(Note: Writing this series of 4 posts has left me raw and broken. I did not want to continue today, but I have to complete this journey. Apologies if this post seems stylistically different from others. I had to rely more heavily on other resources to clearly articulate my thoughts.)

Continued from Part 2

Living in Survival Mode

I feel like I'm just trying to survive. Each day is a matter of getting through-through the thoughts, the emotions, the physical pain of anxiety and grief. I'm not living right now; I'm just existing, trying to make it to the next moment without falling apart completely. It's a kind of survival mode that leaves no room for anything else-no joy, no rest, no peace. Just the constant effort of keeping my head above water.

But even in this state, I try to remind myself that survival is enough. That just making it through the day, no matter how messy or painful, is a victory in its own way. I tell myself that the fact I'm still here, still breathing-even when it feels impossible-is a sign of strength, even if it doesn't feel like it. And I try to hold onto the hope that someday, the weight will lift, even if I can't see how or when.

Living Versus Dying

Grief, I've learned, isn't always an active thing. It doesn't always crash over you like a wave or knock you to your knees with its intensity. Sometimes, it just lingers in the background, a dull ache that never quite leaves. That's how this feels. Like a heaviness that sits in my chest, not sharp enough to make me cry all the time but always present, always there, making it hard to breathe. It's the kind of grief that doesn't recede or change-it just is, unyielding and unrelenting.

When my son, JC, died in 2013, it was unbearable. The pain was immense, raw, and all-encompassing. The grief was heavy, but it was also fixed. I could see it, hold it, understand its contours. As overwhelming as it was, it had a clear shape, a clear purpose. It was a response to something unchangeable, and in some small, strange way, that made it easier to hold onto, easier to process. We could point at a calendar and recognize that this was the specific moment when our lives changed forever. There was also a sense of finality-a definitive end to what had happened. It was over, as much as I hated to admit it. There was no way to go back, no way to undo what had happened, no uncertainty about where things stood.

Of course, there were questions-Why did this happen? Could it have been prevented? What does this mean for the rest of my life? But I came to accept that some of those questions would never be answered. The finality of his death forced me to confront the unanswerable. I could make peace with them because I convinced myself that he was ultimately in a better place where there was no more pain or suffering. It allowed me to stop searching for meaning and focus on moving forward, however slowly. There were no questions of whether we loved him, no anger at him for circumstances beyond his control, no wondering if we were better off without his influence in our lives or of what kind of man he was. The picture was clear despite being one I did not want to see. The pain had an edge that was sharp and searing, but it was also something I could lean into, something I could begin to understand. As unbearable as the pain was, it felt like something I could eventually move through, something I could process and begin to heal from, even if it took years.

But this? This? This feels entirely different. This feels like being stuck in quicksand. No matter how much I struggle, no matter how much I try to move forward, I can't seem to get anywhere. And the more I fight it, the more it pulls me under. This grief is amorphous. It shifts and changes, slipping through my fingers every time I think I've found a way to hold onto it. It's a grief that doesn't stay still, that refuses to let me rest. It is diffuse. It spreads into every corner of my life, touching everything but offering no clear path forward. There's no finality here, no sense of resolution or clarity. It just keeps going, like a wound that never heals, like a storm that never ends. Every day brings something new to grapple with-new emotions, new fears, new uncertainties. It's a grief that shifts and changes but never settles, never allows me the space to catch my breath or find a foothold. It's like living in a constant state of limbo, waiting for something-anything-that will give me a sense of closure, even if it's painful.

And it's made worse by the knowledge that this situation isn't just about me-it's about him, his wife, his children, my family, and everyone else caught in the wake of his choices. I feel like I'm grieving for all of us, carrying not just my own pain but the weight of what this has done to everyone involved.

