I have a big hole in my heart where bits of my heart should be. I am not sure when the cracks first formed, but they did, and my heart shattered exactly where the foundations were weak.
They were weak to begin with.
A “shattering” heart sounds more violent than it is. It was not as sudden as that. I sensed all was not right some time ago. But I thought these things usually go away by themselves when ignored, like when I ignore the black stray cat prowling this neighbourhood. I pretend it can’t see me, and soon it is gone.
Correlation is not causation; I should have remembered.
So this feels like a tragedy of varying proportions, but I must concede that I may be overly dramatic. There was nothing scoops of ice cream and sleep could not solve. I tried both and it didn’t put the pieces back together again. It doesn’t work today. The pieces of heart slid off like flakes of old leather off a peeling jacket, or like dust clumps when you shake an old cushion.
This morning, I arranged your flowers (which you rearranged) and collated messages from the three of us. I wrote in my best creative handwriting possible, which turned out inappropriately garish.
You asked me who “mommy” was. I thought you were being philosophical, but realised you identified with the British “mummy“. So I said “mommy” was short for “monster”, which is a bad joke, but the real explanation was that I had carelessly wrote with ‘Mother’ in mind, but stopped at the “t” because no one uses “thank you mother” like that, except in 1960s England or maybe in Angelina Jolie’s Beowulf.
I’m trying to grow up and be braver but I’m not getting better at self-care or self-management. So when you tell me off furiously for over-stretching myself with my various commitments, I admit that it is true. I am far more limited than I realise.
And now, pieces of heart are littered all around. And I am too tired to pick them up and glue them back in, so I will heed your advice today – stay home, lie down, “rest”. Because it is Mother’s Day, and you listen to your mother on their Day. So let me put on Tchaikovsky’s first movement for strings on loop, and sleep, because you are right: I am not invincible. I have never felt invincible.
I have never felt more defeated than I do now.