I don’t know that there has ever been a time before when the world has been so completely united against a common enemy. That which has come to isolate us, unites us. At a time when we are having to physically distance ourselves from one another (and we must do this), it is faces and voices that are able to reach through the distance and uncertainty of it all and let our common humanity do its job. For me, this is not just through connecting with the ones I know, but by seeing in the faces and hearing in the words of strangers that more than ever, we are in this together. We are vulnerable together, anxious together, sad together, scared together, and in some sweet moments, hopeful.
It’s been almost 12 years since you left me and this world. In that time I have had more than my fill of time to think about our life together and process where everything went wrong and what was right about it. After you first died, the house rang with emptiness and I was consumed with loneliness and fear. You know I had never been on my own — always with you and that I didn’t really know how to be alone and I was very afraid of the idea of being on my own. True to my BPD diagnosis, the fear of abandonment was excruciating for me. For the first six months I struggled to sleep at night because I was so afraid of the quietness of the house.
As I sat in the pediatrician’s office, teary-eyed and defeated, I thought back to the first day I brought my son here. He was such a happy baby and I was in love with him. Regardless of his restless energy and frequent squirming, I knew he was going to surpass all fears I had of being a mother. Fast forward eight years, and we were back to discuss yet another medication for his ADHD. There was no chocolate, drink, drug or amount of sleep that could relieve this weight on my shoulders.