The near-death of a child
Writing. Words. The hope of my everything. The thing that has kept me alive all these years. Many days I feel no one has listened. No one has cared. And I write anyway. Because it has helped me. It helps me still. And that is, for me, enough. It has sustained me on those days when I truly thought there was nothing else. And so I reach for these words in a world of pain like I have never felt before.
Many of you know me as someone who is bright, shiny, maybe even at times inspirational. And I have tried, in my weak attempts, to seek love from these lines. Or perhaps even a bit of recognition.
Today I scream from the top of my lungs for the pain that I have endured. For years. Wanting to make the world right. Wanting to be the best mother in the world. Wanting to see the wrongs corrected. Wanting to see the criminals we see on the news behind bars. And every day we all witness a different world than the one we were promised when we were kids.
Even as a child I thought I would be the one to make the difference as I witnessed the adults in my midst incapable of caring or seeing or wanting to see my needs. So I embarked on a lifelong journey to rectify that. I thought, with my sixty-pound-frame, that I could indeed achieve that impossible aim. I entertained, made people smile, tried to make the world right. I tried to give a thousand times more than I would ever ask. Somehow to resurrect the imbalance that appeared so obvious to me.
A dear friend told me today that I will repeat the past until I let it go. Let go of what? The very thing that has kept me alive all these years? Certainly it is not the written word. Perhaps it is my need to save the world. But how do you decouple yourself from the purpose you were born into?
I am uncertain. But when you have faced the near-death of a child, as I did today, you will know what I mean.
Tell me, dear readers. What is the sense? What is the sense in it all?