One day I will tell you about a glass wall. A wall that runs long and wide and high. A wall that stands and tears down all the same time. One that hides in plain sight. One that hems in, closer with every terrifyingly slow minute. One that is smeared with tears and marred by fists.
It steals hearts and breaks lives. It has taken souls, and held many more. It is ugly and shiny and transparent. It whispers dark secrets in the light of day. It betrays money and fame and your own mind. It takes you and leaves a shell. It lives in your job and your clothes and your bed.
It makes outsiders deaf and mute and blind. Because they have never been a crowd of one. They will tell you to buck up and get over it and this too shall pass. And if death wins, they will call it a cop out. They will point fingers and thumbs up hate speech on Facebook. And the wall has won because it has made you invisible.
There is such a wall. It’s real and it hurts. I know because I lived there when you were born.
One day I will tell you that I was scared to be alone with you. That I was shrivelling inside my bones. That I longed to be away from you, if only to protect you. That I didn’t want to be a mother anymore. And some days I couldn’t.
I’m sorry. Because people will tell you that it’s my fault. Or yours. People will say I am weak and defective and broken.
But one day, son, oh how I will tell you the things you never knew. That you changed me. You gave me the courage to ask for help. To speak up. To kick with all my might. To scream louder. To reach out. To fight for every moment. To hold hands with hope. To dare. And dream. And defy the odds.
One day I will tell you about those who’ve lost the battle, known and unknown. And the many more who remain hidden.
Because it’s in the telling that the wall loses.