2.15. Another Sleepless Night

Can’t sleep. Counting down the hours until mediation. Completely unsure how badly it’s going to go. Certain I have to keep composed no matter how irrational and rude the opposing party chooses to be. Perhaps indifferent, spouting off a ridiculous amount of lies, unwilling to compromise, audacious enough to request a single thing…probably a slew of things. Two hours with a puppet I can’t stand. A person I am disgusted by. A thing I loathe. Two hours that will most likely make me break down and cry the second I walk through the doors of my apartment. A day that will define where and when my future will begin.

I’m scared. Petrified. Worried. Concerned. Overwhelmed. Intimidated. Unsure.

It is needless to say but I’ll say it anyway. I love my son more than I love my own life. I cannot fathom my life without him and I wouldn’t want to. I feel at peace when he is with me and when I hear his voice, when I see him sleeping peacefully and when he is giggling up a storm. When he has sleepy eyes and when he’s pushing me to wake up. I love him more than anyone I have ever or will ever know.

The pessimist in me says tomorrow will be heartbreaking. The mother in me says that no matter what happens – I have to stay strong for my sweet angel. I will never stop fighting for him. I will never give him up. I will never walk away. I will never stop loving him with every ounce of my being.

I don’t know what level of evil and lies I will face tomorrow. I don’t know what schemes will be played but I know it’s coming. This is not paranoia. This is my current reality.

May my love for my son give me the strength to hear whatever is said in this meeting. And to keep my integrity despite the evil that men do.

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1.132 – Turmoil

The art slips away from me…a mind boggled with an abundance of questions. Stories and ideas sit on the back burner when, in all actuality, they should be at the forefront. Reflecting on life is a reminder of a failed one…what could not be saved is what leads me to this tailspin of uncertainty.

Don’t let anyone fool you; divorce takes two people. I swallow the pill in knowing that I wasn’t my best to make my marriage work…I wasn’t strong enough to encourage it to evolve instead of perish. And in the aftermath of realizing that…I sit here as a broken woman. I am broken because I was apart of something that could not last, could not beat the odds. I am broken because I am faced with making even more difficult decisions. I am broken because I could not guarantee my son a unified front.

My spirit is ready to make the move, to return to my birthplace, to start my life anew, to create a life I want to live. My mind is fogged with the concern for others, for the connections that may suffer if things don’t go as planned, for the worry that I am…yet again…not making the right decision. My heart breaks because, as much as I want to be fair…I can’t imagine being apart from my son for a day…a single day…that far apart.

This whole scenario makes me want to break things and spit and curse and banish all smiling faces. If I was a man and I was offered a job far away…the move would make sense. It would seem justified. I’m doing what needs to be done to provide. But I’m a woman. I’m a mother. I can’t give my child up…even for three month periods. What kind of person am I?

Is the opportunity to make more money and be closer to a family source a justified reason to sacrifice six months of the year with my child? Shouldn’t I be able to find a way to be happy and accomplished exactly where I am? What does it say about me if I can’t? Do I stay where I am for the sake of my son if it means I am not happy as an individual?

I’m crushed. Because I feel like there is no middle ground. I’m either selfish or settling to remain as I am. This person I despise. So many would say that my child should be enough. Is there something wrong with me if I want…more? And I feel like the biggest piece of shit on the face of the earth for writing that last sentence. But I want to be more so I can give more. Even still…it feels wrong to feel.

I don’t think I’m strong enough to make this decision. But by not making a decision…haven’t I already decided? I am broken and it is taking all of the fight left in me to not curl up in a ball and hope for the moment when I whither away. In this case, there is no good decision. And I don’t know if I can live with that.

1.113 – Stolen

He was all about trying to hit it
She was all about trying to quit it.
Junkies turning tables
lost in the panic
riding high
and flying low
danger in numbers
coinciding with danger in solidarity
He was all about getting the digits
She was all about trying to quit it.
Leaning in while she pulled away
tears welling because this wasn’t it
not here
not now
not like this
regret in a stroke
a mistake
mistook for tenderness
running from the baggage
and into the terminal.
He was all about trying to hit it
She was all about trying to quit it.
The memory,the angst, the pain of what ifs.
He hit before she could quit and turned her out…
a trick in the game
no winners

as her world ends.

1.96 – Fighting The Good Fight

At face value, she is a drama queen.

Cowering in the corner, she is a shattered dream.

Like anyone else, I have bad days. Unlike everybody else, I have extremely dark bad days. This is not to say I’m the only one. This is to say, there are normal people who don’t think their light is snuffed out because of hard times.

