It is a myriad of things tied up in a big black bow of whatever.
It’s the begging and the pleading.
It’s the ‘no, it’s all good I will fix it’s
And the ‘I’m OK’s and the plastered smile that doesn’t make it to my eyes.
It’s letters I have to write
It’s the forms I have to fill out.
It’s the money I have to find. Somehow.
It’s the memories
And the fresh raw pain that comes from a wound that scabs over and then a word, a smell, a thought, a song rips it off cleanly and it takes my breath away.
Along with my mind.
It’s Mothers Day.
It’s my broken brain.
It’s the clothes that I wash and rewash.
It’s my skirts and shirts and shoes – my office clothes – now folded in a drawer, the faint smell of neglect.
It’s what if…
It’s if only…
It’s not fair.
It’s that hysterical high pitched voice in my head that I swear you can hear coming out of my pores.
And the panic, bubbling just below the surface, waiting for me to be alone to release itself lest I scare the innocent and carefree.