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