5/10/2017
Dear myself:
Up to now, it has been twenty-two days of physical ailments, emotional ups and downs, late nights and an image when you see the mirror with which you do not identify yourself and you are afraid of moments when "the pieces" do not return to their place. I wonder if my body was the subject of a work of abstract art and panic seizes.
Spend days without a drop of makeup or something as simple as combing, it seems unimaginable, but it is my reality. It has become usual to cry in front of people, other times in silence ... At nightfall I allow myself to be weak for a while remembering that I am not perfect, that I am a human being and as far as my strength allows, I must do possible to return as soon as possible to the ring. I smile, sometimes pretending, because the truth is that at the end of the day even my nails hurt.
I know that your heart will never be able to erase the hard encounter with the reality of being a single mother ... that first night at home after a cesarean, a mixture of pain and tiredness. That first dawn, pummeled, but stronger than ever ... The crying out of instinct, I cradle for you in my arms. Silent night where we were just her and me, crossing glances, savoring reality. For this there is no makeup worth. I am very tired but so in love.
Yes, this is my crude truth about motherhood, what is hidden behind a selfie where the smile apparently turns your face. The truth is that nobody ever says it's an easy task ... Instinct urges us to keep going, to take care of, to protect that helpless being in our arms. That inner voice so intense that it reminds you, permanently, that somebody needs you to live.
Allowing me vulnerable moments is also part of the task in days like today where I must admit, that I would also like a hug that can comfort me and remind me that if you can. If there are no outside arms then I embrace and I encourage myself with that voice from deep inside my heart that repeats to me "remember that you are not alone". I give myself permission to show myself in an imperfectly perfect image, more real, without paintings, body attire and where the comb is on vacation.
