We were talking at 3:30 in the morning. He looked like he was really out of it and I begged him to stop. He said he was going to eat something and then go to sleep. "I love you Charlie" "I love you Ma." At 8 am when I woke up and forced the bathroom door open my son was dead. I still can't believe it. I don't even know how to write this without it sounding like a work of fiction.
It's been 4 months and nothing is easier, the pain does not let up. Sometimes, in my days of less sanity, I convince myself he is in rehab and will be back. The on clearer days I know I will never see him again and I want to die.
How can anything in my life even matter after this?