Heavy.

I cried at work yesterday afternoon. That is nothing new. Sometimes the tears are linked to my being overcome with emotion while reading a poem, short story, or chapter in a novel. Other times, they’re happy. And there have been times, when the tears have been a mix between despair and being completely overwhelmed. Room 335 is a room that has witnessed my laughter and my distress. It has seen me at my best, and at my worst. Achievements have been celebrated, advice given, tea consumed, defeats recognized, with many lessons taught and learned along the way. It was where I was on October 9, 2019 when I received one of the worst phone calls of my life. Though it’s been close to three years, that conversation and the ones that followed in the subsequent days, weeks, and months will never be forgotten. And while the passage of time helps to make heavy things a little easier to bear, I know all too well how quickly the past can rise up to meet the present.

By this point, you must be wondering what triggered my latest bout of tears. A presenter from the Journey Project was in to deliver a presentation to relay information, facts, and figures regarding those who have experienced sexual violence, as well as the role they and other related agencies offer. Sitting at the back of the classroom, the rustling of an M&M's bag rows over by a student trying to be discreet irritated me ever so slightly. The air felt heavy and warm with the faint scent of freshly microwaved Pizza Pops hanging in the air. The desk did little to contain my level of physical and emotional discomfort. Listening to the onslaught of words from a seemingly sympathetic presenter, I felt my chest grow tight and it was becoming harder to breathe. Feeling light headed, the walls felt as though they were closing in on me. Using the little lavender information card as a fan did little to quell the tears that blurred my vision and that threatened to flow. The final words before I fled the room are what got to me. Uncrossing my ankles, I gripped the corner of the student desk I had been occupying, and stood. My footfalls were quick and steady as I weaved my way across the familiar tiles to the safety of the hallway. I had not expected the onslaught of my emotions at that moment. Frankly, I had been more concerned with how my son was being impacted by the words. That did little, however, to silence the sobbing that erupted from my soul.

Trauma has a way of rearing its ugly head. And I know it will continue to do so time and time again. Today was another reminder of how this can be so. He doesn’t like to talk about it, and I sure as hell will not be the one to spell out every detail of his story for it is not mine to tell. The nightmares, though present still, don’t haunt his days and nights daily as they once did. The son-of-a-bitch who took away his innocence can rot in Hell for all I care. 

Back on October 9, 2020, I titled a blog post called “A year in the life.” While challenges have continued to be present since then, I am able to concur with much of what I had written.

He is not defined by his story or the depression that continues to take hold.

He is not the fear and hurt that engulfed a few years of his life. 

His laughter, that reaches his eyes, is a rarity these days but oh so welcomed when it is heard. 

He is steadfast and brave.

He is light.

He is a source of inspiration and pride. It is hard to believe he is getting ready to embark upon

the next stage of his life.

He continues to be loved more than he could ever know.

This time last year, I wondered what his future would look like. Tonight, I can see glimpses of where he is going. My faith and resolve are strong. They have to be. Like the hesitant little footsteps that helped him venture from babyhood to toddlerhood, I will continue to be there every step of the way.