It's been over two years since the world I knew ended. September 20, 2014. Kyle's suicide was, and to this day still is, the apocalypse. One definition of apocalypse is "an event involving destruction or damage on a catastrophic scale", and that pretty much describes what has happened to me, his mother, and his brother. My world is one endless reminder after another of what I miss, what was missed, and what will never be. Halo video games left unplayed. Uno cards not being dealt. Lemon bars not being made. Nerf darts from upstairs not pummeling the innocent bystanders below. And none of his music in the house. Where is my little drummer boy? The silence truly is deafening.
I want to wake up from this nightmare. I want to find Kyle outside driving Papa's truck. I want to give him money to go see a movie with his friends. I want to watch him playing football. I want to see him in the car with me when I go see Kevin at college. I want him beside me screaming out the lyrics to a Thousand Foot Krutch song. And I want to hear him play those drums. Until my heart stops beating, I will want these things, even though I know it won't happen.
When the boys were young I kept a journal. I wanted to be able to remind them of the cools things they did, and I wanted to be able to remember those events better myself. This is the first I have written since then, and I hope I can continue. The pain is real, raw, and still fresh, but I hold to the hope that good can come of this. I selfishly want to be able to stack up the good that I hear---the children going for counseling, the friends who credit him and his story to saving their lives--so that I can thank God that my pain at least brought comfort and help to others. If I never see "enough", I still know in my heart that it is happening...because that is what God does.
Suicide doesn't end pain--it passes it on to ALL those around you. And there is NO SHAME in asking for help.