The weight of loneliness

The weight hit me hard last night. It crushed my chest; I struggled to breath. The only way to breath again, was to cry.

Powerful, gut-wrenching sobs. Smashed into a single pillow on a bed made for two.

Because if you are crying, you are breathing.

It was the shape of the blanket that got me.

It was looking into a darkened bedroom and seeing what appeared to be the silhouette of a person lying on the left side of the bed.

It was looking into a darkened bedroom and remembering what it was like when there were two pillows on the bed.

It was looking into a darkened bedroom and letting the emptiness swallow me whole.

It’s difficult to explain how lonely you feel, when you are in fact surrounded by loving and supportive people. I have my son. I have my family. I have my friends. I have people in my life who love me. I have people in my life who I love.

But I still feel my loneliness.

I feel it when there is nobody else to hand bedtime off to when I’ve had a rough day. I feel it when I am running around in the morning getting ready for work, making sure I have a lunch, checking to see if T needs a jacket, getting his breakfast, tying his shoes, getting out the door with enough time. I feel it when I put T to bed and the house becomes silent. I feel it when I have to take time off for doctor’s appointments, dentist appointments – my own and those for T. I feel it when there are errands to run but no time to run them. I feel it when I am utterly exhausted, there are no groceries in the fridge, and I have to trudge through the grocery store with a hyperactive 5-year-old.

I feel it.

And last night, the weight was too much to bear.

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