When you’re 18 and your parents kill themselves.
June 28th, 2017. 10pm? 11pm? No one knows for sure.
On this day, 13 months ago, my parents killed themselves.
Intentionally? No. Selfishly? Absolutely.
7 days before this I told them I was pregnant. 3 months pregnant.
Their second grandchild on the way. Another boy, I would find out a month later.
“I have to stay strong for my baby,” I would repeat to myself.
Push push push. Push away your emotions. Bury your feelings.
KML. A healthy, (almost) 7 month old baby boy.
CKL. A happy/sad-on-the-inside, happy-on-the-outside 19 year old mother. Confused?
My relationship with my parents was complicated to say the least. I love them with my whole heart. But they drove me so crazy, most of the time. And I’ve held onto that anger. Up until now.
Now nothing but pain fills my bones every time I think of them. My whole heart shakes, trembling trying to keep it together at the thought of them.
A motor cycle passes by. dad.
I walk by a bottle of sweet tea in the gas station. mom.
I see you in my dreams. Every other night.
Lately, my stomach turns at the thoughts that keeps crossing my mind....
I will never see my mom or dad again.
I will never talk to my mom or dad again.
I will never hear your voice again. Or your laugh. I will never be in the same room as you again. At least not physically.
My whole body hurts and I just feel like this is a living nightmare.
I am the happiest I have ever been, my son is my pride and joy and my best friend.
I am also the saddest. I feel like I am living a life that is not mine.
Every accomplishment or triumph I meet in life, is also a little sad, because even if we weren’t so close, my parents aren’t here to share the moments or be proud of me or my siblings or my nephew or my son.
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