I don't know how to grieve this situation because it feels like it's still unfolding, still unraveling in ways I can't predict or control. There's no moment to pause, to reflect, to say, "This is what happened, and this is how I'll begin to heal." There's just the endless motion, the relentless churn of emotions that refuse to be neatly categorized or resolved. Every time I think I've found my footing, something happens to knock me off balance again-a memory, a thought, a moment, a song on the radio that brings everything rushing back. It's like living in a constant state of flux, always teetering on the edge of heartbreak. I feel so powerless in the face of so much pain.

What I do know is that the person I thought he was is gone now, if he ever existed at all. And that loss feels like a death-a death without closure, without finality, without a clear way to grieve. I'm mourning the loss of who I thought he was, the trust I had in him, the memories that now feel hollow and broken. I am mourning the events that have been taken away from us. Thanksgiving dinners or Christmas morning with my whole family in one place. Father-son-grandfather fishing trips. The simple joy of everyone coming together to celebrate a milestone which has now been clouded not just by his absence but by the negotiation of everyone else's feelings and responses to his choices. I'm also mourning the part of myself that believed I'd never be in this position, that thought I knew how to handle a situation like this. A sense of paternal invincibility. That part of me is gone, too, and I don't know what's left in its place.

Memories of the Person I Used to Know

The hardest part of all this is remembering who he used to be. There was a time when he wasn't consumed by paranoia, when his actions and his words made sense, when he was the person I cared about without hesitation or fear. Those memories feel so distant now, like they belong to someone else entirely. And yet, they linger in my mind, teasing me with what could have been.

I think back to the little moments-the way he used to laugh, the way he used to talk about his dreams and plans for the future. It's like those pieces of him have been swallowed up by something darker, something I don't recognize. Every now and then, I catch a glimpse of the person he used to be, a fleeting moment where the paranoia seems to lift and he's himself again. But those moments are rare, and they never last long enough. They're just enough to remind me of what I've lost, and that makes the grief even harder to bear.

It feels like mourning someone who's still alive. He's here, but he's not. The person I knew is buried somewhere beneath the delusions, and I don't know if I'll ever see him again. That thought breaks me every time. I want to hold onto hope, to believe that he can come back from this, but it's hard to hope when the reality in front of me feels so bleak.

The Stagnation of Grief

It's hard to imagine a future where this weight doesn't exist, where the grief, the uncertainty, and the pain don't feel like permanent fixtures in my life. Right now, everything feels so stagnant, like I'm trapped in a loop that just keeps repeating. I tell myself that time might bring some clarity, some relief, but I don't know if I believe that. How can anything change when the situation itself feels so stuck, so unresolved? When the person at the center of it all seems so unreachable? It feels like having a terminal illness but not being allowed to die. Like being stuck on a moving sidewalk that isn't moving but not being able to get off.

When JC died, I had to move through the traditional stages of grief-denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance. It took time and effort, but I made it to acceptance eventually. It was fairly linear. Now, the stages swirl together and overlap. Every day brings a new dimension, a new crisis, a new direction we had not considered. I feel like I am living inside a snow globe. Someone shakes it up, and I rush to see where the pieces will settle, but before I can orient myself or catch my breath, the shaking starts again. Each time the pieces land in a different place, and I have to start all over again. Sometimes I find my footing for a second and another family member breaks down, triggering the process again.

Coping with All the Feelings

I woke up today thinking that maybe I could begin to move forward a tiny bit. Then one of my older sons reached out. He is a survivor who has been through his own multiple hells including actual war. He is usually a constant-someone who has mastered accepting harsh truths, who uses pragmatism and humor to face challenges that would break most of us. In the face of baseless delusional accusations, he had begun to question his own inner voice-the guidance and advice he had given his brother over the years had been thrown in his face as the supposed basis for these events. He wanted to know if he owed his little brother an apology. Absolutely not. But the question itself broke my momentary equilibrium. I tried to discuss the conversation with another son who has found wisdom and direction in his brother's guidance. He was instantly angry that someone he loved, who had been nothing but helpful for both of them had been put in this place. He wanted to rush out and defend the older brother. Another child was anxious that if these experiences continued, there would be legal ramifications-harassment charges- that could send him back to jail. I can't keep up with everyone's feelings.

