inhale
AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHAHAHAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Which doesn't begin to sum it up.
The first time I woke up to find you missing, I thought the worst. The worst was that you had gotten up to go party with who knows to smoke who knows what and then carry on doing god knows what until who knows when. Then I thought worser than that. I thought, dear jesus, he's dead. The only reason for him to not to come home is that he's in a ditch, because surely he wouldn't worry me to the ragged ends of my sanity for no reason.
But you did. You thought you had a good reason at the time. Right now I can't even remember what it was, but, as I've come to learn in the times you've disappeared since then, it's usually because you "just needed to go for a walk" or you "couldn't handle it."
I'll admit there are worse ways to cope, but I dearly wish you would find one that didn't worry me to death.
You tell me you understand, and that you're sorry for scaring me.
You have no idea. Perhaps, it is true, I have a greater capacity for letting my thoughts get away with me than other people do. Perhaps other mothers don't imagine gruesome scenarios when their children won't answer their cells, or sob and shake with fear when their precious offspring is two hours late coming home. I can't help it. I love you so much it tears me up. I've told you that I don't need you to be here to put my mind at ease, I just need to know that you are somewhere. Someday you'll have a child of your own, and when they leave home and your imagination starts getting carried away you'll finally understand that I don't need your whereabouts in order to keep you on a short leash, I need them so I can imagine you healthy and whole, laughing with your friends someplace safe and warm. There are a million ways for children to die, and I imagine them all in horrible detail unless I can fool myself into believing I know what you're up to.
You just don't know.
Please tell me where you are. I'll make up the rest,
Love,
Mom
