Cussing, Crying, and Coping

Today sucked. Like, “get hit by an emotional dump truck” kind of sucked.

It’s been 25 days since I lost my son, and honestly? I’m barely functioning. Work? What’s that? I’ve been clocking in maybe 2 to 3 hours a day, if that. Most of my energy goes into pretending I’m okay when I’m not, which is honestly the shittiest unpaid full-time job out there.

Today? Motivation level: zero. Like, negative zero. I woke up, stared at the ceiling, and felt absolutely nothing. Like a fucking void. I switched the timing of my meds, hoping that helps… because right now it feels like my brain is walking through wet cement in flip-flops.

But I did drag my ass to a meeting. The topic? How our drinking affected our family and the amends afterward.

Yeah. That one. That topic. The one that rips your chest wide open and pours tequila on the wound.

Something in me just broke. I sobbed, like UGLY sobbed, through the entire meeting. Not a few tears. No. This was snot-nosed, red-eyed, gasping-for-air, full-body fucking grief.

Because it hit me. Finally. Hard. I couldn’t save him. I wasn’t enough. And those thoughts? They are heavy as hell. They sit on my chest like a goddamn elephant in steel-toed boots.

I know, logically, I didn’t cause this. I know addiction is a bastard. I know I did my best. But grief isn’t logical. It’s emotional anarchy. One moment you’re numb, the next you’re rage crying in your car while Alanis Morissette blares through the speakers.

So here I am. Still sober. Still showing up. Still breaking, but not broken.

I wish this post had a nice tidy ending. A little lesson. A glimmer of hope. But not today. Today, I’m just surviving. And if you’re here reading this? Maybe you are too.

Let’s just keep breathing together, yeah?

Fuck grief. But also… thank god for meetings, good meds (eventually), and people who let you sob without flinching.

Until tomorrow,
Jess
💔🖤💬