Losing my son

“For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?

But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often — will it be for always? — how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment”? The same leg is cut off time after time.” ― C.S. Lewis, A Grief Observed

> Being grateful even for the losses that have brought the most sorrow, the two things at the very same time, has ripped me apart, but it's also been the only way through.

Whether or not you express this sentiment as a Christian, this is a core tenet of the teachings. Despite being reminded of this by a close counselor in the beginning of my own tragedy, I have yet to fully come to terms with it. I know I need to, and I try, but I'm still bitter about it, and I know I'm still only faking it. In fact, I think I'm reading this story and your comment at precisely the time I need to in order to finally admit to myself that this is also my only way through. I gotta be honest: I never expected to hear the voice of God speaking through this forum. Thank you.

When I lost my father almost exactly a year I go, I was reminded of a comment on reddit that helped me a lot. Here it is:

Alright, here goes. I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not. I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents.

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too. If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.

From here: https://www.reddit.com/r/GriefSupport/comments/d9685e/grief_...

Isn't it hard to do though? I fear I may be a monster for thinking this, but is the pain of the son and yourself worth it?

Meaning, is all this being done for some hope that the miracle pulls through? What if you knew with absolute certainty there was no recover and no brain activity, only pain.

So this is hard if you have a choice, what is the right choice?

Thanks for the suggestions. I’ll check it out.

Generally theme is that women tend to have a good time with me. Some have wanted to take the natural next steps. But I tend not to if I don’t feel the same which is always the case and I end it as soon as it starts getting real because I am either afraid or there is some guilt associated with it. I’m not sure I will talk to my therapist about this. Interesting thing to explore in my next session. Thanks for enlightening.

Also didn’t know about mdma and ssri combination.

I have a good combination of CBT expert and a therapist who prescribes me medicine who share notes so it’s been working for me so far. I tend not to experiment things on my own without their referrals or suggestions. I’ve had bad experience with therapists before so I am very cautious about it.