My son had Occupational Therapy today. I attended.
It’s so difficult to look these professionals in the face and tell them all about my son’s accomplishments for the week. I wonder if they can look at me and know. Sometimes they ask how I’m doing, I guess to bait me. And I hide under the guise that I’ve recently been ill. That’s not a complete lie. I had the flu last week and continue to have laryngitis into this week. Do they still know?
My interactions with my family members have been strained.
My husband discovered my wounds. There was much silence surrounding the issue. I wish he could understand. I wish that for a moment, just one moment, he could feel what I feel. I want him to be able to connect with me, instead of ignoring my illness when it manifests itself physically. I feel very alone.
My son is too young to understand what is going on. I have been difficult with him, just as much as he’s been difficult with me. Dealing with him in the terrible two’s when he has limited speech is exhausting and frustrating. I wish every day that he would just wake up and speak to me.
I expect too much.
I dressed, covered my wounds, and went to work.
I was called back to teaching music in the summer program. I’m glad for it. I get stir-crazy when I’m home all day. I can’t seem to find enough things to fill the day with. I need the distraction. I cannot be alone with myself for too long. Except, I spent all weekend trying to find ways to get out of it. I didn’t think I could do it. I was in no shape to go teach elementary school children. What if they could see the deep, dark sadness on my face? I can’t explain that to kids. And telling them that I’m sick won’t suffice.
I saw their little faces. Some ran to hug me. We smiled. I was so happy to be back, despite the heaviness of my heart. It was enough to pull me out of it. For three hours, at least.
Rinse and repeat. Until I’m once again alone with myself on Friday.