And yet, this is how my brain works. A small stress is just an ember, growing on a dry patch of grass, engulfing trees and landscape, wreaking havoc upon every possible dream and stamping a big fat, emblazoned failure sign in the darkness. One worry is stacked along with many until a house of cards comes tumbling down and I feel like I’m drowning. Drowning in a pool of confusion, self-annihilation and full blown panic attacks.

I cant remember the first time I had one. I thought everyone felt the way I felt when they were scared. Until these attacks happened when I was not in danger, when things weren’t so bad, when no harm was close. Palms sweating, my heart racing, tears overflowing, head spinning, and the inability to breathe…I am a wreck. I can only describe it as an emotional ocean that sucks you under and you suddenly forgot how to swim against the tide. That part of you gets stuck on stupid and you’re helpless physically, though mentally you’re screaming bloody fucking murder because you don’t want to lay down and die.

Before yesterday, the last time I’d had one was the day my father died. And that shit was expected…the attack..not the death. Yesterday, on the other hand – was just a wave of sudden grief. Everything looks bleak, the sun isn’t going to shine and I’ve plummeted to my lowest low. There really is no rescuing me in this dark space. Because my brain has all of the answers…even though it’s wrong.

In that panic, I am the ugliest, poorest, most worthless excuse of a mother. I am a sorry excuse of a woman. I am a failure as a human being. A waste of space.

And then I am on land again. And I recognize that I still feel those dark feelings but I have the strength to battle each demon like a knight with a sword…sent to slay the unslayable dragon. I don’t think unslayable is a word…I don’t give two shits, quite frankly. It is now.

The panic steals my air. The dragon rests its unforgiving claws against my windpipes and I struggle, with tears in my eyes and my sons name at my lips. Because he’s my reason to fight the beasts. The darkness. The demons. The hell that lay in the corners of my mind.

I probably sound like I’m batty as all hell. I’m not. I’m living proof that ignoring things for a sense of pride, in childhood, is pointless. Because some of us are just born differently, mentally. Some of us have distorted images of ourselves. Some of us struggle to feel less alien and more like the world. Some of us pop a pill and talk out our problems and still fear the dark. Some of us fight attacks and episodes. Some of us cringe when people make bi-polar jokes. Because we know you’d only laugh. Because you think we are fucking nuts. Because you think we want to be this way. And some of us just don’t give a fuck anymore who understands us. Not all of us want empathy, sympathy, pity.

Some of us just want to slay the dragon. To protect our kin from the demons that danced with our limp bodies. To negate the cycle from repeating itself. To stop pretending that if we don’t talk about it, it will go away. Because it won’t. It is the bear that hibernates. It is the beast the lurks with patience. It is the monster that we continuously turn our heads to look out for. It is the scar upon our souls. It is the damage that was done…the wound that will not heal…no matter how many band-aids the world wants to slap on the hideous reminder.

The panic attacks used to scare me. Now, they just remind me that I’m still alive. I will push away those who I feel will not understand. I hide from those who will shun me. I fake the smile for those I hope wont. I used to say I wished my battle was like Cancer because then people would understand and not assume it was all an exaggeration. But I don’t need people to understand in order to fight the good fight. I just need to remind myself that I now have the best damned reason to continue the battle – my boy.

My son keeps me alive.

1.29 – Dear Dream Catcher

I am writing this letter to you for a few reasons. I know you’ve just been an idea in my head and in just a few hours, I’m going to start the excelled journey of NaNoWriMo, in hopes that I can get you down on paper.

You scare me. If I can’t get you out…can I get anything out?

You excite me. For the potential you represent.

You confuse me. I honestly don’t know where you came from.

I don’t want to let you down and not do enough justice to a concept I’m really excited about. I don’t want to prove to myself that I wasn’t ever really meant to be a writer. If I fail at this challenge…what does that say about my capability? Can I finish anything? Will I? Will it be worth it?

I’m probably going to break up with you at least twice…in the first week. I’m probably going to call you a bunch of very bad names and potentially threaten to burn you. I may even call you the worst idea known to man. I want you to know that I don’t mean it.

I’ll probably ignore you for a day or two and then be angry that you aren’t turning out the way I want you to. You’ll be my worst writing yet and I’ll probably feel ashamed for that. You’re going to make me have a melt down and I dislike you already…

And yet, you are my hope. May the muse be with us.

Sincerely yours, Skylah.