They fight for my head space sometimes for hours at a time. A memory of my family can go from a laugh to tears in a matter of moments.

I do my best to show the strong side to the media, friends, and public, but every once in a while the tears bubble up and spill over. After hours of holding the feelings at bay, they boil over when I get home from work… and all that’s left for my family is the ugly side of my grief.

So, then I try my best to stuff it down deeper… But that doesn’t work either.

I have a responsibility and a deep seeded desire to continue the search for Corey’s killer. I brought him into the world! I felt him wiggle for the first time within my own womb… I heard his first cries.

I was the last person to hold him as he died.

I am his mother.

But in our society, it is not acceptable for me to wear black to show I am grieving… like they did in decades past. It’s not acceptable to discuss the murder of my son in mixed company. Or to cry at my desk. Or to be grouchy. Or sad.

Or weak.

Maybe that’s what’s wrong with the world. Maybe we keep letting this type of crime continue because we are only allowed to talk about it in the basement of a church in the company of other people that have experienced something similar.

We don’t talk about drug abuse or alcoholism openly either… then we wonder why we keep having to make more support groups.

There is a saying, “There are only two things that are guaranteed in life…death and taxes.”

Guess what. There is a 100% chance that someone you know will die. More precisely, there is 100% chance that everyone you know will die. You don’t know when. And more than likely you won’t know how.

If by chance (GOD forbid) they are taken by murder, I promise…

I will be there for you.

And you have my permission to talk to me.

And cry.

And tell me your true feelings.

Guilt free.

For as long as it takes.