A Broken Plate

A broken plate. A shattered soul. A scream that filled the room as I lay at it’s mercy. As I attempt to wrap my head around the massive change that they’re about to place on me.

Months and months of exhaustion, hopelessness, confusion, feelings of worthlessness, all leading up to this. This moment that is supposed to be the happiest moment of my life. This moment that I am supposed to tell a tale of as if it’s some sort of beautiful fairy tale. But, we both know that it wasn’t. 

We all know that it’s not. It’s a tale of course, but not one of magic, romance and adoration. Rather, one of desperation, fear, anxiety and hopelessness. 

One where I dreamed and prayed I’d not awake in the morning. One where I closed my eyes at night begging whoever is in charge to not allow them to open in the morning. One of pain. Of aching in my body that made it feel like my bones were screaming at me and forbidding me to function. One of sadness. 

Every plan I ever had swept away hidden under the rug. Only to be stomped on my the very people who were supposed to support and love me. One of fear. Fear of everything. I dreamed. Or rather, I wrote nightmares while others perpetuated my dreams. I sank in the fog rather than attempting to see. 

I dug my grave and wished someone would just throw me in. Throw me in and forget about me. Throw me in and let me be in peace. My time here is done. I’ve come to do what I had to do and now I’m done. Please, let me be done. The scream fills the room. The cry. The cry that tells me I have to do it all. 

The cry that already tells me I’m not what it wants. I don’t meet it’s needs. I’m not enough how I am. Always the not enough. Every moment of my life had been plagued by the darkness of not enough. “It’s a boy!” they say. 

As if that’s supposed to mean something to me. I’m so numb to everything at this point. Everyone is moving the blankets and pillows and my body is throbbing in pain. Pain that’s so loud I can’t hear anything else. They put him on me. I look down.

My belly softer than it was a few hours ago. I can see my scars easily. I’m broken. I look like I’ve been through a horrific experience and everyone is expecting me to be happy. Overjoyed. In some kind of heaven that I’m not even sure I believe in. He’s moving. Kicking. Crying. And my heart breaks. I smile. My body aches. 

A tear falls from my eyes. “Oh she’s so happy” they say in admiration. They say as if they know the feeling I’m carrying. The one where I’m imagining life without him. The one where I wasn’t pressured into doing this. The one where I am finally okay. It’s a far off fantasy painted with rainbows and butterflies and it’s just too much of a journey to get there. 

I’m lost. Broken. Shattered. So many pieces of me, it’s useless to try to put me back together. And there he lay. This thing. This thing that launched my life in a direction I never anticipated. This thing that I know I don’t feel normal about. This thing that is on me. Touching me. Why is everyone touching me? 

I’m drowning in stimulation and deafened by noise. Nothing is making sense. In one swift move I’ve gone from careless young woman to mother. In one fast change I’ve lost all control over everything and now have a say in nothing. 

I’m broken. A broken plate. One that someone smashed in a fit of rage. The heavy emotions lingering as they look for relief. Hundreds of pieces lay scattered all over each reflecting a version of what they know they’ll never be. 

Each one broken in the most sharp way so as to pierce anyone who tries to put it back together. Almost as if it knew. A plate that knew the brokenness was coming. A plate that anticipated the smash of the pieces and the destruction through the rage. A plate that reflected who I was at my core. Broken. 

Not able to be put together. And shattered in hundreds of pieces, each a reflection of all the hopes and dreams that went to die. “He’s hungry. It’s time to feed.” I’m hungry, I think. I am exhausted. I don’t want to feed him. I want to run. Away. So far that people forget my existence was ever there. I want to not do this. I shouldn’t have had to do this.

I hold the bottle, starring into his eyes knowing I’m failing already. Mothers always love their children right from the beginning and I was questioning everything. I had no business being this boys mother. He looks at me longingly. But, rather than love I feel heaviness. Rather than adoration I feel worthlessness. 

Rather than being a mother I feel like a slave. One strictly needed for the existence of this thing they decided I had to love. Each part of me like a broken piece that the janitor has finally come to clean up. I bid a silent farewell to every part of me that I’ll now never know as they dump it into the garbage. It’s just not worth the time to glue it all back together. “Let me take him.” a voice says. And instantly I’m shown what a mother is supposed to look like. What she’s supposed to sound like. And it’s in that moment I’m profoundly aware that I won’t ever be what I’m supposed to be. I’m nothing more than the pieces of the broken plate that the janitor threw out.