Sometimes I go to sleep wondering if I will wake up the next morning and discover that it was all a bad dream.

But as the hot tears burn my cheeks and another stress migraine settles in, I know that no matter how much I try to wish it away, this is real.

I cannot comprehend why, or how, a child can hold so much pain and fear.

I try to suppress the day’s memories of being called horrible names, of being used as a human punching bag by the life I brought into this world.

I absorb his pain. I take his suffering. I can only hope that it provides him some relief. I would do anything to help ease the torment for him – even take the blows without flinching in an effort to prove to him that my love for him is unconditional; that there is absolutely nothing he could do, nothing he could be or become that would make me not love him.

As I hold him tightly, assuring him that I love him, that I’m not going anywhere, and that it doesn’t matter what he does to me, I will never give up on him, the punches become lighter, the swearing decreases, and I can feel the pain and anger being replaced by shame and sorrow.

He finally collapses in my arms, sobbing, apologizing. I can hear the agony in his voice; the fear of self, the hopelessness of feeling like you are a monster that is sick and will never get better.

I have been there.

I know what that feels like.

My heart shatters in a million pieces once again, but I have to be strong for him. He needs me.

This whole situation is so messy, so painful, and so completely undeserved.

While I may be strong for him when he is near, I crumble multiple times a day.

I fight back thoughts that maybe he is right, maybe it would be better if we didn’t exist anymore – maybe that is the only way out.

Then, through all this pain and suffering, while I am struggling just to breathe, to function – when it takes every ounce of effort to get up to face it all again and to keep getting up every time I’m knocked down – my integrity is questioned.

I have no words.

I barely have breath in me, but they manage to squeeze out plumes of vapours, forcing me to prove that I am unwell.

What they don’t understand is that I have to keep going every day; I am not free to live out my own pain because I have a child who needs me.

They do not see that every day is a struggle to live, that I have to give more than I have to get up each day.

They cannot comprehend this love, nor understand the toll it takes to lose myself every day in the hopes that we will find him; to sacrifice myself so that he might be saved.

He is my heart, and my heart is sick.

I would go to the ends of the earth to help him. I will never apologize for that.