Grief has a mind of its own. It knows no master — not me, not my therapist, not time, not medication. 

I mean, all of those things help to a certain extent. I can at least function. Most of the time. Okay, some of the time and not ever at 100% any more.

But grief is a sneaky jerk. So many things send my train of thought hurtling down the track that ends in Charlie’s death. So what can I do?

I can tell myself guilt is a useless emotion, but I still have to consciously forgive myself. I probably always will (and I probably never will truly mean it).

I can tell myself that there wasn’t anything I could have done, or done differently, or not done, but there’s always that little voice whispering, “liar.”

I can tell myself that time will help, that eventually I won’t feel as if I’m drowning, all the time, gasping for air that doesn’t exist anymore.

I can remind myself over and over to cherish the two children I have, and still miss the one I lost like I’d miss a limb. 

All those things I can do, but they don’t work and don’t matter, because of the one thing I can’t do—hug my Charlie just one more time. All I can really do is grieve. And it’s sucking the life out of me.

Christmas only makes it worse. Every thing that used to bring joy–family traditions, shopping for presents, spending time together–now just reminds me of how much things have changed. There’s no joy, no peace—just grief. Because it owns me.