The Scientist

I woke up this morning to receive my 6 year old downstairs. My ex husband drops her off to me every morning before work and picks her up in the evenings on his designated week to be with her. She’s tired because she stayed up late to watch the fireworks. I’m tired because I stayed up all night drinking. (The ugly shift from spending time alone to being lonely took place suddenly and the sadness caught me off guard.) I lay her down on the couch and go back to my room thankful for the chance to maybe catch a few more minutes of sleep. As soon as my head hits the pillow and my eyelids close, I pop them wide open again as I hear the sound of retching. I tilt my head up listening intently…the two year old is moaning. I go over to her bedroom door, creep it open slightly, and there’s a precious girl lying in her own vomit and stool. She wakes up and looks at me expectantly. I mentally rearrange today’s plans to include washing a load of clothes at my parent’s house. Which is more gas used to get there, more money, more time. More, more, more.

Sometimes in still moments I hear the Coldplay lyrics play on repeat in my head “Nobody said it was easy, no one ever said it would be so hard…”  I don’t know why I have so much difficulty sometimes. I used to be a wife, I had a full time career, I ran a household—I was nailing this five years ago. But I’m not even that person anymore. I’m more fragile than I used to be…tired. If I had the money for counseling I wonder if I would go? She’s throwing up again…I should go

 

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