My friends,

What, I wonder sometimes, is the point of this rarefied body. The one that turns from what the world is mostly made of these days: plastic & additives & GMO & bullshit.

My son’s school is like a battering ram to my solar plexus. I walked into the classroom, his teacher the wielder of the battering ram. Not at my son, but at other kids & towards people in general. A snarky, sharp, pokey meanness to her. I keep a close eye on my son to see that he is well. Not broken yet by her. Not yet.

Still I was fine before I walked into her classroom. When I left I could feel a rumbling of something in my belly, which was not just me not having eaten breakfast. It was anger and shame and sadness and weakness. And all from stepping into this woman’s classroom. Where my son spends 30 hours a week. What is happening to his energy body there?

I came home, that rumbling building and building into a sorrow, higher to something like grief, and then, again, with this strange body of mine, I’m crying and I turn to the side of the desk and I am retching. Nothing but air and a release.

Thankful that I have the ability, though not controlled, to move this toxicity from my body, I fear and wonder and cry over what is happening to my son.

Yes, I know there are options. But the options involve me giving up more of myself than I have already. I am a hermit, empath, introvert who decided to have a child and ended up with a social, empath, extrovert. I am only getting better at being me because my son is gone most of the time. Do you know how that breaks my heart? Into shiny slivers that cut & poke & dig deep.