I know he appreciate it and loved me because that is what he said to me in the message he left for me. He wanted me to know I had been a great mom to him and that his last wish for me was that I "go on with happy memories of our time together". I have to hold on to that. I have to. 

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