I haven’t written journal style in a very very long time.
I told myself to write.
I know I left this place on a very sad and abrupt note. It has been a horrible year +
I hesitate to write here because there are ppl that know me here and who hate me now because of their own reasons and ridiculous assumptions about who I am and what I’m about. Honestly, their opinion means little to me, but I really don’t like internet drama and ridiculousness, so please, keep it away from me.
If anyone who “hates me” reads this and thinks it’s a great idea to start talking trash about me or my son, well, that’s on you and I hope you feel great about yourself and your life as you trash someone for no reason.
I am now going to write about what happened a little bit.
Writing about it doesn’t hurt me any more than the constant replay of what happens over and over in my head.
I write this for awareness and with hope that maybe someone will be helped.
On November 14, 2018, my oldest child, Jonathon, committed suicide. I went to check on him for school and he did not open his door. I saw the end of a computer power cable wedged in the upper corner of his door. His door was locked and I could not get inside.
I thought he was playing a joke. I threatened to call his step dad. He didn’t answer and neither did his step dad. That is when I called 911. It was a terrible call. 911 operators are trained to be calm, but in the midst of trauma, it just sounds mean and rude. I know they aren’t, but that’s all it was. I could barely breath or talk clearly and I had to repeat myself over and over.
They said that I should try to get a neighbor to help and I ran to every house on my street screaming for help and nobody came except for a new neighbor that I hadn’t even met yet. He tried to get the door down and he couldn’t. The police passed my street and I had to chase them down and ran alongside their car answering questions about guns as they went to my house.
NO I DON’T HAVE ANY GUNS.
I was in the hallway when they kicked his door down. One of hte officers immediately pushed me away. All I saw was a shadow of a body falling. The door was kicked in half.
He wouldn’t let me see.
The paramedics arrived, but the room was very quiet. No cpr or anything was administered, at least not that I heard. I think it was probably very obvious he was already dead. According to what I found on his computer, he did it between 1:30 and 2:00 AM that morning.
There was no warning. There were no signs. He was actually sweet and kind and funny for the whole week before that.
Then he was gone.
There is more, but I’m going to stop now.
Is this the first time I’ll write about this?
I don’t care if anyone likes reading it or gets annoyed with it. I figured if I’m going to come back and write, then this is what I’ll do. I want exposure for it simply to be of help or… in some strange way, a comfort to someone else.
My life essentially ended on that day. I do my best for my remaining children, but I am so dead inside.
I miss my son more than any words can ever say.
Making it worse, this year on the anniversary of that day, my second oldest sons school had a shooting. You might have seen it on the news. THE ONLY REASON HE WASN’T AT SCHOOL ON THAT DAY WAS BECAUSE I KEPT HIM HOME TO MOURN. He knew the shooter, was friends with them, would have been around him.
I could have lost both of my children. I don’t know what that’s supposed to mean, but the trauma of those “what ifs” is palpable, even if I have the “it didn’t happen” to follow it. Life feels cruel. I feel as if none of my children will be able to grow up because I’m cursed. People say that’s irrational, but I hope you never know how this feels.
That’s all for now. I gotta go hug my 4 year old.