Right on time.

It’s here. The “post crisis/post admission” aftermath…right on time. It always shows up. I crush the game in crisis…in the hospital I am good. It’s almost superhuman. I can function on no sleep, I am the damn positivity “we’ve got this” queen. And then…something happens. Something good. We get good news…or no news which in this world I consider good. Or we go home. Or she gets better. And it’s good. It’s all I’ve wanted. But then it happens. That superhuman I was…that girl leaves. Or actually she stays…that version of me stays in the hospital and my mortal/broken/traumatized shell of a self trudges back into the world KNOWING that when I wake up the next day it will all come crashing down around me. For years I didn’t understand it…I didn’t really talk about it, I acted like it wasn’t there, I internalized it. I thought I was weak. I thought there was something “wrong” with the way my emotions functioned. How could I be ok seeing her body riddled in cords but be so NOT ok once said cords were no longer needed? How am I ok when she is not and then wrecked when she is? What. The. Actual. {insert expletive here}.

I know now that there is nothing wrong with me, that I am in fact not weak or crazy. Knowing that however does not change the course of events that will play out for this process of mine. However it does change how I will react to it. I went to bed last night knowing when I woke up my entire body would hurt. I mean, hurt. It did. It does. It will for the next 2-3 days. Food will be hard for me, tears will be constantly trying to fall, anxiety will be at all time highs, self-judgement will consume me, simple requests like “Mommy want to play?” will feel painstakingly impossible to fulfill. Instead of fighting it I’m learning to lean in. To listen to my body and mind and attempt to care for it the way I do my children. To not fight the tears, they’re falling now…running down my fingers and onto the keys as I type. To not force myself to feel any way other than I do in each moment. I am breathing in my own advice on the inhale…”it’s ok…” on the exhale “to not be ok.” This PTSD of mine…it deserves respect. This broken girl that I am waits her turn…every damn time. She keeps quiet so Riley can be heard. I have to stop telling her that she is not welcome. I have to stop treating her like she is wrong. This pain, this process…it’s valid…so very valid and necessary and in about 5-7 business days I know will see it as beautiful.

Riley is home today due to a virus outbreak at her school that her team has no interest in her being a part of. She is sleeping now, giving her body the rest it’s due. As for me, like I said…I’m leaning in…a few moments ago that looked like writing and crying…now it looks like crawling right back in bed with her. Alright broken girl, I hear you…let’s rest.

Baby Riley pc: Meg Perotti : Photographer : Little Meg

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