There are some things that have to be done in a certain way to get done at all; this blog is one of those things. Writing these posts is like a form of sacred therapy for me. I write and rewrite and read it over and over and over until it feels like I am staring a piece of my own soul in the face.
Given the therapeutic effect this has provided me- I've become increasingly anxious in recent months because I just haven't been able to get it right. I've attempted time and time again to sit down and form my thoughts into sentences and sentences into paragraphs and paragraphs into a blog post that allows me to share my undying love for Boston- but my thoughts have stayed seemingly stuck in limbo causing my mind to become unbearably heavy with the weight of all the things I haven't been able to articulate.
Time really is such a strange thing. I often feel like I am living in a parallel Universe because it feels like not long ago at all that I lost you, but also like 10 lifetimes have passed in just 3 years. I've spent the last year of it tirelessly searching for middle ground- a place where the traumatized soul and grieving mother in me comes together with the mother I am and want to be for your two very vibrant, full-of-life brothers.
I so admire people that have taken the time to really dig deep and approach introspection fearlessly in order to become aware of what they need to integrate day in and day out to accomplish balance. I personally feel balance is vastly under appreciated in today's world despite its immense value- I truly do ache for it.
All of these things leave me asking myself how I find the line between surviving and thriving? Where do I begin with honoring my feelings but also honoring the necessity of moving forward?
These questions have plagued me in recent months because there is still such a large part of me that is consumed by the death of my son. Ever since the third anniversary on March 17th, I've found myself wishing I would have had his body buried instead of cremated. Not because I regret my decision, but because I want to go get him from the cemetery and hold him. Not his Urn- him. Even though it would be bones, I just want to hold my baby boy one more time.
I'm aware that is probably unsettling to some, but I've come to realize other people's perception of how honestly I grieve is based entirely off of their own experiences, and I really do consider you lucky if you can't understand.
In the countless times I started to write this but couldn't find the words, I often settled for reading previous posts. I was reminded by my most recent one that grief is truly ever changing. Looking back to November I can recall how desperate for a miracle I was. With the death of my Grandpa the month before, the holidays, Boston's little brother turning one, and what would have been his 3rd birthday just a couple weeks later- saying I was emotionally overwhelmed is a vast understatement.
I'm hesitant to say this because it could be misinterpreted, and there's just not any way to make it sound the way it felt, but there's been numerous times over the last few years that I have wished that I didn't care- that I didn't love Boston so much. I use to wake up every morning and try to convince myself that it wasn't actually as bad as it felt- that I was somehow exaggerating the hole in my chest.
I've come a long way from those stages in my grief, but I can recognize a similarity in the feeling from my last post because I kept mentioning the need to "close the door."
I don't need to close doors or be at any specific place in this. The only thing I need to commit to is honoring my feelings while moving forward and letting go of the illusion that I have any idea or control over how it feel will as his birthday and the anniversary of his death come and pass again. There is not a time that will come when I will be use to this because my grief over him is forever changing.
My sons death is something I cannot make sense of- but I can and will do my best at adapting to what it feels like as the years pass by without him.
I use to think that losing Boston left an emptiness in my heart that could never be filled, but I am forever learning how pertinent it is to change my perspective. Now I think of what I once called a hole as a space that is Boston shaped- made perfectly in my heart for him when he entered this world and before I knew how quickly he would be leaving it. I honor it's space. I honor the boy who made it. Instead of letting it make me feel empty I try to look at it as something that is full of him. It represents unconditional love and my will to always honor what losing him has taught me because I carry that space with me every where that I go.
So, to my darling Bosty,
Everyone one knows a story has a beginning, a middle, and an end- but I didn't know the end would really feel like the end this time. It's the loneliest feeling I've ever known.
The 3rd anniversary came with the brutal reminder that there is no timeline on this- no finish line or date I can mark on a calendar to signify completion of this journey. I will go to my grave missing you.
No matter how much I wish I didn't know what that feels like, if I had the choice I would still choose you. I would choose you every single time.
You're why I know different. You are my light, and it is my life's work to shine in your name.
I love you so very much, Chubbles,
All my love,
Mommy
