"I get knocked down, but I get up again"

That’s how I feel when I’m around my biological family – as if I’m bound and gagged. My role is to sit QUIETLY and serve the meal while the other members of the family talk amongst themselves.

I’m there, but not acknowledged.

I’m a ghost.

I’m a nothing.

I am a servant bowing down to the King (my brother) and hoping not to make a sound beneath my muffled gag.

Mom arrived some time last night. Jay picked her up. Today is Jay & Kate’s son’s 5th birthday and that’s something Mom especially wanted to be here for so all is well with the Daniels’s.

My brain has split into logic…and panic.

Logic:

Mom is home safe. Hallelujah.

Mom is at Jay’s mansion. Also pretty awesome because our tiny cottage just can’t accommodate another human. Fact.

Mom is happy and well. She gets to cuddle her Grandchildren and celebrate Sebastian’s birthday. Go Mom.

Panic:

Everything within me is scorched. Burnt. Aching. Hurting. Painful. Fragile.

I don’t want to see Mom.

I definitely do NOT have the emotional strength to see my Dad’s urn.

BUT MOM WANTS TO MEET UP ASAP.

Suddenly I’m convinced that if I don’t say “How high and when and where would you like it?” When Mom says “Jump!”, that I’ll somehow hurt her, let my Dad down and piss my brother off.

In my fragile state from not eating properly, not sleeping, working long hours, spending “free time” tidying and organising the house…this is all too much for me mentally, physically and emotionally to cope with right now.

If I was allowed to take the thick cotton gauze from my mouth, this is what I’d like to say:

Mom, I love you but I’m hurting from your shake downs and I need space and A LOT of time from you to figure this out in my head. I want to see you, of course I do…I just need more time. Let’s talk again in a few months from now.

Dad. I can’t bear to see you in an urn. No thank you.

Jay, I’ve carried Mom on my own for the last 12 months. Your turn.

And…exhale…