I look over at the mirror adjacent to the corner booth in this small diner that’s tucked away in the corner of my neighborhood. This place is my favorite. The staff is friendly, the kitchen slow, the food delicious, and a perfect cup of coffee every time, the whole time, refill, after refill. I lift my coffee to my lips and peer at my reflection. I am not sure if it is the hot coffee touching my tongue or what I see in the mirror, but I scowl. I lean in, my age is showing in this lighting, and my eyes are puffy giving clues to the head space I was in just 30 minutes earlier.
I was crying hard this morning. It was a build-up which lasted at its peak all of 5 minutes (busy mornings leave very little time for emotional breakdowns). It was an intense 5 minutes of hard crying. I hid in the bathroom so my babies wouldn’t see the sorrow and depth of my emotional anguish. It all came to a head, in that moment. They knew I was sad; they’ve seen tears trickle down my face and the occasional lip quivering. I knew they could understand that, and that emotions are ok, good even. But this? This was different. This was a cry from the depth of my being. Agony from my core, the rawest, most exposed kind. The tragedies of my life that I try and exist through on a daily basis. All the things, guilt, shame, pain, regret, sorrow, fears all came crashing in. Things I had promised myself I would never do, never be, all stared back at me in the bathroom mirror and now here in this diner mirror that looked like it was from the 1970’s. I gulp my coffee, too hot to be gulp-able, it burns on the way down. I look away at the green, floral patterned booth in front of me, leaving behind my unsatisfactory reflection that will no doubt fester in my psyche and attack my self-esteem at a later date. For now, there are more pressing matters to fester on.
Today, this moment, was about my son. The breakdown in our relationship, the anger, the re-occurring conflict in our home, the mountains of teenage challenges, all this paired with so much pain and struggle, his and mine.
Shit. My eyes are watering. The waitress is asking me if I want more coffee. “Yes please”, as I wipe my eyes to see her more clearly. “I would love some more coffee and it’s so dusty in here, haha ”. I force out an awkward laugh. She walks away, and relieved I did not completely lose it, I can still feel the honesty on my face. The honesty of the way my face is contorting. Aligning with the suffering of my heart, my face wears the expression involuntarily.
Suffering is a strong word. It’s the only word that describes the ache I felt. The ache as my beautiful first-born son erupted with everything he has been feeling. My gut wretched and my heart bled with guilt and confusion. In this moment I felt I could not breathe, thinking of the mistakes I already made or how often I had missed the mark to truly love him well. I am part of this agony and confusion he feels. I am part of his pain story, more than I wanted to admit. My mind searched for a place to land. To explain, give insight, to make it better. I was only making it worse. I started to panic, defending myself, and frantically trying to help him see my heart. It was all a misunderstanding of my intentions, I pleaded. All the while I was deep in my thoughts trying to see passed the angry words and aggression in him. What was he trying to truly say? What did he need from me? We both left exhausted, and frustrated as he exited the van and walked toward the school. Highschool, he walked through the door. The door to more demands, pressures, and challenges of navigating his place
I sip my coffee, just how I like it, with an excessive amount creamer. I think back to the morning drop off and how I wanted to jump out of the van. I wanted so desperately to call out his name, run up to my big son, fling my arms around him and look into those light brown eyes. Those eyes of the once little boy with a wild imagination, the excitement for life, and the need to talk about all his ideas right before bed. “Time to take your thinking head off and put your sleepy head on”, I would gently remind him, every night. Those big round eyes would never lose their spark. Today, was different, he was older, more experienced of the hardships of life. I knew that I wouldn’t have cared if my arms barely fit around my growing son, my heart just wanted to tell him I loved him. I always have and I was so sorry for the places I had fucked it up.
Instead, I watched him walk away, into that big building, filled with other big kids carry their big backpacks trying to figure out how to grow up.
I went home, wept, wiped my tears, and got the rest of my four children off to their commitments for the day. Which then brings me here, sitting here. All the things sitting with me in this worn-in booth and wooden table. I cried a little more than I knew I needed. I had to put the pieces in the right places. I came here for myself, so I could take a moment to grieve my missteps, give myself grace for the times that were outside of my control. Thats what I am doing here, at this diner tucked away in the corner of my neighborhood. I had hoped to create some healing space for my wounds that are tucked away in the corners of my heart.
Another sip of coffee.
Deep breath.
Perhaps it’s this honest space of my writing or maybe there is something special in this coffee, but I feel rejuvenated. Re-focused, this reflective time has given me hope. Hope that some self-tending and love has enhanced my ability to navigate the difficulties and love my son well.
With the satisfaction of time well spent, I pack up my things and slam back that last sip of coffee. My final over caffeinated thought…
Self-love creates the space to love selflessly.
Happy Valentines Day 💕🌻