I read my email, my breath stricken, sliding down my chest, a friend, writing in response to my everything ok? her response most definitely not ok, not to me, not really.
I’ll leave her to out herself if she wishes, but she’s wonderfully aware of the magic our world provides and harbours a distinct talent for molding words into her wishes. She writes as I wish I could have already, years ago.
My mother, she admits, diagnosed bipolar, meds again.
My heart, could it freeze and shatter, would be shards in my chest.
I think of me, crawling on a floor, blindly crying filled with black rage and pain.
I think of my rejection of my children, my inability to think of them as people I need to protect.
I think of the paranoia which poured from my eyes, my arms, my mouth. How daggered and poisoned it was.
I imagine my daughters dealing with it, newly born, as teenagers, as children old enough to understand just enough what’s really going on. I imagine them handing me my meds or calling the doctor if I’m manic.
I imagine dealing with this while fragile and fifteen.