Headed in the Right Direction

35 days after the death of my son I found my way to a grief group for bereaved parents.

As I have mentioned in previous blog entries, almost immediately after Max died I began to research death. During one online search I came across some uplifting quotes and followed their link to a website, The Compassionate Friends.

The Compassionate Friends is a world wide group of parents that have lived through the unimaginable, the death of their child. I looked through the site and saw that there was a chapter located fairly close to my home that met on the second Wednesday of every month.

I made a mental note of this and continued my quest for information on the afterlife. At that time I didn’t feel that I needed any more ‘compassionate friends’…this was a mere week or two after Max’s death and I was surrounded by friends, all of them very compassionate.

About 3 weeks later I was sent advice from a Facebook friend that had lost her son years earlier. The advice was a link to The Compassionate Friends site with a short note letting me know that I wasn’t alone.

I recognized the site and decided to put the upcoming meeting into my calendar, thinking that if I was feeling up to it when the time came, perhaps I would go.

A week later, my phone chimed letting me know that the meeting was in 2 hours. I didn’t feel much like going. I didn’t know what to expect and I didn’t have anyone to go with me. Max’s step dad is a textbook example of someone who internalizes everything so the idea of him discussing grief with strangers was out of the question. My parents weren’t really a viable choice because they were in such a dark place over losing Max that the entire event would have turned into something for them instead of something for me.

As I debated this I went back to my computer and read Max’s Facebook page. 

I couldn’t bear it.

The comments.

The photos that had been posted.

The dreaded RIP posts.

My heart was ripped from my chest. I began gasping for air. Not crying, just finding it impossible to breath.

Max had died???

Max had died.

If there were other people that had survived what I was feeling then I had to meet them.

About 5 minutes into the 20 minute drive a black 4 door Honda Civic with tinted windows and black rims sped past me.

A replica of the car that Max once drove.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of it.

This car led me to my exit, turned right just before I did, and while I was looking left to make sure I was clear to turn, it disappeared.

It could have gone into the gas station that was just up ahead, or turned onto the only street that was anywhere close to the freeway off ramp.

Or it could have been Max, guiding me to exactly where he wanted me to be...

Because that night I met a woman who is now one of my closest friends and was given the name and number for a psychic medium who would, eventually, save my life.

They asked me at the meeting that night how I came to find the organization and I mentioned the website and my Facebook friend.

I thought that if I mentioned the car that I had essentially followed to the meeting that they would think I was nuts. Hell, even I thought it was just a crazy coincidence.

Since then I have enjoyed two Worldwide Candle Lighting ceremonies, one National Convention and numerous meetings with The Compassionate Friends Organization. I have met amazing parents who have lost their children to cancer, overdose, heart irregularities, gun shots, suicide, murder…they have lost infants, teenagers, adults…with one thing in common, they are a parent that has survived the death of their child.

And in some strange way they are my people now.

I have never been judged in the sanctity of a meeting because my son died from overdose. I have never been made to feel like my loss was less than another’s because of the circumstances revolving his death.

And moreover, if asked today how I came to find The Compassionate Friends Organization, I have been given the strength to smile and say...Max led me there.

Let Faith Guide You

"Those we love don't go away, 
They walk beside us everyday,
Unseen, unheard, but always near,
Still loved, still missed and very dear."

