Meeting him came with a collection of red flags long enough to line the interstate from coast to coast. But I was young and ignorant and insecure, and I thought I deserved maltreatment. I wish that I could just talk to someone about this festering pain I feel. I want someone to hug me and hold me and listen to cry and tell me I am ok. I feel a chasm in my chest cavity and it is raw and red and gaping. I’m compelled to wrap my arms around my ribs as tightly as I can, to hold myself in. I feel as if I let go, all of my insides will come tumbling out in a mess of flesh and blood and agonizing paroxysms. A vocal presence in my head screams at me to pull the trigger of a gun against my temple, tells me that the splintering of my skull and the obliterations of my brain will assuage my agony forever. Why don’t I?
I don’t because I know too well what it is like to have no one to hold you and help you stand up. I know that everyone needs a mother to love them and listen no matter the circumstance. How dare I pass my children my own pain? I breathe through the misery the best that I can because it is MY misery, and it would not be right to share it with my children. Depression, that unpropitious monster that makes camp in my very bones, in my lungs, in my bowels, that makes my legs heavy and my mind degrade- it is my burden.
Sometimes it feels that everything inside me screams for me to end it all, but I drag my twisted thoughts up into my prefrontal cortex, letters and lines and punctuation trailing behind, scraping along the gyri of my brain, leaving the sharp corners of letters in the crevices. I need to get a message there. I need my brain to read this notice. It says my children need me, and I cannot leave them behind. Get up. Get out of bed. Pinch the upper part of your nose, right by your eyes. It will keep the tears in. Get dressed. Make breakfast. Wake the kids. When they wrap their arms around your legs at the door of their school, you will be glad you conquered that monster one more day.