For ages I've been sort-of ok with the trail of farewells that clutter my relationship with beautiful, beloved son. This time the usual distress was superceded by awesome agony and a couple of days crying.
There are courageous and mad reasons for how things came to be as they are. Leaving son's father spread a disgustingly dark feast before me. Every choice was as toxic as the last. Crawling on broken glass would have been a breeze. To recount it all now would be pointless. The situation I found myself in all those years ago required someone to take a risk and someone to do the leaving. I knew I was the only one with a shred of courage, so I did it.
It nearly killed me but then, better to die in the attempt than let "him" finish me off. Ohhhh yes, indeed, it was one of those extreme melodramas that came with death threats.
Doing what I did felt like bleeding out, slowly, invisibly, in a car crash. Frightened people all around, none of them actually able to help.
I’m stubbornly strong though. I knew that I would sort out the wreckage of everything if I just survived. I did. But sometimes it feels like I'm still bleeding out. Like I'll always be bleeding out. And there really isn't anything that anyone can do about it.
When I drove back, the seat next to me empty this time, I got that barbed wire feeling. You know the one? When everything inside is constricted, trapped and aching; when pain pulses but you can’t reach it, touch it, soothe it? All you can do is feel sick and breathe slowly, watch tail-lights ahead shiver in blurred vision and wonder what the hell it all amounts to.
"No more heartache. No more heartache." That's been my mantra for days now. But what you resist persists. I'll get through it, I always do. So don't waste energy on feeling sorry for me; pity-me stuff is the pits. Instead, remind me that I'm stubborn. And strong.
*image: Keith Cottrill
