*Part one of this series can be found here.

The smear of  blood on the frayed cuff of the wet, snow-covered Army sweatshirt I was wearing was an indicator that I should be feeling pain, but I didn’t.

I DID feel pain–more pain than a human should ever have to carry on their back, it just wasn’t of the physical kind.

It was the middle of a bitter December night. The air was so cold that it almost hurt to take a breath but I was in a cemetery wearing soaking wet pajama pants and sweatshirt,  laying in the snow on top of the earth that contained the body of my little son.

I don’t remember if I was even wearing shoes.

There were mounds of icy snow around me mixed with clumps of earth and dead brown grass that I had upturned with my bare hands. I lay covered in tears with snot running out of my nose, panting hard from my efforts to physically claw my way down to my baby.

It was all too ‘The Christmas Box” for words, people.

And it made no logical sense.

None.

But I was there to end my life, so logic was not on my mind.

I reached in my pajama pants pockets and felt for the bottles of medication that I had grabbed when I ran out sobbing of my little house some time before.  It was a grotesque lifeline to the plan I had been thinking of off and on for the better part of 2 years.

I had a plan.

I had a plan and the time had come to execute it.

I reflexively wiped my nose on my sleeve and when I saw the dark red smear and looked at my raw, torn hands and the headstone of my son with the little ladybug engraved on it, I knew that I couldn’t end my life there.  No more than I could have done it in the home of my children and where my Little Bug saw all of his days or somewhere that meant something to people I loved.

It didn’t matter where I died as long as it wasn’t anywhere I had lived. Continue reading →

Dear Readers,

This may seem familiar to some. I published this in September with the intent of it being a three-part series. For reasons that are my own, I did not publish the remaining segments.  I have moved the original into draft to keep the astounding and loving comments on file. You do not have to say anything or re-comment. Posts like this are often beyond comment anyway and I am not looking for a cheer section. My intent is not to hurt ANYONE with this. (Intents guarantee nothing, I realize.) I have tried to keep this to my OWN point of view and leave others in my life and in this story out of it as much as is possible.(If you are one of those reading…that you are, or are not in this account says NOTHING for how much I do or do not care and love you. I am just protective and  also would not dare assume to write how or what was felt going through all this with me.)

I am writing this for me. I am tired of feeling so ashamed of this period in my life. Because even though this is the most difficult story I’ll ever tell…it’s time for me to talk about it.

Thank you for your understanding,

Loralee

Sitting  in a police car against my will in the middle of a bitter December night should have filled law-abiding-me with terrifying anxiety and worry, but it didn’t.

I already knew exactly what was going to happen to me.

By morning I would be dead.

Just as I intended.

Continue reading →

Butterlump is 10 months old.

I have treasured every single one of the 26,265,600 seconds this sweet and gentle baby has blessed my life.