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.