Tuesday, November 17, 2015


It came home to me while Madeleine McCann was missing, that otheres didn't have the same vivid emotional images of the possible plights of others that I did. They didn't envision a child in the dark, calling for her mother, listening to with terror to the approaching footsteps of her captor.

Far from it, my friend found it bizarre that I did.

Is it a choice? Even when I don't actively think about the parents who are promising their children it will be alright, only to lose them to cold, dark waters or violent crushes at borders, the constant unerstanding of the millions of terrible, unimaginably awful scenes that are playing out.right.now weigh me down.

Is it empathy that hampers me so much, or just depression? Or a mixture of both?

I could just stop looking at the news, unfollow the stories. But imagine if you'd been through all this and no one read your story, because it was distasteful, upsetting, they were too delicate? And meanwhile their governments turned you away, to go back and live in the shelled ruins of your house, in the rape camps, pushed you back onto the knife.

It's unbearable.

How do you bear it? I feel so raw.

And I'm trying to sign Olivia up to secondary school and it feels so impossible. The weight of having a child with these needs that I can't meet, the guilt of it, of what it does to my other child, the way it could be if this disorder hadn't visited our lives... It weighs so heavily.

Maybe it's just depression though.

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