Separation Anxiety

Befores and afters. Life is strung together by befores and afters. By moments when everything changes, and life as it once was ceases to exist.

Now, in an unforeseen after, I cry when Austen will be gone overnight. I cry, haunted by the thought that something might happen that will turn overnight into forever. I never used to do that before.

Before Nate went missing.
Before we lost him.
Before grief swallowed me whole.

But here in the aftermath of living through a heart-stopping, gut wrenching, life altering personal hell, separation anxiety has taken on a whole new meaning.

When he leaves, my stomach ties itself in knots. Anger, fear, and dread bubble up and settle as a lump in my throat. And despite my best efforts to blink them back, hot tears slip stubbornly down my cheeks.

And it feels like my own body is betraying me and my determination to not make it a big deal. Because I want to feel strong.

And be strong.

But I don’t.

I feel…

fractured—
shattered—
broken—
weak—
and rushed to piece myself back together.

And I have to remind myself,
again and again and again,
that grief
and trauma
and healing
have no expiration date.

This is normal.
Uncomfortable, soul-stretching normal.

So he leaves, and I cry. And during the moments he’s gone, anxiety rolls over me in waves that threaten to drown me.

I muddle through playtimes and snack times and bedtimes and pray that I’ll be able to sleep without the nightmares creeping in.

And when he comes home, I cling to the comfort of togetherness.
And I pause for a deep inhale,
thankful that I can breathe again.