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When my son died in 2010, in those first few weeks and months, I had a hard time feeling as though my life still had any meaning. Being a mother to my son had imbued my life with meaning; motherhood was my purpose. He was my raison d’être, my reason for being.
Perhaps a little too co-dependent for my own good, but that’s how I rolled back then.
His death brought that whole life construct crumbling down. I was adrift. His death seemed random and pointless, and I believed my life no longer had meaning. I felt useless, and that I was taking up precious real estate on this overpopulated planet.
Which was ironic and troubling because that is probably exactly what my son was believing and feeling when he consumed the two bottles of pills that ended his life!
When we lose our sense of meaning or life…
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