You know sometimes life can be so unbearably hard that the very essence of who we are – that flame that burns within us; that force which drives us on and pushes one foot in front of the other – seems extinguished, leaving behind nothing but a meaningless void.

Sometimes I think life really is some kind of illusion: just an endless parade of pointless distractions that mean nothing in the end. I know when I lost my son this feeling was an incredibly powerful one and one which I wrestled with for a long long time. I still wrestle with it in fact and always will. But the mind is a curious thing. I remember the dichotomy of thoughts which fought for dominance as I grieved for my beautiful Craig. On the one hand I was floored by an overwhelming sense of confusion and pointlessness to everything – my son, who was my whole life, was removed from existence in the snap of a finger and I was left to just ‘carry on’ as if nothing more inconsequential had happened than, say, a bloody car being stolen. But also with that confusion there emerged an immediate, knowing conclusion that my son HAD to be alive somewhere else. And yet the KNOWING and the CONFUSION endlessly seesawed and jostled for equilibrium, to even this day.

It’s now coming up to the third anniversary of Craig’s passing and while I truly believe that he is somewhere else and that I will see him again, I still cannot make sense of this life. Believing in our immortality does nothing to clarify or give purpose to the life I’m left with now. It certainly doesn’t make it any easier or understandable. Is it an illusion? Does anything here mean anything, really? What if everyone I loved was taken from me – am I to accept it? More stolen cars? Am I to plan anything, when the entropic bubble of uncertainty in which I live yields not to good deeds, good thoughts and a life well lived? When the worst can happen, regardless of the efforts and sacrifices you make, how are we to be motivated in THIS life. There is no apparent linear relationship between actions and consequence. This is the tumult I live with. Not always, but often enough.

I just long for the seesaw to finally hold still so I can have peace in my life, some measure of happiness, because I’m tired. But I suppose the burden for all us grieving parents out there is in knowing that this stillness can never come, not in this lifetime. Our lives are the books with no happy ending, and we know it long before the end is reached. . . And that is a terrible thing to live with.