A Year

It was a year ago today that we got hit with the news of my brother-in-law's untimely death, which subsequently triggered the whole move back to California.

It probably goes without saying that this has not been an easy year.

My son is not the same person. Whatever joy he took in learning was pretty much wrung out of him last summer (most of the people who read here know why). He's turned into a very withdrawn and quiet kid, and it's only rarely that we can pull him out of his darkness. He is in group therapy now, but I fear that it is not enough, and I worry about him constantly. I'm hoping that this upcoming trip to Chicago will give him closure for the home that he lost since he never got to say goodbye last summer.

I will not speak for my husband, but I will say that he has also changed, and that our marriage is rocky. I'll leave it at that because he's not here to okay anything I write about him or us (my son okayed the above paragraph about himself).

I feel like I've aged a million years in these past twelve months. I've lost so much of myself. I fake happy. Sometimes I feel no emotions, except pure rage (which doesn't really work in my case because all I do is get super pissed off and cry because I can't murder someone). Sure, I have a job. I'm damned good at it too, when certain shitlords leave me alone (another story for another day). I've thought about going to school again. I've thought about a million and one ways to just get my life together and do what I want to do.

But I can't.

I know I have depression. I can function, but I'm just going through the motions. I generally only show real emotion about my son. He is why I go on. I suppose I should seek help for this, but I'm always so exhausted and feel stretched so thin by life that even thinking about piling on therapy sessions for myself makes me tired.

I know his death is not my tragedy to exploit and use as a crutch, especially when I used to rage about all of the shit he would pull. Today though has just dredged up a whole host of actual feelings for me, which is why I needed to write.

I feel sadness for him dying. He was a jerk sometimes, but I also know how truly loved he was by his friends and family. The huge memorials and page dedicated to him are a testament to that. The funeral last year shows how valued he was in the music world. The memory of my son's face when I told him what had happened is one that I'll never be able to erase from my mind because that was his only uncle, and they were actually close on some levels.

I feel anger. What the fuck happened? Was he just so tired that he fell asleep? Was it something else (god, I don't want to dwell on that option)? Why the hell did this happen to him?

I feel guilt. Guilt for the way I talked about him. Guilt for being angry at the situation he left us in. Guilt for not trying to understand him better. Why do I feel these things? Why does it matter?

I never planned on moving back to California. I certainly never in my whole fucking life planned to live with my in-laws. Yet here we are. We survived year one. Barely.

I hope the next year goes better.