On February 13th 2015 I went home. I hadn't been home in 10 years. I came home to say goodbye to Jeremy.
Jeremy is my cousin. He was born in September and I in December. We grew up together and just a mile, if, apart.
Growing up, he was my friend, my protector, like a brother. I remember him being quiet, funny, strong, smart - so smart.
He was passionate about family and he was loyal to his friends. He was handsome and his smile was beautiful.
I will never understand what happened on February 10th. I will never really know. I will never have the whole story. Did he snap? Maybe.
When you love someone and hear this type of news - your mind can't comprehend. When you hear this news of someone you don't know - your mind can't comprehend. But when it's someone you love - your mind grasps for answers that just don't exist. Your heart tells you it's a lie and your mind comes up with alternatives. This is how you cope, I suppose.
Valentine's Day is a blur. I remember the pure anxiety I felt as we drove into my hometown, the dread as we drove past the house, the sadness and despair as they held my hands walking into the funeral home.
I felt my knees buckle and the sheer pain of this loss grip at my lungs. I wanted to scream. I wanted to run.
I walked into the funeral home and my eyes glazed over his childhood pictures, military photos, his wedding, him laughing with family and friends, him holding his children. His children, my god, his children.
I sit. I cry. I sob. My boyfriend holds my hand, my childhood friend rubs my back. I cannot breathe. I cannot think.
I feel ashamed - he was my cousin and I loved him - but how must his mother, father, and siblings feel? How must his children feel?
His oldest brother speaks, "You hear this shit on the news and you shake your head. This happens to your family and it shakes your whole fucking foundation."
At the grave no taps were played. No police officers present.
It snowed. As the wind whipped snowflakes into my face, I cried while loved ones placed flowers on the casket. Barely able to contain my sadness, my boyfriend asks me if I want to go. I nod my head and slowly make my way around the casket when it hits me. This is real.
I stop and place my hands on the casket, "I love you, Jeremy."
And I do.
Dealing with loss is hard. Grief is hard and unforgiving. Grief doesn't care if it's convenient. Grief leaves you feeling broken.
I don't know how to deal with this. This is a loss not many people know - people don't know how to comfort you - they don't know what to say - sometimes, they cant even look at you.
I hold dear the memories of Jeremy. How he picked on me - how he saved me. How we spent countless hours in his home watching crap t.v. and being stupid kids. How his home was my second home.
How can I accept this? Jeremy is gone.
I have yet to deal with the loss. My mind can't even allow me to go elsewhere - to the worst.
You see, Jeremy killed himself. But he also took the lives of his two youngest children. My mind refuses to go there.
I am sad. I am angry, no, I am pissed. I can't go there. I won't. I can't believe it. I struggle with this.
I fear this.
How? How did this happen?
I will never know.
I want to pound my fists. I want to yell, scream, cry. I want to lie under the covers until it all goes away.
I don't want to feel this. Not now. Not ever.
I haven't even begun to process his loss - how do I process theirs?
My small hometown is in shambles. My family is broken. Hearts ripped from their being lie in piles and as we try to move on, we tiptoe around those hearts. Aching hearts - still beating - waiting to be put back together - because life goes on.
It seems so meaningless. Pumping gas, having a glass of wine, grocery shopping....
DON'T YOU KNOW WHAT HAS HAPPENED???!!!
Don't you know?
I get up. I shower. I go to work. I smile. I laugh.
Then, it happens. I crack.
I love you, Jeremy. I am sorry this happened. I hope you have found your peace. My heart hurts.
I am already tired of hearing, "It will get better."
No, it won't. It won't ever be better. It will always be wrong. There is no 'getting back to normal.'
There is a new normal, there is getting used to the grief but there is never, ever, getting better, and there is no more normal.
This is now what normal is. My normal. My family's normal.
I haven't allowed myself to sit long with my thoughts. I cry quickly, wiping my tears and slapping on a smile. Saving the rest of the world from seeing my sadness.
I am hurting. My heart actually aches from the sadness. I can only imagine what his mother, my aunt, is going through. But I try not to go there.
I'm a mother. I cannot allow myself to think of the greatest horror in all of this. I refuse to. I can't.
Sanity is precious, and I feel I may lose mine.
