You wouldn't really think it of someone who writes for her sanity, but I frequently choke on words. Choking back my hurt at ill-timed humour. Choking back my frustration at unbidden advice. Choking back the avalanche of not knowing - the pregnant questions aborted on my tongue.
And yesterday, choking on my dismay when I walked into my house and found The Oldest sitting on my couch, checking his email on my computer.
I breathed. I measured my words to strip them of accusation. I said, simply, "hi hon - how did you get in here?"
The back door was unlocked. Which means it had been unlocked for 2 days. Yet another something that I had overlooked. Forgotten.
Dinner was good. The conversation was fine. And in the back of my mind the whole time was this nagging voice 'you can't do that - he can't be here alone - you have to be more careful.'
There's actually nothing here worth stealing. Or at least, nothing that I believe is worth stealing. He'd be the one to know more about that.
I don't know why I don't trust my voice. I have no problem writing it all out. So why is it so hard to say them. I have to force myself to say "your family met with an addictions counsellor because we're concerned and don't know how to help you." To say "all we want is for you to get better, but you have to be the one to make that happen."
I eventually did say it. But it came out all wrong. Jumbled. Powerless.
After he left I cried that it's come to this. And I succumbed to my own self-medications - white wine and chocolate. And I wondered how he can ever get better with someone as wordless as me as his team.