I couldn’t save my son. He was mine to protect, and I failed. Gone forever, by one emotional choice that offers only one permanent solution. Everyday, I wish I would have done more. I carry a mother’s guilt, not deserved, but an attachment to what was, what could have been, and what should be. My heart wants to scream at you. Make you understand. Make you listen. Make you hear my words. Truly f’ing hear me. Save you from this pain. A pain I thought I knew, but couldn’t. A pain I thought I understood… but how did I dare. This is a pain you cannot understand unless you are there. A revision of his pain is now mine to bare.
Becoming members to the club nobody wants to be in. A club no one speaks of, The Bereaved Parents to Suicide Club. How could this happen to us? Why?! Isaiah was talented, witty, handsome, loved. All images of a beautiful human being plagued by a dark and sneaky illness that hides beneath the surface.
How can we lose our Isaiah to Suicide? How can this be our story now? How could this happen to us? We supported, loved, and communicated with our son. We were a family that never shied from affection. Why? Why? Why? Losing my Isaiah was incomprehensible, and always will be.
He was mine, a part of me, one of the best parts. Now here I am, feeling robbed of a future I envisioned for my beautiful boy. 19 years of bonding, loving, and growing together. 19 cherished years. His suicide is a nightmare I cannot wake from. Finding myself stuck in a realm of self pity for once I feel is righteously and justifiably deserved.
When asked what my son died from I say, Isaiah died from depression. Suicide was the method. A health issue we thought we were treating. We thought wrong. Isaiah was loved. Isaiah loved us. He had friends and family that cared about him. He was so many things to so many people. Forever missed. Forever past, to be no more in the present, no more future. No more is, only was.
A blink of an eye, the reason you loved so hard, the reason you strived to be the best version of you. Gone. The person who without either of you knowing shaped and molded your identity. Born a part of you, died a part of you.
I write this today to not tell you only a story of loss, but to beg you to not be me. Don’t be here. In this pain. Don’t be me. Be a voice. Be someone’s light. No more hiding. No more shame. Break the stigma: volunteer, donate. Speak up and speak out, write, draw, talk, support, listen, research, educate…. Just do more…. You can still save your “Isaiah” Please, don’t be me.