27 November 2017
I found my son’s suicide note yesterday.
I have been sober 14 years and 2 days now.
My brain automatically looks for patterns. Common denominators.
My mother attempted suicide, too, and my ex ran several states to get away from me. His mental state has deteriorated, from what I’ve heard, and his family blames me for it. Course, he is still alive, albeit living in a homeless shelter in Iowa. And my mother ultimately died of cancer.
Nevertheless, I am a common denominator. I sowed something somewhere. Maybe it was born in my relationship with my mother.
Do not look for rational thinking here. This is not the time for it.
For the time being, I will ferry my son’s belongings. My car resembles a college student’s summer getaway car: stuffed to the gills with clothes and black trash bags and files and boxed food and cleaning supplies and boots that, I think, must have fit my son’s feet. Why do black trash bags make me think of dead bodies?
My car smells like the house he used to live in, and this has nudged out memories of the days we spent together before he disappeared. Boxes of tea conjure the times he asked for advice for his sore throat or for sleeplessness. The scent is not unpleasant, but the memories hurt.
I am unable to believe the suicide note. There’s no body. You can’t claim to be dead and then not show up. I won’t have it.