Right after my son died I told my sister that I didn't feel like he had "crossed over".
I didn't have a moment where I felt him die. 
I had always heard people say that they just knew when their loved one passed away. Not only did that moment not happen for me, but I had an overwhelming feeling that he was "stuck" between this world and "the light".
Please know that I am an extremely rational person. 
Yet there was a very unsettling way that I felt right after Max died. 
So I did what any rational, grieving mother would do and I began to read everything I could about the afterlife. I HAD TO KNOW where Max was.
Surprisingly, every book I read, from numerous different authors, all described death very much the same way. 
Death, you see, is simply going home.
This body that we are in is simply a shell that we walk away from...our life force, our spirit, our energy...it never dies. Yet I couldn't shake the feeling that Max was not where he was suppose to be. I guess I felt that he was in 'limbo', unsure of where he was, not comprehending the fact that he was no longer a part of this world.
Again, I am a rational person...this wasn't something I was going around screaming from the rooftops. I felt strange even saying it out loud to my sister. 
Then, about 2 weeks after Max died, I had a dream that confirmed my feeling. 
In my dream Max was very confused and different 'energy' was pulling him in every direction. Some of the energy was very dark, some was very calming. What was prevalent throughout the dream, however, was Max's confusion.
When I awoke the next day I remembered every detail of the dream. 
Rationally you would say this is transference. I was thinking it subconsciously, so I dreamt about it.
You can rationalize anything away. 
So that's what I did. 
I didn't mention the dream to anyone and tried to let go of the gnawing feeling that had been choking me since the day Max died.
Then 2 nights later I had the most vivid dream I have ever had.
Max was sitting at the dining room table and he and I were having everyday conversation. I was very aware in the dream that Max had died and eventually I told him that he had to go into the light.
He was furious.
He denied being dead with all the verver that he once used to deny he was doing drugs. I went to him, put a hand on his shoulder and I told him that I knew about the drugs in Utah. 
He hung his head, embarrassed that he had been 'found out'. I again told him that he had to go into the light. He stood up and asked me if he'd ever see me again. I told him that I believed he would see me again, that people we are close to on earth are together on the other side. I told him that Baxter, his old yellow lab, was probably waiting for him as we spoke. 
Max hugged me then and told me he was afraid to go alone.
The next thing I knew Max and I were in a tunnel and when we arrived at the end of it we knew we had to find out where he belonged. At first we traveled together but as he became more comfortable he ventured out on his own. I then heard a booming voice, although I don't remember what it said, and I knew I had to leave. As I arrived back at the tunnel Max appeared with another "energy". He explained to me that this energy was like a brother to him. All of the calmness you could ever imagine was surrounding Max now. He shared with me a universal understanding that he now had. Everything made perfect sense. To both of us.
Then Max hugged me, and said in my ear, "I'll see you soon"...
And with that he and the 'brotherly' energy that he had brought with him to bid me farewell, turned and began to leave.
Max glanced back, just once, waved and smiled as only Max could, and I stood and watched him as the tunnel closed in around me.
You can say this is just a grieving mother who wanted to dream this.
Or you can say I am not nearly as rational as I think I am.
What I KNOW is that when I awoke from this dream I no longer felt like Max was "stuck". I knew instantly that I had helped him cross over. My inner turmoil was at rest. I knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that Max was finally where he was suppose to be.
I am telling you this very personal experience because sometimes things just aren't rational.
Sometimes you just need to have faith in what you feel. 
When you lose a loved one here in the physical world it does not mean that they are not still very much around you.
Over the next several blogs I am going to share some moments that I have had since Max died that I hope will comfort you, the way they have me, and begin to help you believe that NO, you aren't crazy!
Max communicates with me constantly. 
Keep your eyes open...I bet your loved one is communicating with you too.
So try and give your rational side a break, ok? Let faith guide you for awhile.

Judging Addiction

"People inspire you or they drain you, choose them wisely." -Hans F Hanson

I came across this picture as I was browsing Houzz (if you aren't familiar with this home decorator app/website you are truly missing out) and I couldn't help but literally laugh out loud.
It is the proverbial glass house.
It is where they live...you know who I mean...the 'friends' and relatives and everyone else that judge us.
As the parent of an addict I have had to learn to accept the judgement of others who think it was my parenting that caused my son to use drugs. If it was their child then they would have dealt with it differently you see...they would have 'fixed' the situation.
I have walked through the whispers and lived through the shame.
Hell in the beginning I blamed myself too, often taking the time to defend myself and my son.
Yep, there I was at high school sporting events trying to explain why my son was an addict.
Now can you stop and imagine someone trying to explain why their child has cancer? Or juvenile diabetes?

