Our eyes locked and I knew my heart was yours.
I loved you so much, I wanted to be your perfect love. Quickly I became scared and depressed, worrying I couldn’t be what you need to be.
A year passed. I got better. The sun began to shine more.
Then you got sick. Every few weeks we would make high-speed journeys under blue lights with me clinging to your hand, willing you to be OK.
On the darkest night of my life I watched as the room filled with white coats. They worked frantically to resuscitate you. Pressed against the hospital room wall, I made promises to god, the devil and everyone else I could think of.
The cracks in my heart started to appear.
It should have been me on that bed, not you.
More time passed. The illness was managed, our lives became calmer, more settled.
Except something was wrong. I couldn’t pin-point what, but you were changing.
We talked, we saw counsellors, we tried therapy.
It became harder to reach you.
Of course, I knew the truth deep down. I didn’t want to hear it. I still don’t.
I denied, I raged, I blamed myself.
I wanted to run away, but I couldn’t leave when you needed me so much.
So now I stand and watch as you rage. Spitting venom and anger. Throwing threats at me to self-harm or to hurt the others you love.
I stand and take it, feeling my heart splinter inside me.
I have to stay. I have to change. I must help you understand yourself and make other understand you, because I am the one who knows you best.
You are the boy who broke my heart without ever meaning to.
And I am your mum.