It's not just about me. I worry about everyone's emotions and responses. I can't make it right for anyone. I wonder about his family-his wife and children-and whether they'll ever find a way to move forward. Will his wife ever feel like she can rebuild her life, or will she be trapped in this limbo, too? Will his children grow up carrying the weight of their father's choices, always looking over their shoulders, always wondering how much of their lives will be shaped by what he's done? What if his son, decades from now, goes to get a job that requires a background check, and they accidentally pull his father's records instead (they share a name)? These thoughts haunt me, not because I think I can answer them but because I can't stop imagining the endless pain.

The Fear of Losing Him to Himself

And then there's him. I don't know what the future holds for him, but I'm terrified that it will be more of the same-more paranoia, more bad decisions, more pain for everyone involved. I want to believe that he can change, that he can find the help he needs, that he can take responsibility for his actions and begin to rebuild. But I don't know if that's possible. And even if it is, I don't know how long it will take or what the cost will be for everyone who's already been hurt.

What makes it harder is knowing that he desperately needs help, but I'm powerless to give it to him or force him to find it. I've tried, but everything I say seems to get twisted into something it's not. When I express concern, he hears criticism. When I try to set boundaries, he sees betrayal. It's like we're speaking two different languages, and no matter how much I try to bridge the gap, the distance only grows wider. I've realized that helping him is beyond my abilities-it's something only professionals can hopefully do. But even knowing that doesn't make it easier to step back.

I'm scared that his paranoia will lead him to make another bad decision. Even while in jail, people noticed his delusions and paranoia and other inmates took advantage of his disturbed state of mind. Being out on bail feels like a fragile reprieve, not a resolution. People who should love him and care for him are manipulating him to their own advantage and he is oblivious to their schemes. Every day, I wonder if he's going to get in more trouble, and every day, I brace myself for the worst. I know I can't control his actions, but that doesn't stop the fear from consuming me. He's already in so much trouble, and I can't shake the fear that he's going to spiral even further. His paranoia, his behavior, his refusal to see things clearly-it all feels like a ticking time bomb. I'm scared that any moment, something else will happen, and I'll find myself grieving all over again.

The Fear of Permanence

What scares me the most is the thought that this might never change. That no matter how much time passes, I'll still be here, feeling this way, stuck in this cycle of grief and helplessness. I don't know how to live with that thought. I don't know how to accept the possibility that this situation might never resolve, that I might never find the closure or peace I'm searching for. Instead, I try to focus on right now. This one moment. What am I feeling and experiencing? I try to define it and put it into words.

The Physical Toll of Emotional Pain

I feel like I can't breathe. The weight of everything presses down on my chest, heavy and relentless, like it's trying to crush me from the inside out. The air feels thick, like I'm underwater, struggling to surface but never quite breaking through. Every thought, every emotion, every memory pulls me further under, and I don't know how much longer I can hold on before I drown.

The way this feels in my body is impossible to ignore. My chest is tight, my heart races, and my breaths are shallow and uneven, like I can't take in enough air no matter how hard I try. My shoulders ache from the constant tension, my stomach churns with anxiety, and my head feels like it's full of static. My mind feels like it's on overdrive, racing in circles but never getting anywhere, and my body is in a constant state of tension, bracing for a disaster that's already happened. It's not just mental-it's physical, this grief, this fear, this helplessness. It's in every part of me, weighing me down and making even the simplest tasks feel impossible. I'm exhausted, but I can't rest. I'm broken.

I try to remind myself to breathe, to slow down, to focus on the present moment, but it's so hard when my thoughts are screaming at me, telling me I should be doing something, anything, to make this better. But what can I do? I can't fix this. I can't undo what's happened or change the choices that were made. I can't even get him to hear me.

