I turn around and there’s another appointment; another request for someone to see the children. The paperwork piles up behind me and I spin around, knocking it all to the floor. Carefully I transcribe appointment dates onto a calendar, using a hand that doesn’t work too well. A calendar to dictate our days, whether we stay or go, venture out into the world, or stay at home, bundled up with hot drinks and gardens that need weeding.
I open up my word document, determined to write. I look at it, trying to make my fingers bleed words onto the page. It doesn’t work, and staring at it doesn’t help.
Sighing, I click away.
Not today.
Not tonight.
I wander through the house talking to myself. I could lie and say I was talking to the children, but neither of them are listening to me anyway. My partner looks at me strangely and then looks away. He’s used to my talking. It helps me move through the day, talking about what I need to do. Like looking at my feet helps me walk.
I stop to fold some laundry before drifting away again. It’s too hard to settle.
I need some time. Some space to just,
stop.
Before starting again.
To be more than a mother, more than just the sum of my parts.
There are words inside me, I just can’t find the valve to turn them back on.
So instead I will just
stop.
And let them build up again. Until, like a pipe unblocking they burst free and run down my fingers, dripping into my computer.
To build my story again.
I need time.
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