Alarm sounding, I blindly reach out and slap at the air. After several attempts at muting the screeching beast, I make contact and am met with beautiful silence.
I am the creator of my day, the decision maker, and yet my brain takes the reigns and breaks the silence, “Your co-workers will think you’re disgusting if you wear your hair up again because you don’t feel like showering.” I flinch in response to the thought that somehow lashes out against me— me against me. I groan, and plant my feet after the initial roll. I don’t want to be disgusting.
Just another day on auto-pilot: I reach into the shower and in an instant, hot water sprays. Climbing in, “How did your thighs get so big? Are they bigger than usual? They are, they have to be, they are huge!” I begin to blush, whether from the heat or the criticism is to be determined.
The loofah glides over my side. “Your skin there used to be perfect. Now it has these weird purple chasms where your pregnant body ripped into pieces. They won’t ever go away, you’re broken forever.” I move faster and quickly rinse my whole body, conditioner mixing with body soap in rivers down my back. I can’t relax and dally or the clock will punish me.
I reach for my bra. “You could pack up to go camping for the weekend under all that sag.” I quickly put it on. I turn to the full length mirror, catching sight of my thunder thighs, then the purple chasms, and my full breasts being held at the socially acceptable position thanks to my handy torture device.
I pause, nearly tripping; I’m stunned.
Two mean eyes stare back. A lip, my lip, is curled into a slight snarl. “Just get dressed, you still have to put makeup on, that skin needs concealer today.”
“JUST SHUT UP! You’re fine. Everything is fine. Look at the children you’ve stitched together, see the work you’ve done to get here, to today, with that body!”
The glare wavers for a minute then relaxes away. I’ve taken control of today.
There are days where the temperature is perfect— where the sun shines even as rain falls.
The earth is warm to the touch and the rain ever so slightly cools, leaving an upwards crawling fog against the earth where the elements combine and rise.
We are outside enjoying the sun. As rain drops begin to fall, we clasp hands, watching them play and listening to the squeals and laughter of our three children.
Leaning safely against him, the scent of petrichor mixes mid air with palpable joy, combining to create a lifelong memory— a treasure.
The rain ends as quickly as it started; it’s sunny again.
The birds excitedly pop out to comb through the lawn for the sudden and unexpected rainy day treat. We are the birds, happy and chattering.
Life is a series of moments like this where I fall deeper in love with you— with us— and the family we have made. This is my home.
She danced in the kitchen while the radio played her song Belting out lyrics, whether right or wrong.
She purchased hats, all brand new To give away to disadvantaged youth.
For friends, she’d cook and she’d bake A healing salve, she would make.
Her laughter she’d share As if she lived without a care.
You’re not enough, you’re to blame They’d criticize and harangue.
So, she shrugged and turned with a smile For the truth had been there all the while.
I’ve spent years in the past, lacking a foundation The wind picking me up and battering me against everything in my path
I slam into relationships and friendships alike I try to plant roots in them
But they are not me.
If every person you meet is a potential friend, you lose yourself further Not everyone is for each other
The desire to give and please, to be liked, no— admired Leaves me routinely destroyed by lackluster reactions to my person, to me
Because they do not know me.
Finally, bruised and battered, tumbled across rocky friendships Boundaries emerge
I begin to set down roots I learn who I am, and why Not everyone is for each other
As the wind batters at my limbs, my roots keep me steady I finally know me.
“Is it morning?” Not yet, it’s 3 am, it’s sleep time still.
“Can I go downdairs?” It’s 5 am, let’s rest a little longer.
“Mom, will you snuggle me?” “Mom, I’m hungry. “I don’t know what to eat.” “Can you fix this for me?” “Can I have a cookie?” “Snuggle me, Mummy!” “Can we go outside?” “Can you help me zip?” “I need a bandaid and a kiss!”
Let’s go inside, it’s time to make dinner! “I don’t like chicken.” “Can I have ice cream?” Show me your plate. You need two more bites of everything and then you can have ice cream.
Ok, let’s get cozy, it’s almost time for brushing teeth and bed! “I don’t want to go to bed!” “I don’t want to brush my teeth.” “I don’t want to put pjs on.” “Why do you get to stay up?”
Silence. Relief. Bittersweet. I don’t want them to grow up and leave.
A ghost has visited me in the morning around three. The memories she shared she claimed would set me free.
My eyes welled with tears my soul filled with new fears. Agony filled my very core with wails awakening my husband’s sleeping ears.
Now that I know this ghost is here I cannot make her disappear. Her weekly reveals reverberate everywhere.
For she is me and we are tied to one another. Our trauma makes us three.
A ghost has visited us in the morning, as she must. The memories she shared I now must learn to trust.
I wake with an ache in my joints and lightning shooting down my leg.
My cycle changing with long, drawn out bleeding; enough to stain my bed.
I rub my eyes, bringing my vision back into focus.
I’m greeted by the sight of my mother’s hands.
My mother’s hands make my children breakfast.
My mother’s hands cup their tiny faces before grazing tiny noses with a kiss.
I catch a glance in the mirror as I walk past; my dark circles are a reflection of this season of life.
