12.16.18 blog entry It Is Time
It tries to escape my eyes in the form of tears. It tries to escape my mouth as a scream. It tries to escape my body as blood. But I have yet to release this demon.
For years, I could not. I had no choice. Now, in this battered, bruised, broken shell, I need to sob. I need to wail. I need to help this cracked patchwork body heal. It is time to finally grieve for what was done to my son.
Yes, we are here now. He is doing well. Feeling well. He actively works to maintain a healthy mental and physical state; whereas, I suffer because for so long I had to be brave in front of him. He is a remarkable young man now and an excellent photographer. And I need to let fly – my fists pounding pillows and my throat screaming at the bottom pools.
It is time to process. To feel. And I’m scared to death.