How dare you. How dare you tell me not to speak his name. To move on. To get over it. To get help. You coward. Does it make you uncomfortable to hear me talk of what my life was like with my now dead son? Too fucking bad.
How dare you. How dare you pretend to care. To understand. You could not possibly hold the pain I carry. You would crumble. You would be crushed. You would fall. And maybe that is why you can’t hear it. Won’t hear it. Refuse to let me speak of it. Because deep down you know you could not bare it.
I dare you. To live, not one day… no, you could not. To live one hour. To breathe how I breathe with my breath caught in my chest. To carry the guilt and shame in my belly. The thoughts of how I failed him bloating my gut. To carry the weight across my shoulders, settling into my heart. The unrelenting, overbearing, suffocating knowledge I carry every single second of every single day. Just under the surface of my mask that I wear for your comfort. The fact that he is gone. He is dead. He is not coming back. How fucking dare you say that is not enough.
I dare you. To allow me to choose the hour in which you will be me. The first hour of the day. When in the few whispers of seconds before my eyes open and reality sets and I can fool myself into believing I am waking from a nightmare. That he is in the next room. Sleeping with his beautiful brown curly hair. Snoring softly in the early morning light. As dreams give way to reality and the truth of how he struggled and died, with no one to save him. How I couldn’t save him. How I didn’t save him. And I lose him all over again. Day after day after day. And yet, I still get up and go to work.
Live that hour. Just once. And then judge me. Only then.
I dare you.