I have a friend, at one time my very best friend, who stands on the other side of the addiction debate.
Is addiction a disease or a choice?
She thinks it's a choice.
Her absence at my sons memorial service solidified her stance.
This is a woman who knows me...she knew my son when he was a toddler...she was my BEST FRIEND.
Until judgement day came.
Then she climbed the nearest pedestal, wrapped herself and her children in perfection, and JUDGED ME.
Her children lead a 'normal' life she told me. (I just wonder if they know they live in a glass house...)

Everyone is entitled to their opinion about addiction. Many addicts will even tell you that addiction is a choice...and maybe for them it is.
I am not here to discuss neuroscience, brain cognition or the genetics of an addict. What I can say for certain is this...living with an addiction is a very loathsome way to live, and dying from addiction is a very tragic way to die. If given the 'choice' why would anyone choose addiction? If death by disease was inevitable and you had to choose your method of dying why not choose a disease that creates sorrow and pity in the eyes of others?
In essence, why not make yourself judgement proof?
That's what I would do.

I never asked my friend her definition of normal, although I wanted to. In fact, that last text message from her still sits on my phone, like a flashing red light, to remind me how far I have come and how stuck she remains. Because you see, when you jump on a pedestal you might have a great view of everyone around you, but you leave very little room for yourself to move.
That is how I see her now.
On a 12x12 pedestal, in her glass house, stuck in her own perfection.
Imagine the pressure?
To live that 'normally'...

To put it simply, "Life is too short to spend with people that suck the life out of you."

Eventually glass houses shatter, and from what I understand, it's usually from the inside out...

The Hope in Starting Over

"For what it's worth; it's never too late or, in my case, too early to be whoever you want to be. There's no time limit, stop whenever you want. You can change or stay the same, there are no rules to this thing. We can make the best or the worst of it. I hope you make the best of it. And I hope you see things that startle you. I hope you feel things you never felt before. I hope you meet people with a different point of view. I hope you live a life you're proud of...and if you find that you're not, I hope you have the strength to start all over again."

-F. Scott Fitzgerald

Life is full of moments.
And it is somewhere within these moments that we begin to define ourselves.

When my son was 17 and struggling with sobriety I made some life altering decisions. I ended my marriage, left my career and began searching for something to be passionate about. 
Like Alice must have felt when she landed in Wonderland. I had no idea where I was, who I was or where the hell I was going.
This is when it hit me. I was completely alone.
Max was fighting for freedom and I was...tired.
Any family that has been immersed into the disease of addiction knows that eventually the disease plays out.
You have no control. 

I was 37 when I realized that I had no control over the way my son would choose to live his life. 

I had raised him right. 

He knew the difference between good and evil and I had given him the tools he needed to battle his disease. 

In finding myself I knew that I would have to begin to let him go. 

In order to find my way, he was going to have to find his. 

This realization didn’t come easy. Even now, years later, I have to find solace in the fact that I never let go of my son, I simply had to step aside and allow him to become a man. 

Since I became a mom at 19 years old I didn’t even remember much about my life before my son was born. Stepping aside, allowing him to create his own life path, meant that I had to seek out a completely different identity for myself. Still a mother, I tried desperately to separate myself from Max's disease. Those efforts, however futile, began to define the person I am today...in those moments perhaps, is when I built the strength to survive the eventual death of my son.

I am one of the few people that I have met that say they don't feel guilty that their child died from the disease of addiction. I know, with every ounce of my being, that I gave every bit of my soul into getting Max sober. As any parent would, I put much more energy into his life then I did my own. 

When Max was sober he would fill a room with his laughter and over abundance of charm....

But when drug Max took over he would suck the life out of a room so quickly you were left breathless and bewildered. 

His energy was stronger than anyone I have ever known. He was like a tornado, exploding into a room and consuming all those around him.

Some times this was good.

Other times this was extremely bad.

This is why, shortly after his death, I had a friend say something to me that I wasn't offended or upset by in any way.

In fact, I was somewhat inspired.

She said, "Maybe Max had to die so that you could begin to live..."

I consider this to be the most defining moment in my life thus far.

Addiction is a family disease and it had consumed my family for so long that there simply had been no way to live a life separate of it.

