At the age of 15, my son Willy took his own life with a handgun he was able to get off the streets. He had been with a child psychologist since the age of eight for depression and telling me he didn’t want to live.
I was so careful. I kept guns out of my house, knives, and prescription drugs; I spent hours, days and nights holding him and soothing him. I spent thousands of dollars on weekly visits to his child psychologist. I prayed every day over and over. But what I couldn’t control was the availability of guns even to a 15 year old.
His death was my death also. I function on autopilot. I cry every day. I dream about him every night. And this I have done for 27 years. My heart has never healed. Time does not cure everything. Time adds to your grief because the only way you can stop it is to commit suicide also. I cannot do to my mother what he did to me. I love and miss him with every breath I take. I live to die and be with him again.