My son has been gone four years and fifty-four days and still I am fearful. There are doors in my heart that I don't want to open. Memories that I have yet to face. Not the hard things. The difficult, painful things I have thought about, cried over, been angry about, and eventually had to accept. I know he is gone. I know that he will never again open the front door, walk in, give me a hug, and bring his laughter with him. Never again.
Today I'm writing about the every day things. The things that made up Christian's life. Things that tell me what his life was about during the good times. The things that brought him joy. These are the things I struggle with because in reality they are the things that mattered most to him and things he will never enjoy again.
So with great trepidation I opened his closed door, went into his room, and opened his nightstand. You may wonder why his nightstand mattered, why I had avoided it; and the explanation is this: he liked to keep the things that meant the most to him close at hand. I imagine most older children have such a place.
I looked inside and then took each item out and laid it on his bed. I took out his Bible, his keys, his broken cell phone, all his papers and photographs, the songs he had written, each strap of paper.
I looked at his keys first. Each one a mystery to me. I picked up his broken cell phone and was filled with sadness knowing how it came to be broken. The circumstances a heartache for him. The scraps of paper had names and phone numbers jotted down.
Isn't it odd how you know things but you don't REALLY know things. Amongst his papers were receipts. Receipts for clothing, receipts of hotel rooms, receipts for airline tickets. I knew that at one time he had lived the "jet set" life style but until I saw it in dollars and cents I didn't really understand what that meant. I am not bragging. Its just how it was. Penthouses, Louis Vuitton and Kenneth Cole clothing, parties, rent receipts for the house he lived in just outside of Manhattan (where he worked for a while). Receipts for the furniture he purchased for that house. I will never live that life style. I don't even understand it.
There were flyers for the Raves he and his partners put on. A lot were successful but as the Rave scene slowed down, so did the money they brought in.
The photographs were of his children, Brandon and Benton, the love of his life, Kristen, his family and friends. There were pictures of him with big name entertainers just partying and having fun. I will never forget the time Biggie Smalls called. Christian had forgotten his cell phone in my bedroom. It rang and I thought I should answer it in case it was something important. So I answer and a big voice asks to speak to Christian. I, of course, said he was home and could I take a message. He ask if I was Chris' secretary. I said "No, I'm his Mom." He told me his name. I had the worst time trying to figure out what he said his name was. I thought he said "Piggy Small" and I was pretty sure that wasn't correct but I wrote it down anyway.
When Christian saw it, his first reaction was: Oh my gosh you didn't call him that did you? He's really sensitive about his weight. After I assured him that I hadn't, Christian got the biggest laugh from my mistake. Actually Biggie and I had a pretty long conversation laughing and joking around. I was absolutely clueless as to who he was. He kept asking me "you don't know who I am? you really don't know?" He said I reminded him of his mom.
This is one of my favorite pictures from the hundreds that were there. Its him and his music. I love the way it surrounds him. How he and the music become one. A total and complete union of sound and movement.
The most telling things in the drawer were the songs he had written. Especially the rap songs. They made me so sad because they made me understand how much he wanted out of life. There was pride, there was pain, there was anger, there was passion, there was love. For me, a life full of promise that will never be fulfilled.
His whole adult life was in that drawer.
Yesterday, for the first time, I went to Christian's Memorial Site alone. I was afraid to go alone to that place on the side of the road. Not because its a dangerous place but because I knew how lonely it would feel. And it did. Winter had taken its toll with wet leaves and pine needles. Broken branches and weeds. Over grown briers.
When Spring arrives and it warms up, I will bring pots of flowers and plant a butterfly bush. The thought of butterflies flying around this place makes it seem less lonely and makes me happy.
I'm going to end with a phrase from a song. The first time, the very first time, I came to this place where my son took his life, I was so afraid. I was paralyzed with grief and sorrow and overcome with anxiety. I almost couldn't get into the car to start the journey to this place. Suddenly a phrase from a song by John Michael Talbot began to play over and over in my head with a slight variation to the original. The song in my head said "Be not afraid, I am with you always."
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