Needed

It always happens so quickly. 

Panic and tension start in my stomach and spread through my chest, neck, and head. Like a spooked horse, my eyes dart around the room. I feel my heart accelerate and throat seize, tears of anger (or despair?) breaking through. I have lost control. There is no escape from this body. I am trapped and surrounded by precious little humans who need me. For once, can I not be needed? Please. My children need me. My husband needs me. My house needs me. I am suffocated by pressure and expectation, and there is nothing left in me but to shout. 

I don’t want to shout. 

I watch myself from above, brows furrowed, hands grabbing my head, body rigid, mouth opening to release the building pressure, an active volcano. Through mist, I see my children fold in upon themselves. They can sense that mommy is not here. I see their sad and unsettled eyes. They need me to comfort them. They need me to be in control. They need their mom to be a witness of grace. They need me to be an adult. But I am watching from a distance, too far. Too far. 

I cannot reach my babies. 

With great effort, I peel my feet from their rooted place and retreat with hurried steps to my room. I collapse stomach-first on the soft emerald comforter and weep knowing I have once again failed. I have failed to be the mom my children deserve. I have failed to escape the clutches of disorganized attachment. 

I have failed. 

And I have only moments before they barge into the room seeking, always seeking, the affirmation that their mommy is still here. Somewhere. I need to return. To calm. 

So I breathe. 

Deep in—Out. Deep in—Out. Deep in—Out. 

They are here: loud, needy, obnoxious in their vulnerability. 

Not obnoxious. 

Precious, confused, nervous babes. 

I compose myself. 

I can be strong. I can be the mom they need. I can turn and welcome them with a timid smile, witness the release of tension on their innocent faces. I can open my arms and hold them close, communicate with my warm presence that I am present. I can begin the repair, affirm their experience, repent of my dissociation, assure them of my unconditional love, request their forgiveness. I can move forward in my afternoon: defeated, weary, determined to heal.

If for nothing else, for my children.