Sure, I had tried...I knew in my head that I had to let go and let Max find his way...but my heart? 

Well, your heart never let's go does it? 

When your loved one is lost in this disease there is simply no other life for you to live but the life they bring you, the tornado they capture you in.

My life is forever changed because of addiction.

I have lost the only thing that I ever truly loved. 

My son.

But...in an effort to "begin to live" as my friend suggested, I have met amazing people. 

I have found calm in the presence of other bereaved parents. 

I have found strength in the unity of all of us that grieve for what we have lost. 

I have found the courage to sit and write about the stigma of addiction.

I have found inspiration through the recovery of addicts that fight their demons every minute of every day. 

Finally, I am learning to find myself...

I realize that seeking a new path, reinventing myself, isn’t something that I alone have set out to do. 

It is because of this that I have decided to share my moments. 

You see, I am just like you, grieving for what should have been, scared about what comes next and lost and alone in the places that were once so familiar.

For what it's worth, the only difference between you and I is probably the fact that I am crazy enough to write about it...

When Addiction Comes

The worst thing is watching someone drown and not being able to convince them that they can save themselves by just standing up...

When addiction takes someone you love it takes a part of you with it. Of all the fatal diseases that plague our world addiction has to be the hardest to bear. It infiltrates a home, a family and takes the person you love and changes them into someone you can no longer recognize.

In my case it took my son.

It took his father and my mother’s father before him. It took my aunt, my brother in law and in certain moments it has taken me.

I don't know anyone that hasn't been touched by addiction in some form or another.

In my case it has touched me so deeply that it has reshaped my soul.

Once addiction grabbed hold of my beautiful boy I had no choice but to sit back and watch it eat him alive. Slowly, painfully, agonizingly I watched my son deteriorate in front of my own eyes.

At first I tried desperately to control the situation. I controlled where he went, who he was with and monitored his every move.

I installed GPS on his cell phone.

I controlled every bit of money he had, never allowing him to carry cash.

I rummaged through his belongings on a regular basis.

I put him through rehab. Three times.

I knew his lies inside and out.

I was supportive. I was angry. I begged him to stop using.

I even watched as my son, my only child, was taken to a state mental facility because drugs had made him loose all sense of reality.

And I stood tall when he asked for help and I found a way to get it for him every time. Pawning my wedding ring, using up my 401k, asking my family for financial help.

My son’s addiction not only consumed him, but it consumed me. I waited everyday to hear from him, to make sure he was alive. He began to lead a life that I could never begin to imagine.

Yet when he asked for sobriety, I opened my arms and loved him through it, every single time.

Watching him kill himself, slowly, is the worst pain that I hope to ever feel. If addiction has taken hold of someone you love then you know what I mean, because unlike other fatal diseases, addicts won't seek help.

How many times I have heard the phrase "rock bottom" I will never know. But that is what a family is expected to wait for...rock bottom...to just 'wait', hoping that rock bottom comes before your loved one is lost forever.

You see, an addict has to want sobriety...you can want it for them more than you want air to breath or food to eat, but unless the addict wants to deal with and fight their disease then nothing you or anyone does will help save them.

That fact took me 2 years to fully understand.

For those of us that aren't afflicted by addiction it is extremely hard to rationalize how someone can lose themselves in this heinous disease.

This was especially true for me.

My son Max had a good life. He had a stable home, good parents and a loving family. He was an honor roll student, an amazing athlete and an all around great kid. Max was popular, he was charismatic and he was raised with morals. Max wasn't the victim of abuse or made to survive in a low-income household. In essence, Max is the picture perfect example of a child that should never use drugs.

Yet, addiction found him. Genetically predisposed to addiction Max fell head first into the disease.

My son's death on September 7, 2011 is, in my eyes, not the day he died. My son died when drug Max was born.

Of course glimpses of Max came through over the course of his 4-year battle with drugs. We shared moments of sobriety and a rebirth of the young man that he was born to be.

Yet the darkness would always reappear and Max would once again be lost to it.

I began to grieve for my son long before his body left this earth.

