Lindsey Leupold I hate you, I hate your brother Matthew, and I hate your son Dallas for killing my daughter. I never thought that I could hate this deeply and this passionately… may you see what you’ve done on every night that you close your eyes. May the guilt of what you did to her eat away at your mind and may you never have a moment of peace. May everyone you know turn against you, and may you never harm another child. So mote it be.
Too often I have to stop and ask myself why I have this need to reach out to a total complete stranger to share my pain with them. As soon as you tell them that your child was recently murdered, they get this blank look on their faces, and in your own head you’re asking yourself why you ever opened your mouth. I don’t know why this need exists. This need to tell people that monsters are real, and that they took my child from me. I just know that it’s there (this all consuming need) and ever present. I wish death was not such an uncomfortable thing to talk about. It’s like this presence that hovers around you and follows you everywhere. You just feel like grabbing anyone who will listen, shaking them and screaming in their face that she’s gone and she isn’t coming back.
I am forever grateful for my husband and those around me who love me. I am especially grateful for those who magically appeared from the woodwork when Mary died, those who I had not seen or heard from since childhood. I know I’ve been distant, and for that I’m sorry (I owe a few of you a phone call). And while I may smile, post a joke or two, or hit Like once in awhile, I am still broken. The joy that I found in a lot of things, those things just don’t seem that fun anymore so I find other things to occupy my time and keep my mind off of things. Know that I love you. Know that while I may not talk to you that it’s not personal. Thank you to those who are sticking by me in my silence. I’m still here, in pieces, but I’m here. Thank you.