Rushing

You still feel the rush of it all. You do not awaken beside the king squid, yet the energies of his tentacles encircle you. Tightening around you. Full of dread, you squirm. Then there is the relief that follows, when you recite reality. You will never have to awaken beside him again. You will never need to explain why it is important to use soap when you wash dishes. You will never again need to pretend that you’re okay with his pink suckers that pry your confidence loose and leech you dry. You won’t need to pacify him and explain why you were laughing or why you were not. 

You still feel the rush of it all. In the morning, you help your son get ready for school. You feel frantic, even though there is no emergency. No one is telling you that you’re not good enough, that you’re too slow with the laundry, that “following” the kids around is not really work, that you’re taking advantage of him and his empire, that you’re not putting in effort. 

There is a layer of past smeared across the present. The aftershocks of him. Your son doesn’t feel like putting on his clothing. Resistance. You try asking, bribing, convincing, complementing, insisting, presenting consequences. You hear your voice-- tight, and your words-- choppy with repetition. You echo disapproval. Are you mirroring the rants of the octopus? You place heat on the moments, willing them to hurry. Forgetting your mindfulness, you are rushing. You still feel the rush of it, even though life has slowed down to a more digestible meal. Even though your life is once again your own, your appetite has yet to return.