All of my life, I have clung to hope with a tenacity I can’t describe. I don’t know where it comes from. It is foolishness? Is it codependency? Is it an eternal optimism that is somehow hard coded into my DNA? Is it simply a child’s innocence that my psyche refuses to give up? Stubbornness? Insanity? What in the world makes hope course through my veins like the blood that keeps me alive.
Even in the face of pain & anguish, in the lowest moments of my life — and they have been several and very, very low, in the most horrible mistakes I have ever made that I wish so much that I could take back — in all of these moments, even when it seemed it might be totally incongruous to the facts, I have still had hope.
After nearly 2 agonizing years, I have hope still. Hope that someday this pain will stop. Hope that I will come out of the other side of this stronger, wiser, and a better version of my true self. Hope that, by some miracle, this destruction and devastation of my family will somehow be to the benefit of my child instead of to his detriment. And I think it is that last one that makes this feel different from every other moment in my life when I might have disparaged & yet somehow survived: My fears for myself are great, yes, but my fears for my son…
The costs of these two years for him are what I fear that I will never get over, that I will never be able to forgive. He & I have lost time that we will never get back. We’ve lost communication. We’ve lost so much opportunity, not least for the therapies that he so desperately needs — because I have been lost in a sea of anguish and spending my every waking moment trying to survive, emotionally and financially. The analogy of the plane losing pressure and putting on your own oxygen mask before helping your child with theirs… I’ve heard it so many times & it makes sense, but when it takes years to get your own mask on, there will be consequences to your child that will last forever.
I am so very tired. Tired of hoping, tired of hurting, tired of believing that the light will come back, tired of feeling powerless, tired of the fight to keep from drowning, tired of being angry, tired of trying to be kind, tired of trying to understand, tired of this infection touching the lives of every single person with whom I have contact, tired of never having a single moment’s peace from this madness.
How long can a person live in pain and anger before it fundamentally changes them? More pointedly, how long will it be before I lose hope? And who will I be if I do? It is my greatest fear, and it feels closer with every day and every new struggle.