And within that grief I built up walls that I am not certain can ever be broken down. Because when you can't stand the pain of watching your child slowly die in front of you the only emotion that can save you is anger.

Oh how I have spent so many angry days trying to rationalize where it all went wrong.

Then I remember again that addiction is not rational.

It is ugly. It is fatal. It is life altering.

But it is not rational.

I am now forever scarred by this disease.

I am changed.

When you lose all that you ever truly loved you can't help but learn to live all over again. For me it is about rediscovering myself without being plagued by the heavy burden of addiction. Because it wasn't just Max who was lost to this disease, it owned me too. When you love someone you have no other choice but to live in the disease with him. When they are lost to drugs, when they are sober, when they have spent months in recovery, you still live inside the disease of addiction. 

So the question arises, when your loved one loses the fight, where do you live?

Without the consuming pull of disease to consume your days and plague your nights what do you have left? What life is left for you to live? 

I have learned in the 487 days since my son left this earth that trying to live in that life, the one my son is no longer a part of, is impossible. 

Instead I can only build a new life.

A life that is abundant with the lessons I have learned, but not jaded by the pain I have endured. A new level of existence. The life I was put here on earth to live. 

I can't help my son anymore. It is now time to help myself.

Grief is a Strange Thing.

She's banged up, mentally and emotionally. 
Literally and metaphorically. 
But every day she walks outside with a smile on her face because that's just who she is...

Grief is a strange thing. 

In the middle of happiness it's still there, lurking, waiting, wanting to consume you. Its silence is deafening, its hold is consuming. Grief waits in the shadows for a moment of weakness...it emerges in the words of a song and in the familiar places that we would visit. It lives so deeply within us that we can sometimes forget that it exists inside of us at all and, for a moment, a split second, we might laugh...a real, deep from our core belly laugh, the kind that grief almost made us forget.

Almost.

I have been without my son for 484 days.

I have spent two Christmas', two New Years, his 21st birthday, my 40th birthday and 478 more days without him.

At this point there is no real significance to any day. They all blend together.

Grief makes sure of that.

Complete happiness seems to escape me, for even in the moments that I am happy, grief reminds me that the happiness won't stay. It pushes the pain back into my life and then I push the happiness out. It's easier this way...by not allowing myself to be truly happy, I can never be truly hurt.

That is what grief has taught me.

But still, somehow in the past 484 days I have laughed, I have felt happy, I have learned to accept the darkness that will forever grip my soul. Because grief won't ever leave me, I must learn to live with it. I have made the conscious decision to revel in my moments of sheer unadulterated laughter and accept the few moments of happiness that I have discovered along the way.

They say that grief is a journey...I see it as a way of life.

It allows you to smile, to move forward, to live your life, but it never leaves you. It becomes you and you become it.

Grief is patient.

It will wait for you.

Grief just stays within us, silently waiting while we laugh, living within our tears. Grief becomes a part of who we are.

In all honesty, it has become such a huge part of who I am that I don't remember who I was 484 days ago.

I look at photos of myself and I don't always recognize the person I see. Because she is smiling...and me? I am consumed by grief.

That's the strangest thing of all about grief.

It let's you smile, and laugh and feel happy...and then it shows up again, to remind you of all the things you'd rather not feel.

I have just begun to accept grief into my life instead of pretending that it doesn't exist.

I am now hopeful that grief will step aside and make room for happiness in my life, so that both may coexist and I can begin to recognize that girl in the photos.

The smiling girl that I long to be.

