the idea of him

 

It is mostly in the supermarket that I feel like crying.

Maybe that’s because it’s the only place I have been alone for weeks.

Maybe it’s the vegetables.

 

Today I am crying everywhere.

My son is suicidal.

My beautiful, unique kid sees no point in living.

My heart is broken.

What bigger failure can there be for a mother, for their child not to love and live their life, not to even think it worth living?

 

And I am trying, really trying, to get the help, try the meds, exercise, to connect.

To get help from the school, take him to hospital, be with him, keep him safe. Keep him safe.

None of it helps. None of it.

This is the rich fondant icing on what feels like the multi-layer failure cake of my life.

                      

There s no part of my life in which I have not failed.

I have failed everyone and everything.

Especially myself.

 

If I died today I would think “What a fucking tragedy. I literally achieved nothing and broke everything I touched.” Everything.

Today I don’t need to go to the supermarket to know that all is broken.  I am broken.

 To know that the way I have lived my life has led to nothing but failure. The sacrifices I have made were the wrong ones. Choices intended to give the kids every chance, every opportunity and instead, the children hide from life and even despise it. I despise myself.

We have nothing to show for any of it.

And if he kills himself there will be literally nothing left.

 

I used to think, at least I am a good mum, dedicated, kind.  I am a shite mum. Selfish, immature, checked out, overweight, introverted, inactive dull. The worst.

 

Whoever I am is not enough.

I often say to myself – “I can’t be other than I am":

That can’t be true.

I am going to have to be. Who I am is failing those that I love.

Who I am is failing me.

 

I did dream of an exciting life. Of a cosmopolitan life. Of speaking languages, travelling and meeting people and learning ideas and contributing something good to the world, something important. I never felt like I was worth that life.

 

And now at 48 the sum of my parts adds up to less than nothing,

 

I never cared for myself at the fundament. Didn’t take care enough to build foundations and now I am crumbling.

 

I understand why my life would not inspire a child to live. My life is full of weakness and compromise Bullies, limits, insecurity.   I have built a cage for myself of work and obligation with no foundation, nothing to ground us to the earth. I was stupid to think I was doing it for them.  It has broken them.

 

He might die.  He might.

We might have to bury him and grieve his life and the waste, … oh, the waste.

 

I am already grieving him.  So much wasted already.  Days and months of self-loathing and numbing and pain.

 

I was him at 15.

I don’t remember what saved me then. Maybe it was the idea of him.