March 29, 2011
I lie on the living room floor, crutching my stomach, breathing as in child birth. James places his hands on me, but I am unable to speak. It feels as though my womb is being ripped out.
I breath and breath and breath. I know what this is about. I know that I am experiencing something that is brought on by my own psyche, but the pain is literal and real.
I recover as quickly but still ache.
That night I dream my 13 year old daughter jumps off a boat into the water. She literally jumps ship. I can’t find her anywhere and time is running out.
And three more years is all I need. I’d like seven to be sure, but now is too soon. This fragile child who is overwhelmed by noises and tastes and feelings of this world, the one who I need to watch every bite, the one who still needs a story or voice or body to get to sleep. The one who is easily permeated by all thoughts and feelings of those around her, so much so she freezes, blank but full of overwhelm.
She wants to jump ship with her father. Across a big sea. I should let her go, knowing that it would be impossible to sustain.
But not at thirteen. I will use all of my ropes and life jackets for this child. I will keep her away from the edges of the boat.
My life depends on it.