I spent last weekend with my friend (the saint) and her children at the beach. I was an emotional wreck, but it was lovely. And safe. It’s the first time I’ve been able to reach out, and the first time I could see that’s what I really needed to do, even if it was one of the hardest things to do at the time. Definite progress, I’d say.
I’m realising that I can’t hide with this friend – as soon as she asks how I am, I fall apart (if that’s the space I’m in). I can’t pretend everything is “fine” (which is what I do with everyone else), and she knows when I’m pretending. My therapist says this is also definite progress, and important to have someone I can really share with.
Her kids (both boys) are 5 and nearly 3. They’re wonderful. I love them to bits, and she says they love me to bits back (although I have trouble believing this).
The 3 year old was a bit sick with a cold, so he wasn’t up to a lot, although we played with his toys and went to the park, stepping in every “muddle” (muddy puddle) on the way.
The 5 year old couldn’t get enough of me – we went to the park, played video games, wrestled, tickled and ran around the sand dunes “exploring” (well, he ran – I hauled my sorry a$$ up the dunes and followed him in and out the “tunnels” in the bushes, me saying: “I’m too big to get through there” and him saying “Just bend down, Kerro. Come on!” LOL)
One thing that struck me (again) is how little they both are. They’re tall for their ages, but still so little. Tiny little hands in their tiny little gloves. Tiny little faces with big brown eyes soaking up the world around them. Sweet and innocent. Beautiful.
I started thinking about when I was that age, and my father was doing bad things. Why would he do those things to a little kid? How could he not love a little kid? How could anyone not love a little kid?
This really upsets me. My therapist said this stuff still upsets her. She couldn’t do her job if it didn’t.
I guess this is something I’ll never understand.