a big hand turns a big dial

inspired vision borne of pessimism today while surrounded by her droning voice and the throbbing knowledge in my head that the number she presented was wrong, wrong, wrong on principle. it was she, not he, who showed me the way. it was she, not he, who took my hand and led my down the real path. tiny fingers wrapped ar0und mine, bright eyes peering up at me in comforting role reversal, she dug me out of my recesses. he wasn't there to water me the way i'd thought he'd be. she tugged and cajoled. and tears ran down my face even as i squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting reiki to know she'd had an effect on me. but she saw anyway, then she stood behind me and fiddled with my chakra and my legs grew leaden and fiery.

i am not sure what to do with him and his shame and his looking and his privacy. wrote an opus during stress manifesto today, and i'm sure i'll crumple it. the flitting processing hasn't helped. the catharsis i used to find so readily simply refuses to come. abdominal problems reflect troubled relationships: i couldn't shit for weeks and now, awakened by such pain, then by him lost again in the pleasure of his dreams. our planes are not intersecting. in so many ways, he's still fourteen and i'm his irritated and irritating mother breathing down his back. but if i'd wanted two kids i would have kept the other.

the next chapter is solitude, something i've only had in morsels and don't particularly crave but he had buffet style and aches for every day.