You left too soon. I will miss you always. You did not just rip a hole in my heart. You changed the landscape of my life like the eruption of a volcano that alters the land forever. And yes, it burns just as much.
The part of me that understands you dying is human. You were always in pain, and no one knew. They saw the charismatic young man with the attractive dimpled smile. They laughed at the jokes of a man who coped with life’s tragedies with humor. They admired the person who lived on the edge whether it was surfing on the ocean or defying social mores through the company you kept. Your friends were gay, black and white, male and female, rich and poor, long before society accepted people who were different. You drew no class distinctions, and in many ways, you were a true Renaissance Man. You were so much fun that others sought out your company and loved you, and your only distractors were those who envied you or expected someone with so many gifts to accomplish so much more. It was not enough that you simply wanted to enjoy your life and the people in it. Unfortunately, your detractors were those whom you most loved; those whose approval you most needed.
The part of me that does not understand you taking your own life is your mother. I loved you so deeply and needed you in my life. I needed your love. I needed your laughter. I needed those many times when you took a walk along the beach and called me for no reason other than to tell me that you loved me. I needed the long talks we had about everything; about nothing in particular. I regret that despite the many times that I told you that I loved you, you feared that you were a disappointment to me. You were not successful like your brother. You gave me no grandchildren. I think that last hurt you most of all. Yes, it was a disappointment, but I took it in stride. You were living the life you chose; the one that made you happy.
How did your death change the landscape of my life? It impacted nearly every relationship with my friends and family members. Many blamed me. Had I been a good mother you could not have committed suicide. It mattered not that you were thirty years old, married and living miles away. I don’t know why I keep the letters from family and friends who cruelly spelled out why your death was my fault; that I did not love you enough or cared too little. They shut me out of their lives when I most needed the words from those who loved you to sustain me.
One of the unintended consequences of your death was the estrangement from your brother. His wife disdains me, and he has not called me once in many years to simply say, “Hello Mom.” They call you my “Golden Boy.” They tell me that I was a terrible mother who deserves no respect or affection from them. While you were alive, they were not like this. We visited. We exchanged warm phone calls. That is how the volcano of your loss separated me from him as well. Not surprising. Traumatic events tear apart many families. I am left with mountains of smoking lava separating me from those whom I most love and need.
June 11, 2018, marks ten years since you were gone. I miss you, son! I miss your love and your laughter. I miss you and will love you always.
dottieriley 