From September 26, 2017, I have lived in the state of dysphoria, depression, and darkness. It is an amazing thing that God developed in which our brain can place our mind in a sort of shock in order to cope with the reality of terrifying, horrible, and awful things that occur to us and continue living. The day after the accident, I felt as if my mind ascended to the clouds, but my body remained on earth. I remember Child Protective Services coming and interviewing several members of our family that day. I remember crying, uncontrollably and trembling as I recanted our events of the previous day. The day that he was still with us. I remember retelling it, being physically present, but my mind was somewhere else. I couldn’t tell you where, but it was as if it wasn’t me talking to the investigators. We reviewed our security cameras, the time frame matching our stories, the family members confirming our events, and reliving each and every dreadful moment from my son’s last moments alive. I couldn’t tell you if I ate, which I’m sure that I did. My house was never empty. I had a great support system with family and friends. They set up a dinner schedule to bring us food for every night of the week for over a month. I don’t know what we would’ve done without them. I know that we were never alone. My home was full of family members and friends who chose to spend those awful first weeks with us. They were there every day. I can’t remember what my daughter, Amoree, was doing. I can’t even recall her in my memories during those first few days. I know she was taken care of between my family and Rocky’s family and friends. I just have no idea what she did or how she felt. I’m sure I spent time with her, held her, kissed her, but I just cant think of any of it. I can’t even remember sleeping. However, for the first few days after Pebs went to Heaven, I remember taking Z-quil to help me sleep, and then, a prescribed medicine from my doctor called Lorazepam. After those nights of assisted sleeping, I’d wake up in a dream-like state, believing that Pebs was still in his crib. I’d look towards his crib, expecting to see him standing and smiling, then jumping excitedly until I’d go pick him up. It took a few moments for reality to hit me, and when it did, it was the most devastating pain I have ever felt. It was like a freight train would come out of no where and hit me head on. The tears, the sobbing, the despair, the agony, the reality would all come crashing down. Rocky would just cry with me some days or just hold me. The pain I felt in that moment is so indescribable, it can’t be put into words. I, honestly, didn’t know how I could continue living when everyday of my life, I would have to wake up with the reality that he was gone.
The days and weeks proceeded with me living in the clouds, metaphorically speaking, but it was my God’s way of protecting me, of keeping me going and facing the painful reality. I don’t remember a lot of things that I did or didn’t do the first few months after the tragedy, but I do know that I found myself a couple of nights over the last place he was in the yard. The place where the accident occurred was the first place I heard myself scream in torment. I didn’t even recognize my own voice. I had never in my entire life ever screamed like that, but it did’t even bother me at the moment. My pain was so great that I relented to care who heard me or who was even there. Family and friends later told me they had to drag me away from the site and back into the house. I don’t remember that, either. I was later told that they had never heard such a horrible, dreadful scream before, but I didn’t even realize that others were even around. I thought I had walked away, unaware that I was being followed by my loyal and loving friends. I remember parts of my initial grief journey, but I think those parts that I’m allowed to remember are for my safety and protection. God knows what He is doing. I’m slowly able to remember and recall more than what I was able to in the beginning. I guess God trust me a little more now. There are moments that I still find myself laying on the floor, in a puddle of tears. I gradually pick myself up, wipe the tears off, and continue with my day. They are less frequent, my episodes, and don’t last as long, but they are still there. They are a part of me now. I sleep, eat, drink, live, and fall apart, daily. I can live with this new itinerary in my schedule from here on out because there was a part of me that was taken to Heaven on that day. I hope that I may smile in the future while I’m breaking down, anticipating that it won’t hurt near as badly as it did those first few months, but the tears will always be there. The pain will always be there. The memories will always be there, and so will the Holy Spirit. He will be there, willingly and lovingly, ready to assist me and carry me through. We aren’t on this journey alone. Family and friends are willing to help us get through the unimaginable. And our Heavenly Father is walking alongside us, pushing us, carrying us, and loving us along the way. Grief is a journey that doesn’t have any shortcuts. In order to fully go through the pain, we have to go the long way, through the valleys and tribulations, but thank God we are not alone. He is always with us.
“Those who grieve find comfort in weeping and in arousing their sorrow until the body is too tired to bear the inner emotions.”
“So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.”
-2 Corinthians 4:18