They say God doesn’t give you more than you can handle.  I have now had my fill of what I can handle. I am dangling by a thin thread by one hand saying out loud to God, “No more! Can this family have a break? I am worn out.  I don’t think I can handle one bit more.” More challenges that are out of my control have come this week.  I am not made of steel. I am strong. I know I am, but this is all too stinkin’ much. I’m getting smooshed under the weight of it all.

Riley’s pictures hurt now.  There is an ache that comes over me when I see his face smiling behind a magnet on the refrigerator.  I can be rushing through the kitchen and there he is smiling at me. I lose my breath when I see his face sometimes. I can be on the phone, look over at his picture sitting on the shelf on the bookcase and I forget the whole conversation while tears well up in my eyes. I want to kiss his cheek and touch him. I can’t. Riley won’t come into a room again smiling and say “Hi” the way that he did. He’s not going to kick his purple and gray Vans off at the bottom of the stairs before he climbs them. He won’t leave a dirty dish on the counter again. I now miss all of those times that I picked a dish up shaking my head thinking Riley, how hard is it to pick the plate up and put it in the sink? There are no dirty clothes waiting for me to wash for him.  His bedroom door remains shut. He’s not behind that bedroom door sleeping.

Riley was not a morning person. He was grumpy in the mornings when he was woke up. I didn’t like grumpy so I was willing to give him space as long he got up. Sometimes it took more than one time to stick my head in the door and say, “Riley, get up!”  What I would do to deal with Smiley Riley’s grumpy morning demeanor. I would give anything to see him open up that bedroom door. I want to pick up one of his dirty dishes on the counter and move it to the sink for him.  I want to wash and fold his clothes for him. I really honestly do. I want to grab on to him and hug him tight. I want to sit by him, put my arm through his and breath the same air of Riley Reed Peterson. My son. My love. I can’t.

I have lost my sweet baby boy to drugs.  I HATE DRUGS!

I am told there is no timeline or correct course in grief. I know there are stages of grief and I think I am already barreling through them. I hear that I will bounce from one stage to the other and I could repeat them. I do know that I must allow myself to feel the pain. The grief counselor told me that I am doing okay. I don’t feel like I am doing okay today.  It is hard work, this life of grief that got dumped on me and I’m barely into it. I have a life time ahead of feeling the pain of losing my child. I know there is a rope within my reach from this thin thread. I will put two hands on it and I will hold on.

Share Riley’s story, please. Riley was a good kid that made a wrong decision. I am hoping that there is a kid out there that will hear Riley’s story and in turn, will make a different decision so that he or she can kick off their shoes, leave dirty dishes on the counter, and dirty up clothes so that their Mom or Dad can continue to have the privilege of putting their dirty dish in the sink, to wash and fold their laundry, to kiss, to touch and to hold them.

I Love You, Riley.