Warning: make sure you have access to a bathroom for the next couple of hours. Do not drink then get in the car for a grocery pick up for more than thirty minutes. It. Is. Torture.
It’s been so cozy in our glittery wonderland of bubbles and glitzy paper; however, the holiday tilt a whirl has abruptly told us to get the hell off. The ton of brick of sorrow and fury hit full force today. It’s not a new or sudden burden, but a reality being acknowledged and denied all the same. For years, I’ve been told “she’s okay,” “there’s nothing wrong,” “we don’t see anything.” My daughter is the ghost child. You see the specter but right through her because you don’t see. While my daughter is “okay” she’s not “okay.” This morning’s event has continued months of agonizing, acceptance, determination, reflection, and writing. In reflection, I keep going back to her preschool years when I literally thought I was going to lose my mind. Literally everyone indicated that there wasn’t anything wrong. It kept nagging as we stumbled through docto...
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