It has been 2 years to the day.
Years which have flown by like an airborne crisp packet sailing turbulently past the maternity hospital window.
‘Look! Prawn cocktail!’ I pointed from the delivery bed, ankles up around my ears, unable to grasp the severity of what was about to happen, as drugged up as a dancing tramp, calling The Irish One by my ex boyfriends name, thinking this was the funniest thing I had ever done, and genuinely confused by his lack of mirth. ‘No I won’t push! Get me some crisps. Look!’
2 years to the day since my son landed blue, and extremely annoyed and more than likely freezing and certainly confused, on to my empty bump in the cold, clinical delivery suite and grabbed hold of my finger in fear.
Look after me, he asked as I looked down at him in shock, the tears streaming down my face.
2 years to the day.
2 years of watching my son grow from a smooshy headed donut in to an inquisitive little creature that has no qualms about eating a spider.
And oh how I love him, with his head full of dreams and his belly full of hoops.
Sometimes I feel my heart could tear open and weep out the love.
Sometimes I wish love was a cure.
2 beautiful years, the memories of which should ensure nothing but breath catching happiness, which are instead filled with silent tears and venom filled thoughts, with heartbreak and hate, with stolen kisses and watery smiles and eventually with love and quiet.
It is the quiet that I long for the most.
2 years, gone in a heartbeat, 2 years vanished like a deleted text, floating around in the ether.
It is the lost days that I crave to erase.
I yearn to rip them from the pages of my life story, to remove all evidence they ever happened, they ever existed.
The moments that I would beg to feel the love, let me feel anything, the times when the illness had eaten at my brain and I felt nothing.
A bottomless, airtight hole filled with… nothing positive.
Long spidery days splayed out in front of me like witch fingers, clutching me around the neck.
Hours filled with self hatred, wasted lost moments of self indulgent guilt and angry pointless self punishment while my son innocently played in front of me, his eyes questioning my emotionless warmth.
Numbness so acute, I could misplace a month without realisation.
An eternity in 12 hours, like a heavy suitcase filled with broken dreams being dragged behind me.
A sword through the heart that I am unable to fulfil my promise of protection, too exhausted from an invisible battle.
But I crossed the finish line, I raised my arms in the air and sailed through it, exhausted and out of breath but elated.
I made it.
I tentatively reached out
I grabbed hold of the light and I hugged it close to me unable to believe it was real.
I got cocky.
I was discharged.
I was proud.
I felt better.
I had conquered the demons.
I was living, really living, and loving.
I could play, finally I could play.
I could feel.
And then I woke up.
Now I am angry, and sad, and disappointed and panicked.
I didn’t win.
Once again I am broken.
Unable to connect.
I woke up happy, and sang Happy Birthday and from nowhere I was blind sided.
In an instant the light was extinguished.
My tears stinging like hot acid.
My fragile contentment, once again trampled on.
Doodle, my beautiful black dog, climbs on my knee and rests his head on my shattered heart.
A car on the motorway, upside down, resting on the embankment
A dead bird, its beak smashed in, lying silently in front of a window.
It is the quiet I long for.
I wish love was a cure.
Because the love I know is buried once again, could conquer all.
If I could just keep hold of it.
The fight goes on.