This entry is an extension of yesterday’s entry; working from previous writings. I was to pull a phrase from the same document I used yesterday, and use it as a jumping off point for today’s writing.
And then just like that, it hits me: my son is dead. He took his own life. He shot himself.
I wrote that sentence one week to the day after Cooper died. The terrifying, depressing truth is that I could’ve written it today. That reaction — that gut punch — is no less real now than it was on August 31st. It doesn’t happen as often, but still at least once each day.
The timing is indiscriminate.
I’m standing at the kitchen sink, cleaning the cast iron skillet when the truth hits me with a force so powerful I groan. Cooper died.
I hear a knock at the back door and my mind invariably leaps to the coroner’s knock that shattered my world; Cooper took his own life.
When hunters practice for shotgun season, I flinch at the sharp cracks of their shots. Did Cooper hear the shot? Worse, did he feel it?
Multiple emergency vehicles race through town, sirens screaming, and I wonder — were there sirens for Cooper?
I notice dill pickle popcorn at the grocery store. Without thinking, I reach for a bag. Sounds nasty, but Coop would like it. Shit. I remember all over again, withdraw my hand, and leave the popcorn.
I’ve gotten better at managing my reaction. I’ve accepted I can’t stop the memories, but I’m learning to manage my reaction. Maybe a shake of my head will reset my emotions. Maybe several deep breaths will restore my equilibrium. Maybe half an Ativan will slow my racing heart, calm my urge to flee. Or, maybe I am going to melt down. It happens. I’ve gotten better at managing my reaction, but I’ve a long way to go.
I don’t know what will start the spiral or what will stop it.
What I do know is that I’m in some Groundhog Day type of gut-punch loop. I know it will happen again, so in a way I’m always bracing myself. Tense. Waiting. I don’t know why; the ambush is usually successful. Trying to prepare just wears me out.
I know it will happen again. It always does.
Sometimes, it’s the fact that Cooper died.
Sometimes, it’s how Cooper died.
Sometimes, it’s both.
And then just like that, it hits me: my son is dead. He took his own life. He shot himself.
Woods Writes 
Your writing brings back so much of what I’ve went through. Steven completed his suicide 9/24/15. I write as well. But I do it for his children that will never remember their Daddy. They were too young. But I do have them.
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