There is this part of grief that I am not sure if anybody has coined a term for yet. I call it stark-raving crazy. Doubt that one will make the books, but I think I should get as much of a say as anybody else who's never been in my shoes of grief before, so that's my term for it. It's the days that you want to say "Okay God, enough, I trust you, let me wake up now." The days that you just want to go pull your son out of the closet and say "April fools! HAHAHAHA! Fooled you all!" The days that you just want somebody to commit you to the insane asylum so you can get an IV hooked up in several different veins with lots of good drugs and go to some happy place from three months ago. Those days usually come after a couple of good days. All of a sudden it hits you after a time of total bliss and contentment and joy and smiling and wondering what in the world could you have ever been so sad about because your son is in HEAVEN after all! Then BAM! How could I be happy that my son is dead? Oh yeah, that's right God, this is the pit you were talking about when my mind takes over and my spirit forgets what your word says. Those guilty feelings that I was having for being happy for your peace always bring me right back to this same miry, nasty, deep, painful pit. Throw that rope down here, will ya? I wanna go back to happy. I wanna be done now. I don't want my son to be dead anymore God.
