Last night, I sat next to Catch on the couch tearfully gripping her leg as we watched (yet another) TV show involving a child who had been killed. She must have calmly reminded me that it wasn’t real a half dozen times.
“Do you ever have these flashes of the most horrible things happening to Charlotte?” I asked.
“Yes—I watched her fall off the bed last week, remember?”
But that wasn’t what I meant.
Every day, I have these moments. Moments where I’m going about my business and something will trigger a horrible sequence of pictures inside my head. Horrible things happen to Charlotte in my imagination. I don’t even want to write them down.
I tried to explain it to Catch and she just sort of stared at me and then went back to watching TV.
I feel like my skin is so thin now that I’m a mother. I can’t handle fictional violence against children. I really can’t handle real violence against children. Dog save me if something pops into my Facebook feed about parents who have somehow lost their baby. It’s just too much. It’s too hard.
I’m torn between burying my head in the sand to get away from it all or putting my daughter in a bubble.
Is it just me?