For me, September is hard.
September...Suicide Prevention Month.
The ...whole entire month... when people are sharing posts on social media about suicide.
It's hard for me.
Don't get me wrong. I am profoundly glad and grateful for the many people who raise awareness with heartfelt and informative posts, and for the many working to save other families from such hideous loss.
People I know and love faithfully advocate during this month, in the hope that other families will be spared what they have watched us suffer. I am so glad that they do; so thankful. If you are one of those people- thank you. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, thank you.
Also...every post or article about suicide makes me flinch.
Seeing the word is like a sharp kick to the rawest nerve I have, deep in the core of that heavy wound.
On a surface, yet true, level, I am okay. I really am. Also, in the deeper places, I am very much not okay. I never will be, because it will never be okay that our precious son Michael is no longer living.
I have written before about the compartmentalization that enables me to function: how Kristie may be chatting with you and carrying on with normal life, but Michael's mom just ordered a headstone for her son, and Michael's mommy still stands frozen in tear-stained disbelief, unable to grasp the impossible truth that her child is dead.
While I think it is deeply, profoundly important and good that so many people are sharing hope and love and compassion and resources around the issue of suicide, I...cannot be one of them.
Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Because that word rakes claws across the bleeding heart of Michael's mommy.
