I broke from reality nearly 3 years ago, when my kids were younger. I have somehow locked them in at that age in my thoughts. It’s as if part of my mind expects the world to have been put on pause while I muddled around and sorted through the wasteland between my ears. But, alas, that’s not what happens because time is unrelenting.
The boy that made me a mom is one of the best things in my world. The other two best things are my husband and my daughter. If you include my doodle dogs, then my heart is captivated by five of the most amazing things to ever grace this earth. I love them all with every ounce of my being…wholly, uniquely, and hard. I’m either all in or I’m totally out. There is no halfway with me. Never has been.
My son and I grew up together. You fumble your way through parenthood when you’re raising your first, and subsequent children are the benefactors of the lessons you’ve learned along the way. It’s kind of crappy when you think about it. Seemingly inconsequential things like bedtime, screentime, and chores are all framed by the experience with your first child. On one hand it’s an enormous blessing and on the other, a curse.
I’ve talked at length about my son’s love of baseball. It should come as no surprise that watching him play is one of my biggest joys, just like listening to my daughter perform. There’s something otherworldly about witnessing your children find their thing in life. It’s simultaneously the most exhilarating experience and also deeply depressing. Every step they take towards mastering their craft is one step closer to being out the door. It’s beautifully excruciating.
My boy is forever 11 or 12 in my mind’s eye. When I’m scheduling doctor appointments or shopping for clothes, it’s the little kid I’m doing it for. Yet, when I glance across the room and see him, I’m shocked by the waning signs of boyhood and the emergence of manhood. Hairs, deep voice, gigantic feet and hands. It’s a surreal disconnection between what my mind so desperately wants and what reality is willing to give me.
I have always felt closest to him watching him play. The times in the car, to and from the ballpark, are amazing. He talks about hitting and breaking in a new glove on the way; returning home we talk about how awesome a particular catch was. The thing is, right now, I cannot watch him play in person. I’m terrified and I don’t know why. One of the things in my life that brought me the most joy, scares the crap out of me now. I do not understand how such a pure experience can be tainted by this stupid illness. Why on earth would I have panic attacks at the thought of attending one of his games? It makes no sense. I haven’t been hurt at any of his games, and no traumatic experiences for him. My husband and daughter have no noteworthy events from their history in the stands. I never even attended baseball games as a kid. There is not a connection between this experience, however tenuous, to my parents or the jackassery from my childhood. What gives?
I cannot logic my way into why this is happening. But then I remember that trauma distorts reality and makes seemingly random connections for the hell of it. It’s like some maniacal creature is in my head randomly pushing buttons as sport. That’s nice.
This is another way trauma robs you of life. It has stripped me of the very things I hold dear. I will plan to go, talk myself up in the days leading up to a tournament, and then the night before my body and brain begin waging war on me. They team up against me like bullies on a playground and beat me into submission. Once the adrenaline dump starts, it’s all over. I start shaking, sweating, and my vision changes. What I can see reverberates to the beat of my heart; it’s like looking at life through a shaking glass of water. My hands become clammy, I start crying, and slowing down my breathing becomes impossible. If I’m lucky, I’ll begin disassociating after a bit so that it all feels like watching a poorly filmed and really crappy movie in a 1980’s movie theater. Fuzzy, unreal, somewhat distant from reality. Disassociation is an evil blessing, dulling the sharp edge of adrenaline as it slices through my body.
The will of motherhood continually pushes me to attempt to go. Every week, the same routine. Get schedule, plan in my head, work up to going, then debilitating panic. Thing is, I was deluded enough to think my kids didn’t see what I was going through. I felt like I was hiding it. The irony is, as I’m typing this I feel like an idiot. How could I be so stupid? Kids are extraordinarily perceptive.
A while back he asked if “just dad” could take him. I knew why, instantly. His eyes, my mother’s in shape and color, were sullen. After he asked, his head immediately downturned. All I could see were disheveled curls atop his thick head of honey-colored hair and the tip of his nose as he stared at his feet. The level of guilt I felt at that precise moment will go with me to the grave.
You see, there is a unique connection between a woman and her children, especially the first born. Deep, unspoken, cosmic. I know what my kids are thinking and feeling before they do. When they are getting sick, even without outward symptoms, I know. My panic attacks were throwing his game off and he didn’t have to tell me the why behind his ask. His worry for me was ruining the game for him. I had to bow out. It was the single hardest thing I have ever had to do. To let him go and stay home…for him. Support him from afar. And because of his bravery in asking me to stay home so he can be unburdened by my mess, I am now keenly aware of how I impact my daughter when she performs. I never want to tarnish the things they love.
I want to go, see him play, hear him yell cut-calls from behind the dish. But my presence, tainted by all of this fuckery, makes it hard for him. And I cannot do that. I won’t. So, until this stupid illness decides to shut the hell up and sit in the back seat, I root from the virtual stands. During night games, the gigantic field lights make pearly baseballs appear silver as they fly across the screen of my MacBook. For just a split second, I breathe deep and can smell the foods at the concession stands, shiver when the breeze blows the pink and orange clouds overhead, and feel the last rays of warmth as the sun falls below the horizon. I can actually hear the sounds of fans and my boy having fun.
It’s the only thing that gets me through.