August, 2012

Dear Maks,
I haven't been able to sit down and write lately. 
I keep putting it off...waiting for a moment of inspiration...or a moment of strength, I don't know which. 
You turned 21 last week.
Well, you would have...
All of us went to Malibu, back to Paradise Cove, and we said goodbye to your body, but we are all holding on so strongly to your soul.
Still, I couldn't help but feel like I was leaving you behind when our time in Malibu was done. I was a mirror image of the day they called to tell me you were gone. Behind the wheel of my car, speeding down a highway, blind with tears, wondering what would happen if I just pulled the steering wheel to the right and let the car spin out of control. 
Would you be there? 
In that out of control spin.
Would I see your smile?
Would I hear your laugh? 
Would you grab my hand and lift me out of the car?    
Would I finally feel something again?
Because I don't really feel anything anymore. 
Since you left I am numb. 
Touching everything around me, but unable to feel a damn thing. 
I am grateful for that I guess...my inability to really have any emotions at all. It's easier to just step outside myself, watch my unfamiliar image waste another day, than it is to live every day without you.
When does the fog lift? The haze that is now my life...when will it clear?
Am I waiting for something to happen that never will? Waiting for a fog to lift when what I really need to do is learn to see through it?
I'm scared Mac...to see my life without you in it. 
5 years from now.
10 years from now.
20 years from now.
When others have forgotten and the days have eased the pain.
I'm afraid to imagine the man you'll never become. 
I'm afraid to forget my little boy...and even more afraid to remember.
Remember how empty I am...remember that I lost everything the day I lost you.
You are my whole heart, Mama

Dear Maks,
It's my birthday. I am trying desperately to push forward but lately I have really been feeling lost.
I miss you Mac...you and I were a team and I miss you.
I find that life is defined by moments and my life is now defined by the moment I said, "Are you telling me my son is dead?"
There was life before that.
There has been life after that.
But who I am is forever defined in that moment.
I find myself pushing the thoughts of you out of my head so that I don't have to feel the pain...the unbearable emptiness that I feel in every ounce of my being.
I have a great deal of faith now. Faith that you are still around me. Faith that you will help guide me to my next defining moment. Faith that you are working to bring me happiness. Faith that I will see the signs that you send. Faith that I will believe in what the rational mind pushes aside and follow the path you are helping to forge for me.
Some days I wonder if I am handling your death better than most mothers would. It isn't that I don't miss you.
I do.
And I am scared beyond comprehension that I will begin to forget things about you. Your silly ways, your laugh, your sly grin.
But I also feel at peace about things.
Living through your addiction never afforded me the opportunity to flourish in my own life.
If I can accept my broken heart will my soul ever be whole again? Was I left here for some greater good? Will I ever find passion in life?
It's my birthday Mac.
This is the start of my new year. Please help me understand what I am suppose to do with it.
When I see you in my dreams you tell me to move forward...you tell me that it was you who made the mistakes, not me.
How do I do that? Move forward? I have no idea where I'm going. I have no direction.
It is as if I am waiting for a new moment to define me.
A moment that isn't about losing you, but in finding me.
Maks, you are everything to me...through the anger and the addiction...I built up walls and had to learn to protect my heart, but you will always be the best thing that I ever had in my life.
You are my whole heart.
I love you to the stars.
And I miss you.
You said you were going to take a role in my life, help my spirit guide and be here for me when I need you.
I need you. Your bear hugs, your laughter...I need your energy to surround me and guide me.
Please let me know you're here with me.
It's my birthday.
I am emotionally stuck. Defined by your death.
I need my next moment. Some glimmer of hope.
Can you help me?
I love you, mama

I Can't Breath

Dear Maks,

It has been 7 months since you died and I still find myself so alone. Surrounded by people and still so alone.

For weeks I have been so angry at you.

I gave you every opportunity that I was never given. I guided you through school, gave you the opportunity to flourish as an athlete, bought you all the best clothes, supported your short lived musical endeavors.

And for what??? So you could fuck it all off and die of a heroin overdose???

Why the fuck aren't you playing football at USC right now???

I raised you to play sports at any college in the country. I made sure you took the right classes, I paid tutors to help you with subjects you struggled with.

I gave you everything.

I gave you everything that I ever wanted for myself but was never given.

I tried to set an example for you. I worked hard. I achieved awards, became a leader in my field. I SHOWED you how to be a respectable, strong, go getter.

You decided to do drugs.

I put you through the best adolescent rehabs in the country.

You cleaned up...then went back to drugs.

You quit sports. Your grades fell to shit.

Drugs took you.

And I am mad at you for letting them take you.

