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The Raw Truth

Written on April 5, 2021

There are times when the pain is almost unbearable. It literally hurts, my chest aches and I feel pressure pushing against my ribs. This is not my usual “missing Keven” pain, it's "my son was so tormented he took his own life” pain. The thought of him making the decision, picking up the gun, holding it against his temple and pulling the trigger - suffocates me. Knowing he lived in that state for so long, trying his hardest to find hope and pull out of the dire circumstances of his life, causes me to curl up in a ball on my bed and try to rock myself like I rocked him when he was a baby.

I saw what he went through in his last few months. I watched as the cloud of despair darkened around him. His smile was so rare. Very little could motivate him to leave the house. He was so lonely and his pleas for companionship via Facebook and texts went unanswered, except for a very few responses, he was ignored. Had everyone given up on him, did they no longer care?

He came to me often wanting to lie on my bed with our dog and me, sometimes he’d cry. He’d pet Sugar and the tears would drip down the side of his beautiful face. I would reach over and rub his arm and cry along with him.

Ignoring my begging him not to, he kept getting more and more of his scalp tattooed with evil images of demons. An ugliness I had never imagined was taking over. Where was my son? It's as if he was already gone.

Today as I pressed one of his shirts against my face and inhaled his scent, it was faint. I have so little left of him. Sometimes I look at his ashes, of the dark gray specks were once in the form of a soft newborn babe.

If you were to call or chat with me, you’d have no idea. I can almost always muster the “I’m fine” voice and you would never guess how deep my despair could go. I consider reaching out, like Keven did, in hopes that someone would do something, anything, to comfort me. But then I’d feel bad for allowing you close enough to feel bad yourself, or to feel sorry for me.

I don’t want pity, it's pointless and belittling. I don’t want understanding because to understand is to experience this first hand. I think maybe I just want someone to acknowledge that Keven was here - and now he’s not. To share in wishing he was still here, in missing him, of regretting never knowing him.

Grief is mine, but it's not about me, it's about my son. My cute little boy who loved to tease his aunt, dote on his grandmother and love his mother with all his heart. My son who was a loyal and loving friend, generous to a fault. My intelligent, thoughtful, sweet kid.

So I sit here and type these words, already feeling guilty for sharing them, not wanting to burden anyone, but needing desperately to acknowledge this extreme anguish. I know others that feel this way, the only ones who understand, and I don’t want to steal a moment from them that they might be enjoying. My mind knows I have a right to express myself, but my heart knows it hurts others and so I hesitate.

I’m here for you, parent of a lost child, the only way through this for me is to reach out to you. Here I am. We can get through this moment, we can carry on until the next moment and we can endure that one too. It's not always like this. There’s laughter and smiles in between the torture and pain. I’ll hold your hand through yours, please hold my hand through mine.

Thanks for reading this, I will respond to all comments.

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