The Pain of Powerlessness

There's a unique kind of agony in loving someone who is lost to delusions and paranoia. It's like watching a ship drift further and further out to sea, knowing you can't reach them no matter how loudly you call. Every time I've tried to help, my words have been twisted into something unrecognizable, my intentions misunderstood. I've tried to explain my feelings to him, but he doesn't hear me. I've tried to explain, to reason, to guide him back to reality, but it's like speaking a different language. He doesn't see my concern as love; he sees it as an attack. He hears accusations where I mean support, betrayal where I mean love. And no matter how much I try to explain, the space between us only seems to grow. Every time he twists my words, it feels like another wall going up between us. And with every wall, I feel more disconnected-like I am the one in some kind of prison instead of him. It's exhausting, disheartening, and ultimately futile.

The Need for Release

Sometimes, I wish I could scream. Just let it all out in one raw, primal release of everything I'm feeling. But I don't even know if that would help, because there's no outlet big enough for this. It feels like it's trapped inside me, building and building with no way to escape. The tears come, and for a moment, it feels like I'm letting some of it go, but then the tears stop, and the weight is still there, heavier than before.

I've tried everything I can think of to release it. Writing helps, but only for a little while. Taking a walk, trying to breathe deeply, even holding onto a pillow and crying into it until I'm too tired to feel anything-it all feels like a drop in the ocean compared to the enormity of what I'm carrying. I want to believe that there's a way to let it go, to find relief, but right now, it feels like that's as impossible as taking a deep, full breath.

Lost in the Storm

I feel like I'm drifting in a storm, completely untethered. The waves of emotion keep crashing over me-grief, anger, confusion, helplessness-and I can't seem to find solid ground. I don't know what to do. I don't know how to move forward. And I don't even know if there's a way to. Everything feels so overwhelming, so far beyond my control, that it's hard to imagine any resolution that doesn't hurt.

The weight of caring for someone who's in this kind of trouble is suffocating. It's not just the sadness or the fear; it's the constant sense of helplessness. I want so badly to make things better, to reach through the fog of his paranoia and pull him back to reality. But when then? Even if I can banish his delusions and paranoia, the legal consequences of his choices won't go away. If he has to go to jail, is it better for him to go with a clear mind and the weight of his decision in front of him or is he better off lost in his fantasy world? I have no answers and can't bring any of it to life. And that realization-that there's nothing more I can do-is what breaks me the most.

It hurts knowing that he needs help-real, professional help. But being completely powerless to get it for him? I have no words. I've spent countless sleepless nights worrying about what will happen if he doesn't get that help, and even more nights torturing myself over whether I've done enough. Guilt is suffocating, even though I know, deep down, that this isn't something I can fix. That knowledge doesn't make it easier. If anything, it makes it harder, because it means letting go of the illusion that I have any control over the situation.

There's no finality to this. No resolution, no closure, no clear path forward. It's an open wound that keeps bleeding, no matter how much I try to bandage it. Every time I think I've found a way to cope, something tears the wound open again-a memory, a conversation, a realization of how far this has spiraled. I keep waiting for some kind of end, some moment where I can say, "This is it. This is the worst of it. Now I can begin to heal." But that moment never comes. It just keeps going.

It feels like trying to climb a mountain that keeps growing taller, no matter how much progress I think I've made. I'm tired. I'm so tired. It's not just the grief or the anger or the confusion-it's the sheer enormity of it all. And yet, I can't stop climbing because I don't know what else to do. There's no other option but to keep going, to keep carrying this grief and this uncertainty and this fear, even when it feels unbearable.

The Depths of Emotional Processing

I've been trying to untangle the emotions that seem to wrap around me like vines-some tight enough to choke, others so fragile they snap with the smallest tug. There's grief, not just for him but for the life that could have been, for the future that now feels irreparably shattered. There's anger, sharp and biting, at the choices he made and the actions that brought us all here. And there's guilt, an ever-present shadow that whispers questions I can't answer: Did I fail him? Could I have done something differently? Am I abandoning him now when he needs someone the most?

