Living grief, as a mother, is waking each day with the knowledge that your child is still here, yet not truly free.
It is the quiet relief that comes when he is locked up, because at least he is alive, mixed with the heaviness of knowing what he endures inside – feelings and experiences only those who have lived them can understand.
It is carrying love without condition, while also carrying fear, helplessness and loss – not a final loss but an ongoing one. A grief that has no ceremony, no ending – just a constant presence.
It sits in the background of every day, in every thought, in every moment of wondering what could be different. It is loving deeply, hoping endlessly and hurting in ways that are often unseen.
You see, for 10 years now he has been in and out. When he’s out he’ll couch surf, sleep rough. I’ll get a phone call saying he’s in hospital, he’s not making any sense, he’s overdosed, he’s been in an accident, he’s in custody and in holding cells.
He has spent this time from a teen to now, as a 27-year-old.
My child, my life, my grief.
