The saddest thing I own is the death of my son Dallas.
He was 19 years old, on the verge of realizing dreams, becoming a man in the world but still a child, unsure, afraid. He died on a beautiful clear Seattle day July 12 2007 from an accidental heroin overdose, after four long lonely years of addiction.
Everything that ever was, is, or will be… has his shadow drawn in dark ink all over it.
There is no language to describe the unutterable wasteland of my soul.
No words that do justice to the injustice of losing this remarkable human being.
My son taught me altruistic love and compassion. He taught me humility and long suffering.
I look back at my life and remember how many times I had felt, what was happening to me was so terrible, wondering how I would ever get through those things.
But here, here is where the world, in all of it’s reality shows you how meaningless so many things are.
You realize this… this death of a child so deeply loved, is where the world drops off into the darkest abyss of pain and despair.
And nothing, nothing can ever hurt you again like this.
Nothing will ever be as bad, as painful or as destructive as this.
I would take any other sad thing of the world as mine, any sadness or suffering imaginable, to disown this.
My son was not only my child, but a hope and a dream. A promise and a realization, of beauty.
Proof, of the goodness in this world.
I used to write letters to my son that he read with hunger and returned to often when he felt he couldn’t go on. But no matter what I ever write again, he will never read it.
I write now, to try to save myself, if I can.
I wish there were universally recognized symbols we could wear for the world… “Fragile: Be Kind”.
But there is no way to know the sadness people carry as we are passing by them.
The saddest thing I own, or ever will own, is the death of my son. And the saddest thing I own, owns me.
Tags: absence, children, death, loss
The saddest thing I own is my medication. I was diagnosed with major depressive disorder with psychotic features. Now I knew long before I was diagnosed that I had depression. My childhood memories are much like this:
Finding out the truth about my parentage.
Fighting over whose last name I would carry.
Being blamed for things going wrong and ruining the family.
Wanting to cut/hang/jump infront of traffic etc.
Fighting for my independence as a 16yr old who didn’t have a social life outside of school, and limited social skills.
Leaving home and being scared because I didn’t know how to take care of myself.
Along with a general feeling of hatred from my mother, and father issues and mental illness in the family, my medication is a constant reminder of all the things I’ve gone through growing up.Share Your Thoughts 
The saddest thing I have is a giant bottle of Welbutrin in my medicine cabinet at home. I take it twice a day so that I can function. I have dysthymic disorder; I’ve been mildly depressed for five years. Every morning I open my medicine cabinet, and I know that today won’t be much better.
Tags: depression, life