Today I stayed in bed all morning, rather than going in to clinic for our monthly staff meeting.
Sick, I texted to the medical director at 11 am, when it became clear that I wasn’t going to make it to any portion of the meeting.
I surfed the web, watched excerpts from Game of Thrones. Checked e-mail. Played Words with Friends.
I didn’t leave bed.
I internally hated on myself for being in bed, when I was being paid to be in clinic to learn how best to care for patients of all genders and sexualities.
(Self-forgiveness for taking sick time off. A mental health morning.)
Finally walking to the train station 10 minutes late to my afternoon clinic, it hit me what I wasn’t wanting to feel all morning.
Today, I am fucking sad.
It is three years since I left a fucking fucked up relationship, escaping to give our three month old child a life without watching mommy and daddy fight. Without watching daddy maybe kill mommy kind of accidentally one day if his hands stayed around my neck too long with too much pressure. Three years and eight days since I left, and I hadn’t acknowledged to myself that this is the anniversary time.
When we divorced, we settled with parenting time close to a 50-50 split. And as the wee one gains language, they expand their vocabulary to find new ways of protesting going to dad’s house.
“I don’t like Dad’s house.” (preference!)
“I feel sad. I don’t want to go to Daddy’s house.” (emotion!)
“Daddy’s house is wrong. Mommy’s house is right.” (concept of right and wrong!)
(Hooray they are growing and learning new things!)
Hooray I have created a home they feel at home in.
Hooray it is peaceful and calm here. Hooray that opening the door brings me a wave of contentment, rather than the greatest health risk of each day.
But damn. It makes me fucking sad that the wee one hurts when I send them to the home that scared me, that I could flee, and they can’t, following the decree I agreed to on their behalf, believing settlement was in our best interest.
“Daddy’s house is wrong.”
“I want Mommy to pick me up from preschool.”
“You don’t care.”
Hurrying to the train station to reach afternoon clinic on time, I felt my body come alive with movement, my breath deepen as I lengthened my stride. And as my body and breath came alive, I felt a wave of deep sadness replace the numbed escape. I cried jagged breaths and falling tears on the train platform, hoping no patients or neighbors would see me.
And as the tears fell, the immobilizing block of unnamed unfelt sadness that kept me in bed all morning began to fall away.
I am hoping that saying “I am sad” will allow me to move on from this stuck point. Emotion, passing through, when acknowledged.
And so: I am sad that I have to send my child to a home that felt dangerous to me, and where they are not happy.
And so: I am fucking sad.
How do I remind myself that it is okay?