By: Amy Lied (this post will take you to Sharing Magazine where this article first appeared)
This month marks three years since our son died.
Three years since I said “hello” and “goodbye” to my child on the same day.
Three years since I’ve seen his face.
Three years since I’ve held his hand.
Three years since my heart shattered into a million pieces.
Three years since a giant chasm cut my life into two parts; “before” and “after.”
Immediately after Asher’s death and subsequent birth, I was a shell of a person. I would sit on the sofa all day waiting for it to be an appropriate time to pack it in and go to bed. I would wake the next day and repeat the process. I felt guilty every time I smiled or laughed at something. My child just died, how could anything make me happy?! I refused to allow myself go back to the things I did before loss. Returning home and binging Revenge on Netflix, like I was doing before he died, felt wrong. In my mind, it would’ve felt like none of it happened, like Asher was never really here in the first place. I needed life to be different as proof of his short existence.
Click here to continue (this will take you to Share Magazine where this article first appeared.