Even now, eight years later the grief can ambush me out of nowhere and tears cannot be put on hold.
At first, I didn’t care if I cried in public. I didn’t care if I lost it because I was numb, the loss so fresh and I thought “I have a right to mourn the most devastating loss of my life.” I do care now and I try desperately to hide it when I’m crying. Not all the people around me are aware of my story and there is still that feeling that I’ll “bring everybody down.” Or maybe they think I’m a party killer and should keep all that sad $#!+ to myself. No one has said that. It’s not a fact. It’s just something I feel. I imagine most of us who’ve lost a child feel that way. And those of us who’ve lost one to suicide feel it acutely due to the stigma.
I have no intention of arresting everyone for hours or even fifteen minutes about all of it. The exception might be someone who does want to talk about it. Because it’s hard to endure making others uncomfortable and that’s been one of the most challenging parts about this brand of grief. I have to still cheerlead myself to say it because I don’t want anyone to forget Charles, knowing he existed or to avoid his cause of death. Not that I dwell on the cause. I don’t now. I just miss him.
I do feel validated by friends who are 10, 12, and 20 years out after losing a child who still cry and tell me they have episodes just like I described. Most of us this far out don’t have these episodes all that often or all of the time mostly around birthdays, death anniversaries, and the holidays. The grief is my bond, evidence that I loved Charles. Most of the time, I simply think about him and wander over memories and laugh at jokes he might have made. I guess those watershed moments will always feel awkward and should I get caught in that moment, I will continue to choke out the truth and accept hugs and even the uncomfortable moments.
In memory of Charles Aubrey Rogers, 4/27/1995-6/5/2015.
AnneMoss Rogers is a leading wellness and suicide education expert and one of the top mental health speakers and suicide prevention speakers. Known for her powerful, motivational keynotes, AnneMoss combines her personal story of loss with proven strategies to help organizations build a wellness culture that drives results and saves lives. She speaks at conferences, workplaces, K-12 schools, and universities, delivering impactful presentations that inspire change and promote mental health awareness.
AnneMoss does this work in memory of her son, Charles, who struggled with anxiety, depression, and addiction, and died by suicide at age 20 in 2015.
We lost our son 12 years ago, and though it’s easier to live a seemingly
“normal” life, the pain is still very real. Those moments of ambush take me back to raw, intense emotions. I let myself experience them, then compose myself to go on again. Brian is always a part of me. I’m his mother: I carried him, nursed him, taught him, and loved him. I will always miss him.
That is so succinctly said, Janice. Thank you.
It made me feel better to know that I am not alone.
My son was murdered in 2017. Last night I was watching a show that showed a group of children going around a May pole and I burst into tears and sobbed for a long time. I remember watching Dylan going around the May pole in preschool.
Man some of those memories just pop up, don’t they? I think that is such a sweet memory Mary. Thank you for sharing.
Your openness is a breath of fresh air. I hope somehow you feel all the loving thoughts and appreciation so many of us who follow your blog send to you. Heart Hugs, Jude
You have been a loyal supporter for this entire 8 years. I can’t tell you what that means to me, Jude.
Hi Anne,
I appreciate your blog. I sometimes feel an overwhelming sense of grief at odd times of the day. It has only been 1.5 years after the passing of my wife and I get sometimes from my workmates I should be over it by now. The mornings are the hardest. Although she did not commit suicide, she did drink herself to death. Battling addiction was the hardest thing I have ever witnesses and it much worst than cancer as I have found.
Anyway I thank you for your time
I think with a death from addiction, it feels more preventable and what’s more there is this heroic aspect to dying from cancer that is nonexistent with a death by addiction. That stigma makes it harder for those of us left behind. I so understand your feelings of helplessness. Watching someone spiral downward was the hardest part for me. The ending that I tried so hard to avoid happened and I think that makes the grief more complicated. Thank you so much for sharing, Tim.
I am approaching the five-year mark since I lost my precious son and I go through many of the same feelings. There are people who think I am stuck in the past, but I am quite proud of the progress I have made in returning to life. My son is/was and will always be a part of who I am and no matter the number of years that pass, I will carry him with me and mention him even if others don’t understand. We are still connected, and I love and miss him with such great intensity I would never want to suppress those feelings.
This is such a re-occurring theme, “There are people who think I am stuck in the past.” I need to write a post about this very topic. But I’m proud of you for not falling for it and knowing what’s in your heart and going for it Maureen.
I feel the same way its been 5 1/2 years since Andrew passed and still cry almost everyday and hug his urn everyday. I still can’t watch any movies with something sad without a box of tissues next to me. If I’m with someone and gonna watch a movie I tell them if it’s sad I tell them I can’t watch it. I will never stop talking about him. I speak to my kids and his kids or other grandchildren unless they bring him up because it will ruin the whole day because they get so sad.
Hugs and kisses to you.
It’s so hard, isn’t it? I want to talk about him and sometimes weighing whether that will make everyone sad. But I for sure share funny moments that make me laugh because others laugh, too. But I do understand what you are saying. I often hesitate.
I am approaching the first anniversary of my son’s passing and can’t even imagine a time when I don’t cry. I miss him terribly. thank you for sharing.
Those first years after are so intense. I didn’t care about anything else. Nothing mattered and everything else seemed so trivial. I couldn’t not see a future where I found joy and didn’t cry all the time either. But I did get to a place where I could cuddle with the memories without losing it. I still do sometimes but it’s not the same. My heart has healed although I still have a wound. And it does still hurt. It’s just not so 24/7. The pain you feel are emotional building blocks to healing. It does have a purpose. Thank you for sharing.
On 20th August,I will make 3 years since my Saint Ramos Wisdom aka Raymond Byamugisha left us to be with his father.
I still have regular sad feelings bombarding me very often.Amdist all that pain,I believe my saint is in a better place. And as a Christian I derive my comfort and peace from the word of God. In the first place I believe death is a must.In the book of ecclesiastical ch.3, we find that there is time to be born and time to die. Time to be sad and time to be happy etc.
I also contemplate alot on the way Jesus Christ who was a son of God died. Jesus was killed by human beings and yet he was a son of God.Jesus who resurrected Lazarus from the grave could not stop himself from dieing. I therefore I believe that to born and live or die whether young or old are all in the hands of the creator
Yes we hurt, we mourn, we greive and miss our children, but we can do anything. We need to accept that that’s the of life.Our children are in a better place doing bigger things.
Each time I control my tears and try to be at peace with myself, I see my Wisdom in visions and dreams very happy. Our children are watching over us all the time and they want us to be at peace.
I pray to God to be closer to the broken hearted as he promises always
Thank you
Best regards
Betty B
Thank you for sharing what had helped you through a lot of grief.