Christmas Sadness

It won't last forever.

Photo by Klim Musalimov on Unsplash

I hate this time of the year. Everyone is going about life in a fever and feigning enthusiasm. I remember the last Christmas with my son, Emile, before he died by suicide. He was a neat freak, and his girlfriend suggested a vacuum cleaner would be the perfect gift for him.

I know about the signs of addiction, but he didn’t fit the bill. He definitely suffered from OCD, because his place was neat, clean, and ordered. They say addicts lose interest in themselves and their surroundings, but he always cleaned obsessively. He groomed himself to perfection. How could he be an addict?

He finally admitted his drug use, but seemed to be in control of it. I still don’t know if the addiction had anything to do with his death. There was a lot I didn’t know about my son. I found out things after he died that broke my heart. He kept many secrets. I intuitively knew stuff he would never have admitted.

My son was beautiful in all senses of the word. He was over 6ft tall and towered over me. Blonde with gorgeous blue eyes. Those eyes always looked at me with admiration and unconditional love. He was the only person who ever accepted me for exactly who I am. He respected everyone he encountered and never judged. He was beautiful inside and out.

This cruel world was never meant for someone so beautiful. He was a sensitive soul who self-medicated with drugs. I’m sure he tried to soften the blows. In the end, he had to leave it all behind. I know he never meant to leave me, but to stop the unbearable pain. He shows his presence in my life, with precious signs that I gratefully receive.

If you feel lost and alone, please reach out to someone you can trust. Call a helpline if you prefer not to confide in friends or family. If you are going through a difficult time, I know it’s hard to reach out, but I beg you, do. Please don’t do something you will regret. I promise you will regret it. I’m sure my son knew it was a mistake the moment he died. Don’t take that last step. Someone will, like me, be devastated by your death.

The holidays will soon be over, and normal life will resume.

We can do this, my friend.

Namaste