Thanks for being there, everyone. These last two days have been the darkest. I have fallen into the pit and can't climb my way out. Owen has been gone 6 weeks today, and I can't imagine the next minute without him. It makes me want to drive to town and stand on the bridge where his body was retreived from the river, and scream at all those young punks who know what happened to him.
I can't stop crying. I can't stop shaking. My body hurts at the molecular level all the way through to about 6 feet beyond my skin. I've eaten so little in the past 6 weeks, that I'm feeling like I'm starving myself. The grief counselor I've seen twice, said she sees this in mothers mostly, but other family members sometimes do it, too. She calls it "one foot in the grave", and said there's a part of us that wants to go with our children or other loved ones. This made so much sense to me. She asked if I can eat when my older son is around, and I said, yes, no problem if he's there. So, she suggested I spend more time with him. That's hard, too, though, because we're so consumed with pain at this early stage, I feel like I'm taking him down with me whenever we see each other and talk on the phone. He lives about a half hour away. He's suffering, too, and I don't want this to be harder on him than it already is. I don't want him to take on the parent role.
I called my ex-husband, Michael, today (Owen's and Nat's father; not Owen's and Nat's dad, Dave, (my husband) who you've met here). We talked for about 2 hours. He never remarried and does not have a girlfriend, so is home alone most of the time. He doesn't work, so is going down this path in a consuming way, too. He and Owen had spent the least time together of all our family members, and he feels so guilty, having felt the time would come soon enough, for them to be closer. We talk whenever there is news from the police, or when we can't stand the pain, and no one else is available. We have plenty of shared memories from when the boys were young that are full of love and good times, so this also makes sense for us. And, we share our extended families, so we have plenty of Owen stories, and Michael CAN TALK forever. So, it was a good way to climb part way out of the pit.
Because the police have so many versions of what happened, we get to grieve in a 4-fold fashion. Here are our choices: homicide, accident, suspicious, and suicide. While suicide is not a focus for the police, simply by the fact that Owen didn't exhibit suicidal behavior, the fact that those kids won't tell us or the police what happened, it stays part of the possibilities. I know in my heart that he would not intentionally hurt himself, but occasionally, the thought sneaks in - what if something was going on that I didn't know about? There's so much more that I can't talk about because this is still an active investigation, and it's enough to make us all lose our minds. We get to keep seeing our own personal visions, dozens of them, of how Owen ended up in the river.
When I imagine the different possibilities, the panic attacks are like nothing I've ever experienced. The first thing I say to myself each day when I wake up is, "Owen is not going to walk in the door, and today will be better than yesterday." And, then it all comes crashing in - the visions of the possibilities, and I'm gone again, agony.
I know this wouldn't be any easier if we knew what happened, but maybe there would be moments when I could walk from the living room to the kitchen, and I wouldn't feel so sick. Or, maybe a night where I could actually sleep for more than 30 minutes at a time. The sleep deprivation is not making it any easier, either.
Since we still don't have a date or actual cause of death yet, Michael, Nat, Dave, and I have simply agreed on a date for our own purposes, based on the different stories the kids have told, and what we felt in our hearts in the days Owen was missing. Until we're told differently by the final coroner's report, we're agreeing Owen passed on May 30, 2007, between just after midnight and somewhere around noon. This way, we can, for the moment, try to cut out those 12 hours of our lives that are torturing us, and try to stay focused on the memories, and the regular missing our kid stuff.
Owen's first true love, Carla, called me today. We had been trying to find her, and finally someone connected with her today. She was destroyed, and I went right back into the pit while we talked for an hour and a half. Then, she, being the kind of woman that she is, told me about the first night she met Owen. It was such a sweet story, and one that showed him at his kindest. She told me a few other stories, all of which were either funny or showed his gentle side. This was a real gift, and one that was very hard for her, I'm sure. I am so thankful for these stories, as they come in. And, for a moment or two, I can look at pictures of him and not feel quite as broken.
This is what we know today. And, the pit is waiting for me with each breath.
I've been reading some of your stories, and I am so sorry for all of you, too. It all feels like such a terrible violation of who our families were before, and certainly after.
Thank you all for sticking with us in these early days. I'm bound to ramble...
Linda
Owen's mom