When I got the news my son, Charles, had been found dead of suicide, my first instinct was to find the escape route. I wanted to get the f–k away from that agony and slide into another life that was shiny and happy.
The news the police officer was sharing kept bumping up against a roadblock of disbelief and to cope my mind would take little jaunts from reality and wander down meaningless tributaries of thought to give my soul a break from the weight of the devastating news. Bits and pieces of information floated about screaming their importance with no place to land, only to be retrieved later when my mind had ability to absorb them and put the pieces together.
With that shocking loss came the brain paralysis known as numbness, nature’s shock absorber. Because as a human I could only endure so much hurt at one time. That whole first year, numbness would sweep me up in its embrace to give me a break from the agony, render me brain dead, and siphon my ability to give a damn about much of anything else.
My expectation was that year two would be a picnic by comparison but that’s when nature’s prescription medication wore off and it felt like I was facing all the hurt without the cushion. So while that one year anniversary wasn’t a magic bullet, it was a mile marker that served as a trophy for having survived the unsurvivable. Thanks to numbness, my broken heart didn’t didn’t kill me.