But beneath all of that, there's love. Love is supposed to bring joy, comfort, and happiness. Here it brings pain. Love is what keeps me tethered to this impossible situation, what makes it so hard to set boundaries and focus on my own well-being. It's not an uncomplicated love; it's tangled up with disappointment, frustration, and the undeniable truth that he's responsible for his actions. But it's still love. And trying to balance that love with the anger and fear I feel is exhausting. It's like standing on a knife's edge, constantly teetering between wanting to help and knowing I can't.

The crying doesn't help. It comes out of nowhere, unbidden, and drags me back into the thick of it when I'm trying so hard to move forward. I'll be sitting in the car, trying to distract myself with music or podcasts, and suddenly it hits me-a memory, a thought, a stray moment of guilt-and the tears start again. I'm not even sure what I'm crying for anymore. Is it for him? For his wife and children? For myself? Maybe it's all of it, all at once, a flood of emotions I can't contain.

A Grief Without Answers

What can I even do in a situation like this? I can't undo what's happened. I can't reach into his mind and pull him back from the edge. I can't shield his wife and children from the consequences of his choices. And I can't seem to protect myself from the weight of it all. For weeks, I've been trying to piece together some kind of plan, some kind of way to handle all of this. But no matter what I think of, it feels inadequate. Whatever I try to do, it only creates more questions. Questions to which there are no answers because the situation keeps changing.

What happens next? Will he get the help he needs? Will he take responsibility for his actions? Will his family find a way to heal? Will I ever feel at peace with my decision to step back, to protect myself from the chaos he's creating? Am I doing enough? Am I doing too much? Am I helping, or am I making things worse? Should I be focusing on him, or on his family, or on myself? How am I supposed to support them when I'm barely holding myself together? Should I tell people what is happening? What do we tell his daughter about what happened when she is old enough? Will his son even remember him and how much he loved being a father? Will this ache in my chest ever ease or will it just be something I'll have to carry for the rest of my life? Have I said the right things? Have I pushed too hard or not hard enough? Is there even a right answer? Is this just one of those situations where every choice feels wrong? Will anything I do ever be enough?

These questions feel infinite, unending, and the lack of clarity makes it impossible to find any kind of resolution. They swirl around me, pulling me under like a tide I can't escape. Every time I think I've found a way to cope, something changes-a new development, a new fear, a new wave of guilt-and I'm back to square one, trying to make sense of something that refuses to be understood.

I try to remind myself that I don't have to have all the answers, that it's okay to feel lost, that this situation is bigger than anything I've ever faced before. But those reminders feel hollow when the questions keep coming, when the weight of everything makes it impossible to think clearly. I don't know how to make sense of any of this. I don't know how to make peace with the fact that I can't fix it. I don't know how to let go of the hope that somehow, some way, I'll figure out what to do.

And so I write. Trying to get my ducks back in order.

When we first got the news that he was in jail, my wife and I jumped into the car, and we were on the way to his wife and kids, 7 hours away, within 10 minutes. We drove straight through only stopping for gas. Those first few days were a whirlwind where we did our best to make sure she and the kids were OK. I don't remember where we slept. I do remember almost stopping in the middle of the highway because I couldn't see through the tears. Her family was able to come a few days later so we came home. Drained, exhausted, and directionless. I started this blog the next day. I didn't know why at the time. I thought I was simply sharing stories and advice. But it was actually much deeper and more personal than even I knew at the time. Now it has become a lifeline. A way to discover more about myself and my personal history. A way to connect and communicate with my children. A way to step back into a new world after losing the only one I have ever known. I am placing an anchor.

I think about writing more as time passes, documenting what I'm feeling, what I'm experiencing, but I'm not sure what else there will be to say. Will I be writing the same thoughts over and over again years from now? The same fears, the same heartbreak, the same endless questions? Part of me hopes that putting the words down will help me make sense of it, that seeing my thoughts laid out will bring some kind of understanding or perspective. But another part of me wonders if writing it all down will just make it more real, more permanent, like cementing the fact that this isn't going away. Only time will tell.