Jason’s room in the brown house was up the stairs, to the left. A dark brown, queen sized sleigh bed was pushed up against the wall between matching nightstands, and a rocking chair stood by where he used to drape his clothes if they were too clean to throw in the laundry.
There was a 357 magnum in one of the nightstands. Jason used to take it out with his friends and shoot the road signs.
When I was pregnant, we were the only ones living in the house, so we slept in the master bedroom downstairs. When he left for work, I would go upstairs because the mattress in his old bedroom was softer and more comfortable, so plush it felt like luxury to sleep in. A green quilt was laid over the bed- we got it for our wedding. I loved the varying fabrics on the patches and the animal skin accents.
On the day Jason died, I called my parents. My baby and I were alone. When my parents got there, I was still standing by my truck, keeping it between me and the house, like it could shield me. The front door was standing open, and I couldn’t focus on it.
Dad hugged me and I sobbed, “Something was wrong!” He can’t stand to see me in pain. My pain becomes his pain.
So many people were in our house. I went in our room with trepidation, because no one told me where he died, so I assumed it would be there, but it wasn’t. I mechanically pulled clothes out of the dresser for my baby boy and anything loose out of the closet for myself. I walked out of the room and someone said, “She’s in shock.” I can only imagine what I looked like from that memory.
Someone tried to stop me, but I went upstairs. Straight to his old bedroom. The green quilt was slung back and a deep stain of blood was on the far side of the mattress. I pushed past the dresser and dropped on the floor, staring at the bed.
I don’t remember how long I stayed there, but at some point I got up and struggled open the drawers, looked under the bed, even in the attic storage. He had to have left a note…but I knew Jason. He did not like to write, so he didn’t leave a note.
We had moved the rocking chair in that bedroom and replaced it with a treadmill. I remember working out up there one day with music blasting. Jason suddenly bounded into the room with a huge smile on his face, scaring me so much I almost wiped out. I did use that treadmill one more time shortly after he died, just so I could stare at the doorway, wishing he would come in. Exercise was something I needed to help me cope- the release of endorphins.
Click here for Part 4 of What Happened.
Tags: coping, suicide