It’s the crying that got me. I’ve never been able to stand that noise, not even when I was a kid. I guess that’s why I was such a good child, I probably couldn’t stand my own.
It starts with a feeling that burns right in the pit of my stomach, like if I hadn’t eaten for days, but more concentrated, and it burns a dark shade of red – dark-wine kind of red.
Before you know it, sweat decorates my temples, like poorly applied glitter. And the night gets darker around my peripherals, just slightly, as if I were to faint, but not quite enough to sit down. I start rushing and desperately looking for an exit door, or window, or just air.
My breath becomes short, confined to the top part of my lungs, as if a tight corset bound my breasts. Which makes sense, because my heart’s been replaced by a tachycardic hummingbird.
Panic has settled in; fight or flight mode is in full swing. I sure as hell can’t fight this fear, I’m no monster, so all I can do is flee. To flee seems the best outcome for everyone involved. Yes, as humans, we should be free. Freedom is our right. If not, what are we but caged birds? And if we are caged, are we birds at all?
I’m willing to sacrifice motherhood to find my true self and to flourish in my freedom. Yes!! It feels so empowering to say it out loud! We must follow our urges and impulses; what kind of an example would I be giving the little one if I were to stay and go against my own nature? No no, I can’t do this to my baby. She deserves better.
Freedom is more important than motherhood. Am I to blame? Is she? No… Staying for her is worse for her. And anyway, it ain’t that bad, I’m sure they’ll make it work – best be without me than with me when I can’t love them how they deserve.
After all, I didn’t turn out too bad, foster care isn’t all the nightmare they paint it to be -if you keep your legs closed and your fists tight.