With much anticipation, I find myself finally confronting the troubles of my past and finding a sense of solace and acceptance. I have overcome many obstacles in my life, whether it was the physical and sexual abuse, neglect, suicide attempts, death of a family member – some more traumatizing than others. There are many times in a day where I have flashbacks of my childhood and it is all a painful thought.
A year ago today, I was convinced that I was ready to talk about my son’s death and its effects on me. Last night, I read a draft that I had started last year but never finished; trust, I was definitely not ready. Whilst the loss of a loved one is never easy, it is certainly the hardest when it is a first experience and if they are taken away too soon.
The thought of my son used to cause distress and sensitivity, but now it has given me bittersweet emotions. Sorry for the lack of better terms- but it just really sucks to think about the big what if. What if he was still alive? For a long time, looking at babies and children were just a painful reminder of what my life would have been like if LukaTony James was still alive. I couldn’t even hold a baby, or stand two feet away from one, without wanting to cry. I would ask God why He would bless me with a son and allow me to bring him into this world, only to take him away after one week.
People say to always be prepared for the worst. I was young and I honestly did not expect life to throw me such a curveball. I prayed for strength and peace, but found anger and sorrow instead. I asked many questions, but never received the answers I wanted to hear. People told me to “give it time” and “time will heal,” but I was stubborn and felt alone. I distanced myself from everyone possible, with the exception of the few friends who were more stubborn than me and forced themselves in my life.
Of course, time did heal my wounds… but they left an abundance of scars. It took me two years to finally accept that he is gone. Two years to be able to openly talk about my son’s death without feeling the need to cry. Two years to finally be able to hold a baby, change a baby’s diaper, change a baby’s outfit, coddle a baby to sleep, play with a baby, partake in any sort of activity with a baby. Two years to be able to surround myself with young children who are so full of life and innocence.
It took me two years… and counting. I am not fully healed, nor do I think I would ever be “fully healed.” Though, I have definitely improved emotionally, mentally, physically, and psychologically.
I finally found strength and peace with the loss of my son.
I have come a long way since May 10th, 2014.
