After the assault, something shifted in the way I felt around my son. I didn’t understand it at first. His hugs — the same hugs I’d always loved — suddenly made me want to pull away. The moment he touched me, my whole body tensed. I hated that reaction. It confused me. I love my son. That never changed. But the instinct to keep him at a distance was new, and it scared me.
Growing up, I’d wanted affection from my parents and never got it. Every attempt ended with them stiffening, pulling back, or ignoring me entirely. I never felt loved by them, and because of that, I spent my entire adult life making sure my children knew love — real love, with hugs and softness and presence. So the fact that something in me recoiled now felt like a betrayal of everything I believed about myself as a mother.
In my heart, I loved him. But my body remembered something else. Hugs from him felt dangerous. They frightened me. I can vaguely remember the 24 hours he held me hostage, telling me I had to die. I can remember the fear that he might actually kill me — but not the intensity anymore. Trauma has a way of blurring the edges while leaving the imprint behind.
He needs a mother. He needs emotional support. But I can’t be that right now. And he doesn’t have anyone else either. It’s just us, standing alone against a system that doesn’t know what to do with either of us.
Still standing in the no hug zone,
K
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I'm Still Here. Somehow... 