One minute I feel okay and the next minute, I am fighting the urge to slam my car into the car in front of me, taking corners ways too fast and wanting, badly, to speed. And my music – playing it so loudly I feel it resonate in my chest. Is it to drown out the ache?
Only my boy, my little living boy keeps me from doing anything destructive. I notice these urges and then, I breathe. And then, I give myself permission to let out the rage in ways that won’t hurt me or anyone else: I let myself sob in parking lots with the music blaring. I let myself avoid eye contact in public (I am usually a smiley, cheerful person).
In this way, I stay safe. I wait until I can inhale the smell of my little boy’s neck. I cherish the moment he comes to wake me, crawling in beside me, his first words always, tell me a story. So, I tell him a story at 6am, grateful to be woken from my dreams or the early morning thoughts of darkness. I take his little hand, cuddle into him and tell him a story, or two or three, hopping up in the predawn darkness and cold for a banana to share as we lie there together.