I know that addiction is not a choice...but sobriety is. You could have chosen sobriety god dammit. You could have chosen a different path. You could have made me proud. I am so damn angry that you threw it all away. You were beautiful. 6'2, brown hair, blue eyes, naturally perfect teeth, charismatic, witty, smart, strong, athletic, warm-hearted.

Who would throw that all away?

People search for years for what you were born with and you threw it all away. I can't help but struggle with this.

I am so torn between the you that I knew as a child and the you that you became as a teenager on drugs. I admit, sometimes it is hard to separate the two.

It is also hard for me to believe that you are really gone. That pain has not yet hit me.

One voicemail.

That is the only way I will ever hear your voice for the rest of my life.

All of the anger...here to protect me from all of the never ending pain.

Once the pain sets in I may never come back from it.

Right. I'm strong. I will survive.

But I will never be whole again. I will never escape the ache, the empty ache that I keep hidden. Because I am in this pain alone. No one knows it like I do. It takes my breath away. This is me...gasping for air. In some ways holding on to the anger in order to avoid the excruciating pain that I have kept hidden since the day you went away.

I miss being called mama.

Hold my Hand

Dear Maks,

Sometimes, when I am driving, I put my hand on the passenger seat armrest and ask you to hold my hand. I squeeze my hand into a fist and I remember how your hand use to feel in mine. I remember your little boy hand, your teenage hand and your grown man hand. It feels so warm, so innocent, so full of life.

Then I let go and pray that I never forget how it feels.

Your hand.

In mine.

Stay with me ok? Be there when I need to hold your hand.

So I can always remember what it was like to feel something.

I'm empty without you,

mama

Shades of Grey

Dear Maks,

I want you to know I am trying to move forward in small ways every day.

I have started running again. I hope to do my first half marathon on June 3rd...1 year to the day that you left home and went to New Roads in Utah.

The strength you used that day, to put yourself in treatment, to want sobriety...it is the strength I will use as I run through 13.1 miles.

I have also starting working again...part-time, and am relaunching as Laurie Cota Photography to include more than Pet Photography.

Small steps in the big picture of life, I know, but it is better than standing still...which is what I've been doing since you left.

I am not sure how to live my whole life without you. All I can do is hope that eventually the days won't seem so pointless and the nights won't seem so sad.

The weather is changing. Growing warmer. You always loved this time of year...the onset of Spring, warmer nights, longer days...you would beg to go to the park or out for ice cream.

I miss seeing you eat ice cream.

I sat with Amy and her girls at Cold Stone yesterday and I looked around and wondered if all those parents knew how lucky they were to watch their kids eat ice cream.

In those moments I feel so damn sorry for myself.

Not one thing will ever feel the same again. Without you, it's as if the world has suddenly turned bland. Everything that was once vibrant is now merely a shade of grey.

But within this tasteless, black and white world I am making an effort to live. Because I know you would want it that way.

I'm moving through the haze, holding on to my belief that your energy is all around me...existing through the signs that you send me.

I know I will never be the same again. So I guess what I want you to know is that I am making an effort to exist differently...to find the me that I have to learn to be.

The me that is without you.

I love you,

Mama

Dear Maks,

“Are you telling me my son is dead?”

I keep hearing myself say that. Yet it didn’t feel like I said it. It felt like I was watching a movie and that was the most dramatic way for the character to discover the death of her son.

He didn’t answer me ya know. He said I had to call the police department.

Instead of saying you were dead he said, “he couldn’t be revived”.

I thought he was kidding.

I thought I would hear you laugh in the background at any minute because you had fooled me.

I hung up the phone and said, “oh my dear god, it finally happened.”

I didn’t cry.

Instead I fell numb.

I knew I should be hysterical, but I wasn’t.

I was numb.

I began to plan. I said to myself that you would be cremated. I continued to drive. Alone. With no idea where I was going…with no place to go…

Are you telling me my son is dead?

I hear it in my head, every day, over and over.

“He couldn’t be revived”.

I said, “I’m almost there, keep trying.”

He said, “He is cold Laurie”.

Cold.

