My name is Sarah and I am a mother.
I gave birth to five children. I raised four of them, physically, emotionally and spiritually all by myself, until they were school age.
I have no children now because I have lost the custody of all five of my children.
The wounds are deep, the flesh remains raw and thus far, I have not been able to stop the bleeding.
So, I write….
I write now, mainly, so one day my children will know how much I love them. I want them to know there was never a day that I did not love them. I want them to know that I did everything I knew how to do, and even learned much on the way, in an effort to keep them.
I want my children to know how I changed all of their diapers. I want them to know how I soothed them when they were hurt and crying. I want them to know it was ME who instilled in them the foundation from which those who took them from me build. I want them to know HOW MUCH I LOVE THEM.
I have no interest in placing blame on anyone. I have now come to realize that if fingers should be pointed, I am the one who is to blame. People are people and we all come from our own personal hell and we do the things that we do by doing the things we were taught to do.
We all must survive, and each member of humanity has their own way of doing it.
I miss my children so much that I feel the life slowly draining from me, as helium drains from one of those big, fancy, shiny balloons a kid gets on their birthday.
The balloon is sparkly and beautiful. I got it for my birthday and I don’t necessarily remember it, but it probably said “Happy Birthday to the stupidest piece of shit ever born”. My dad had a funny sense of humor.
My mom tied the balloon to my wrist because she knew I would end up letting it go into the wide-open sky and she did not want to hear me fuss. I did not like that balloon tied to my wrist. I hated that balloon being tied to my wrist.
I was allowed to have the balloon detached from my person once I was safely back in the house. The scissors cut the string and my head and neck turned upward as I watched my beautiful balloon rise quickly to the ceiling. I am so thankful that there is a ceiling there, rather than a sky, to keep my beautiful balloon from going away from me forever.
As I go to bed, a sliver of moonlight finds it’s way through all the plants and other foliage my father has planted across the entirety of his yard, in an effort to keep people out of it. The moon lights on the ceiling and I can see my beautiful balloon dancing, as I drift off to sleep.
Morning comes with the sun, and I open my eyes and see my beautiful balloon and I am happy.
Down goes the day, once again, I am taken to the place where we all go when our bodies sleep. Many times, the place I go is not very fun, at all. It is scary, but that’s ok, I have a beautiful balloon floating on my ceiling.
The next morning was different. My balloon looked skinny. It was sick. My balloon only goes to the ceiling when it gets near one of the air conditioning vents. It gets blown, hits the ceiling then goes back to hovering, sickly, about five inches below the ceiling.
The balloon is dying. The balloon is dying. THE BALLOON IS DYING.
Nobody told me the balloon would die when they handed it over to me that day. They even smiled when they handed it to me and tricked me into smiling back at them and thanking them.
The next few days pass and my balloon gets sicker and sicker. Toward the fourth day of it’s short life, my balloon has no more strength than to rise to my eye level.
My balloon died the next day.
Everything dies. Balloons are luckier because they have a considerably shorter life-span.