Still in disbelief.
Still in anguish about how desperate he was.
Still feeling guilty in whatever part I may have played in creating that anguish.
Still mad that he left his son.
Still seeing blood.
Still reliving the phone call I received from the officer at 9:18 am on January 30th.
Continually wondering what this life is for
and why live through it if it doesn’t really matter in the end anyway.
Wondering if the me I used to be is gone forever.
Deeply afraid I’m not doing my best for our son.
Wishing he hadn’t left me to do it alone.
Wishing he hadn’t left at all.
Wishing I could have done something to stop it.
Knowing this was put into motion in 1991.
Knowing I wasn’t enough.
Wanting to do better.
Wanting support but wanting to be left alone.
Hurting so badly.
Hoping my son is okay despite all of it.
Not knowing how to make that happen.
Not sure if my bootstraps are there,
if I can’t find them,
or if I’m not even reaching down to pick them up.