Again they told me to call the police.

I refused.

They wanted me to identify your body.

I refused.

How could my last image of you be your cold body?

Then I started to cry. Sob actually.

The unimaginable had finally happened.

Somewhere, deep down, I think I always knew that you would die young.

A part of me knew I would speak at your funeral.

I can’t explain that feeling, that vision that I so often had.

But deep down, I knew.

Nothing could have prepared me for the moment I was told you “couldn’t be revived” though.

Nothing.

Why didn’t I see it??? How could I not have seen that you weren’t ready to be sober?

I knew you would struggle, but I never imagined you would use drugs the day you were released from rehab.

I believed in you god dammit.

More than you believed in yourself I guess.

I haven’t told anyone this, but the last time we spoke, the night before I was coming to bring you your things, I felt you weren’t sober. I pushed the thought away, rationally I couldn’t fathom that you were using drugs within 24 hours of being released from treatment. Rationally I didn’t even pause on my thought that you didn’t sound “right”. I ignored my gut instinct to question you. What if I had? Questioned you.

Suppose I would have told you that you sounded “off”? Sure, you would have denied it…but maybe, just maybe, you wouldn’t have used that morning for fear that when I arrived I would have been able to see it on your face, in your eyes…the way I saw it every damn time.

Rationally I just couldn’t fathom that you were using.

I forgot that addiction is not rational.

None of it made sense to me then, and it still doesn’t today.

I look at pictures of you and I can still feel you…hear your voice…see your expressions.

It’s like you are on vacation and I will see you again.

But you aren’t, are you? On vacation.

No.

You couldn’t be revived.

You were cold before they even started to bring you back.

Are you telling me my son is dead?

Yes.

They should have just said yes.

Please show me the way...

Dear Maks,

I keep hearing them say "he couldn't be revived"...over and over in my head.

I don't remember much about the past 4 months. Everything is hazy.

They said I had to identify your body. I refused. I couldn't see you like that. Lifeless.

You could have been so many things.

You WANTED to be so many things.

I was driving when the call came in and i just sat there, alone, hysterical, shocked. I remember thinking, "oh my god, it finally happened."

4 months later I am still in shock. I haven't accepted the fact that I won't ever see you again...accepting that fact will break me.

Do you remember when I taught you had to drive a stick shift? How we drove around and around the block practicing 1st gear?

I remember those moments so clearly. When it was just you and I...mom and son...smiling...laughing.

What am I suppose to do now?!?!?

Without you, who am i?

Mac I am scared to start a new chapter in my life because you won't be a part of it...how can I live a life that you aren't a part of??? How do I move forward from this?

I'm stuck. I want to freeze time so that it can't continue without you. I want to stop the days from coming so that it won't keep getting longer since I've seen you.

I will never understand how I am suppose to live life without being your mom.

None of this feels real.

I need guidance. I need direction. I need to feel hope.

I see everyone else moving forward in their lives...it makes me angry...jealous...how can the earth keep turning without you?

Please let me know you're with me. Please. Send me signs from the other side...I am begging you for guidance and strength.

You are forever frozen in time. An image in my mind and in my heart. Please help me live through this with the faith and the strength I need to believe I will be with you again.

xoxo, mama

I am fine

Dear Maks,

Something about your death is still unbelievable to me. My emotions come in waves. Are you really gone?

People are concerned for my well being. I tell them I am fine.

People say I'm strong.

They don't know me. Inside I ache.

How am I suppose to make my life into something that I know you won't be a part of? If I stay in this place, in this moment, then I don't get farther away from you. I hate to think that you are forever still. As the world changes you are stuck in time. You will never be anything but 20 years old. People will grow older. Lives will change...new memories will be made and you will be still. Just an image. Moving forward means moving on without you. It's as if I have hit pause on my life. If I "un-pause" myself the story will continue to be written without you and that concept is eating me away inside. I just want to remain still...in this moment...close to you...my beautiful son. I miss you. I'm mad at you. I'm lost without you.

And I don't know how to find my way back...no, I don't want to find my way back...to a life without you.

I love you,

mama