Easter weekend I hit wobble. In the midst of so much joy the darkness found a crack and slithered in regardless.
My 'flight mode' kicked in and I took off, unannounced, into the Mcgregor mountains with little regard for anyone else's feelings or concerns. Part of me knew it was wrong. That same part didn't care.
I took flack for it. My family and those closest to me shat me out. I defended myself; knowing full well they would never understand the gravity and relentless compulsion that causes me to flee on these rare occasions.
I resisted the urge to SCREAM and tell them to be grateful that I fucking well came back at all.
Yes. I still swear.
Yes. I am still angry.
I recently had coffee with someone who has walked my road and is a kickass friend who helps me unravel my shit. She gets it. I am so grateful to be able to go and bleed over a cup of coffee with her....and walk out lighter.
It saves me. And it saves many who love me ---- that they dont have to witness the inner workings of my occasionally tortured soul. (can you imagine??!!)
The layers of loss.
That is what I am experiencing.
Fucked up and awful and unimaginably revolting.
But so much else died with him and that is only realised as time moves on.
Tomorrow Levi goes back to formal schooling. While those around us are excited and proud of me for making this 'bold move' and 'doing the right thing' for my boy...all I feel is yet another death.
The death of the plan; the death of the dreams we had as a family. They were amazing and awesome and we worked hard to achieve them. But they are dead. They are void. They are gone.
Levi going back to school is the right thing but it still represents yet another huge loss for me.