Wednesday, November 2, 2011


The pain in my heart may not be as enormous as the carnage caused by bombings or genocide, but it did puncture my heart. It did make me feel I am going to drown in an endless pit of pity from where recovery just can not be made.
It was the first time I was opening up to a stranger , a stranger who didn't seem like one. The kind face and gentle eyes which said it did not judge me by what I have done , by what I have become.
He touched my wrist and I jerked away fearing I may again feel something, something that I haven't felt with another living person in long time.
I was happy, as happy as I could be after loss of my only child. I went out with my girlfriends and partied, I slogged at work and earned rewards and respect of my boss, I watched movies with my husband, I spent endless hours drinking and eating.
Drinking and eating which pretty much involved wine and vodka and chocolates.

I was happy but a tiniest bit of my heart somewhere inside my body betrayed me , betrayed the scene I was painting and landed me here in hospital pouring out my feelings to stranger