What consciousness looks like on a Tuesday.
My son went no-contact on a Tuesday.
I was in my bedroom, halfway across the country, on the phone with him when a lifetime of his resentment arrived all at once. His words cut into something I hadn't known was still exposed. The call ended. I was blocked. There was nothing to do with the force of it except make a sound that wasn't language.
My brain did what it always does. Fix it. Say the right thing. Apologize better. Offer a plan. I went through all of it. None of it worked. There was no one to hand the plan to.
I called my best friend Jennifer, near incoherent. I needed her to hold my barely-there identity together while mine finished falling apart.
What I could see — what I couldn't have seen a few years earlier —
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