My self esteem isn’t exactly high, but one thing I’ve always been able to say about myself is I am compassionate. Or was compassionate. Or can be on any given day. I haven’t had one of those days lately.
Sometimes my loss is bigger than my patience. I’m usually the first person there if someone needs help. Lately, though, I simply haven’t had the emotional strength to comfort others. This blog is about honesty if nothing else, so I’ll state outright that other problems sometimes seem trivial in comparison to Andy’s death. I get angry. I want to shout at people and ask how they can possibly tell me about loss or think their breakup with the latest boyfriend is a problem.
I *know* loss and pain in a way only another bereaved parent can know it. Loss is the hulking shadow that follows me everywhere. It’s the darkness that threatens to consume me at any moment. It’s the living being in my life that has taken so many others from me. It’s my worry that Andy was afraid at the time of the accident. It’s his father’s pain in the brief moments between the impact of the crash and his death. It’s my panic and fear at the whole situation. It’s lack of existence, but it’s alive. Everything around it dies.
So no, at the moment I can’t cope with the losses of others unless they’ve lost a child as well. I try to make myself available, but I can’t comfort, and I can’t help. There’s nothing left of me to give.
