Freedom is something I dream of, something that seems beyond attainment at the moment, just out of reach. Freedom looks like a beautiful oil slicked bubble, sun kissed and floating wistfully on the breeze. Bejewelled in the glint of the summer sun, I wish to be that beautiful and care free bubble.
I struggle with the freedom thing, there is a clue within the word FREE… dom. I think I’ve always been one that likes things a little their own way, from youthful years. I didn’t always conform in opinions and appearance as a teenager, I didn’t mind being different. Being an individual releases you from the shackles of peer pressure, you are free.
In my twenties, house music and Manchester club land was my freedom. Part of something new and exciting I relished the hedonistic lifestyle that came with this musical revolution. Dancing the night away would still seem like the ultimate expression of freedom for me.
Later our relationship had freedom, Mr H and I enjoyed drunken nights and lazy Sundays, joys that encompass a child free lifestyle.
Work, a job brings a responsibility but beyond the structure of your vocation time is yours, there is still freedom.
Being a parent offers little freedom. Being the parent of children living with early life trauma offers me no freedom. I’m faced daily, hourly with the responsibility of my children. All waking hours I feel the responsibility of my children and it anchors me to this spot. There is no drifting in abandonment, no blissful carefree moments. Not at the moment.
I know it’s a problem. I can’t let go.
I can’t forget.
They do not have to be with me, they can be absent for 24 hours or more but I can’t forget. I am tethered securely to each off them. I want to be tethered to them. I don’t trust anyone else with them.
They don’t keep me here, I could have opportunities to be free, but right now I’m too afraid.
The free spirit within feels stifled and unable to breath but I’m too afraid to allow myself to be free.
What if I don’t want to come back?