When I used to watch her sleep, I’d tear up, so overwhelmingly grateful for her presence in my life. Her freckles, her dimples, her tiny voice, her hushed lips and sleeping eyes, sweeping red lashes. The furnace would kick in as the snow would fall and the wood floor would creak beneath me, watching the moon shine onto her blankets. My how things have changed. Now I fear I’m going to miss out on so much of her life. I fear I’m going to die young. I guess that’s a part of PTSD–sure you’re not going to make it. I surrender who I’ve been and I bloom into a new woman because of her. I’m not just a mama now, I’m alive and yet so sensitive. The complications…I hear a little girl crying all the time. I used to run for Emma when this happened, sure she was hurt, sure she needed me. After awhile I learned these were hallucinations. I was hallucinating now. Does it end? The girl crying is me somewhere inside, or at least a little girl I was. I’ve split up. And the guilt I feel for trying to be a good mom when I’m so ill, I think she deserves so much better. What can I offer her when I am such a mess? I want to give her the world. Before i was sick I was giving her the world. She is my everything, but I’ve come to depend to much on her life than mine, because I want to abandon mine. I’m afraid of mine.
I think everything that happened happened because she was coming, she was my purpose, I had to work hard and feel the pain and ache and loss in order to truly appreciate that little heart and mind inside this child. I waited for so long for her and I didn’t even know it. I’d wait forever for her. I’m surprised that she’s mine. And I’m so terrified I’ll lose her. She calls me “Mama” in her tiny voice. Just Mama. Unless she’s sarcastic. Then it’s Amy. She likes to get a rise outa me.
Now when I watch her sleep my thoughts are troubled. I’m hyper-vigilent. My mind doesn’t stop. I worry about our future. I worry about things all mothers worry about I suppose. But I’m swirling in the fact that I can’t see a new psychotherapist because in this small town they’re not taking on any new patients and the next closest is an hour and a half away. I’m also in the process of applying for disability. And my ex-fiance is already engage after dating a girl long-distance for six months. It took him seven years to propose to me. And I worry, if her soon to be new stepmom is mentally healthy, will my girl like her more than me? It sounds so stupid but I think it all the time. And then I’m so angry when I feel this way. And I’m angry at my real dad for drinking himself into the grave, doubting I was his. I was never worth it to anyone, yet I know I’m worthy. I do know that. I have always felt I was and was smartly pissed at those that left me, worthless. Yet maybe deep down I do feel worthless. I assume my girl will like and need someone other than me because I’m …not enough. I’ve always had trouble feeling that I’m enough.
I haven’t stopped writing
for four days
in its glass jar, holds a voice
that calls me–mommy? mommy?
and my breath is held–
did I forget
to show her the moon last night?
To show her the silence of the snow outside?
–so slow and pretty–
or the maps that the stars make?
did I answer her–Yes, my love,
I’ll live a long time–
I watch through glass–
her tiny silhouette among her quiet dolls;
I want to tell her
how time, like water, can slip through your fingers,
how sometimes we forget to look,
how days can pass like a sleep.
I take her to my desk
and teach her how to write
a poem, and she writes
one for me–I love my mommy–
and for a moment I’m pricked
with a fact–
one day, she might stop asking for me.