I always said the one thing I could not survive was the loss of my child. I was right.
The Me that was died that day, too.
On March 13, 2021, I lost my son.
Adrian was 27 years old when he died. He was my firstborn. He was an addict. He was an artist. He was brilliant. He was broken. He was funny, warm, and gentle. He was sarcastic, cold, and hateful. I learned as the mother of an addict that the two sides of him were not exclusive. They could live together in one person and flip with no notice…sometimes they would switch in minutes.
I spent 15 years of his life trying to pull him off his destructive path and onto one that would allow him to become the “Adrian” that I could see so clearly underneath. In the beginning, there were other cheerleaders on the sidelines of his life, but in time, with each subsequent spiral, fewer people were there to observe his self-destruction. In the end, it was down to just me watching, although his other family members would sometimes look over and shake their heads in sadness, anger, or resignation.
I knew from the day he was born that he was going to die before me, although I was told so many times by so many people that this wasn’t true. I was right, and they were wrong, and I have found no satisfaction in that fact.
When Adrian died, I didn’t want him to be remembered solely for his addiction. As many people who love addicts can attest, there is so much more to our people than their addictions and demons. They are fully actualized people just like you and me, but they were suffering from an illness that no one ever wants to have, and few ever recover from.
I began writing to navigate this awful new landscape that I find is my home now. I decided to do the Dead Son Journal as a way to remember all of him. The good, the bad, and the ugly. But mostly the good because that is what he was.
Mostly good.
Sometimes sharing helps.
I joined groups online when Adrian died, and read a thousand different stories about Dead Sons. I shared with the other mothers, the pain, the desperation, the insanity of losing your child.
I agreed with the other mothers, this wasn’t fair. This is out of the natural order of things. We could do better if we had one more chance.
I cried with the other mothers, on those lonely nights when there was no company but the tv and your thoughts, your what ifs and if onlys and what if I’ds… when it seems like morning is a million miles away. I cried with them on the mornings when we woke up and had forgotten, for just a second, that our sons were gone and then the realization crashed down onto us like an earthquake… ripping what tender scabs we had developed overnight off and causing us to bleed freely again.
In some weird way, it does help. It helped me. I wanted to hear it all. I wanted to feel with them. I wanted to know I was not alone, not the only cursed creature in the universe and there were other moms out there asking the same things.
This is my Dead Son Journal. It will be on online repository of my memories, my grief, my regrets and rage, and possible although it feels unlikely healing. It will be the place to gently set down an account of my endless, forever, hope-someday-to-see-you-again love.
If you would like to reach out, please do.