I come in from gardening and my children are there to greet me. They are my boys and yet I cannot register this. I cannot register that I am their mother, that I am standing in our kitchen, that I am real, that they are real. It is a living hell. They are talking to me: wanting things from me. The moment I walk in the door I am bombarded with their insistent chatter. They want a snack, they want to be held, they want to go outside, they want to play with the sink, the older one pushes his brother . . . And I feel like springing into action is impossible. I feel like talking is impossible. My body is there but the rest of me is disconnected. I panic.
Walking into my home and thinking “Who are you? Where am I?” is frightening. I am overwhelmed with hopelessness and shame. This is too hard. There is no relief. I feel so alone.
Reaching out to others feels impossible because there are no “others” when I’m so disconnected. And what am I going to say? “You don’t seem real and I don’t seem real and I can’t register anything around me as familiar”? I sound crazy.
I am here admitting that I feel crazy and as alone as it feels I know that it is not true. I have to keep telling myself that to survive: I am not alone.
Dear friends – I know that I am not alone because you are there. This is a safe place to admit the most f*cked up parts of ourselves and receive acceptance, not condemnation or empty “helpful” words.
We are not alone.