He who shall not be named also known as: the son who died

I won’t mention him by name. I don’t want to sully his memory by talking more about the way in which he passed. There was already enough internet drama at the time, and my grief was public enough. But I feel it is important to mention this because I will refer to him as the son who died when I write about him. He was not my biological son, but he was my son nonetheless.

He may have been my step-son but I loved him like my own child. I knew him since he was 5 years old, and I raised him when he came to live with us when he was 10, until I divorced his father when he was 18. He died when he was 22 and my biggest regret is that he didn’t accept that when I divorced his father, I didn’t divorce him too. I should have fought harder and taken him with me when I left. He was my son and he always will be.

Several family members on my side of the family have died over the years. Grandparents, great aunts and uncles. I mourned none of them. He died two years ago and aside from the pain of my divorce, his passing was the single most traumatic event I have experienced. I try not to think about it too much, I tried to get it all out at the funeral, because his death was senseless and there are only so many tears I can shed without it consuming me 24/7.

And that’s pretty much all I have to say on the subject.