too little, too late

I didn’t think flipping over an old photo of my son would be such a devastating experience but I suppose life is strange in ways such as this. I want to be mad at Isabelle for convincing me to go through his old box of old things, but I know it’s not her fault. I still don’t enjoy the fact that cleaning out my son’s things has turned into me sitting on the ground and sobbing so hard it’s beginning to hurt. I want to scream and cry and laugh and pull my hair out all at once. It’s very conflicting. What I want more than anything, though, is to go to my mother, to crawl into her arms and hug her as hard as possible. I want to hug her until my arms get sore and my body gets tired. I want her to hold me. I want to be held by my mother as if I am a small child. I want to be a small child again, I wish nothing more than it, but I’m not a small child. I’m a grown, adult woman and I have just lost my son to death and I have no idea what to do about it. There’s nothing I can do about it. I guess that’s the strange and terrible thing about death. I’m hopeless, just like a small child. I’m unsure of whether or not the photo itself is the problem or if it’s what’s written on the back. I don’t know. I’m also unsure of whether or not the fact that my son is dead is worse than the fact that he died at his own hands. I think that they are equally horrific facts. I miss my boy so much. I pick the photo back up again and stare at it. In it, he’s standing and smiling, laughing with his friends. He was so young. He had so much life to live. He was so young and he had so much life left in him and it’s all gone to waste now. I loved him so much. I still love him. He was my only son, he was all I had. He saved me. I was so selfish. I should’ve been there for him, not the other way around. I wish I could go back so badly. I want to go back and hug that boy. I want to hug him and never let go of him. I wish I did more for him, I didn’t do anything. I feel awful, that he’s gone and I didn’t do anything to stop it. That he really truly believed that it’d be easier for him to die, that we’d be better off. I wish he’d just known that I so badly miss him. I miss him so much that my stomach hasn’t stopped aching since the day he died. He’s dead and gone and I can’t do anything to change that. I wish there was a way to change it. Or a reasonable explanation as to why it happened, but, there isn’t. I wish there was a justification for death. But there is no reason, or maybe there are a hundred little reasons that make up one big reason. Death in the literal sense can never be justified, I don’t think. His death is certainly unjustifiable and I blame myself for it. I wish he’d told me why he’d done it. Left me some sort of note or letter. But he didn’t and that only makes it feel more my fault. I’ll forever be wondering, why? Why didn’t I notice? Why didn’t I do anything? Why wasn’t I a mother to him? I was supposed to be his mother. I will never forgive myself, and I know that any higher power that exists won’t forgive me either. I turn the photo of him over again. I already know before rereading what it says that I’ll only be crushed once again but I think I deserve that. So I read it over again. ‘Dear mom, I’m leaving. I’ve been waiting to leave for my entire life but I never thought I could do it. I’m 18 though and it’s about time I stop taking care of you. I want to start taking care of myself. I want to live, not exist. I hope you know what I mean. I want to look at art I’ve never seen before and listen to music I’ve never heard before and I want to go to places I’ve never been and eat food I’ve never tried. I want to live a life that I’m satisfied with. I hope you take this seriously and I hope you don’t laugh because I know that you felt the same once. You were a kid too once, mom. I’ve never had the chance to be a kid. So I’m making up for lost time now. I’m going to go out there and do things, and I won’t apologize. Maybe I’ll write to you again eventually... when I’m farther away. I love you, mom. For now, this is the last you’ll hear from me... maybe the first and last. I’ll see you around. Love, Ben.’ He was going to leave. Two years ago. This photo was taken two years ago when he was planning on leaving. I wish he had gone through with it. I wish he had left me and went to wherever it is he planned on going because at least then he’d be alive. At least then holding him would be a possibility. Now I’ll never be able to hold my child again. My heart breaks each and every time I remember it. I was a horrible mother and now I’m not a mother at all. My child is gone. Dead. I wish I could bring him back. There’s so much I wish I could go back and do. Change, there's so much I would change. But it's too late. He’s dead and gone and it’s too late. I’m too late.