I’m tired and I feel like quitting.

I’m mad. And scared. And weary. And I feel completely alone in the pit where I’m sitting today. Sitting and looking up at the sky that taunts me with sunshine while everything inside me wants to scream and fall into a hundred pieces.

I’ve been fighting battles on many fronts for too long… my body, heart and mind are so tired I can’t fight anymore. Not today. Not after the week I just had. 

The one where Becca (my 4 yr old) melted down spectacularly in sensory overload on the street with dozens of people walking by. I had to force her into the stroller and push her home from school as she ripped all her clothes off and screamed the whole time. Then later that day she had a seizure, after months without any. Hope crushed, my arms shaking, I held my unconscious, seizing daughter – waiting for her to come back to me. No matter how many times that happens, it scares the hell out of me. Every. single. time.

The day before, I sat listening to my 7 yr old’s surgeon, as she explained why she would not do what my daughter needs to end her incontinence. For four years my little girl has been peeing her way through life, laundry, my house, school, gymnastics, soccer, birthday parties… and the doc won’t put an end to it. Because the surgery she needs is complicated, and doc won’t do it until my little girl is old enough to choose between wetting her pants during ‘show and tell’ and having to catheterize herself periodically for the rest of her life. I understand that, but I hate both options. HATE them. For her, and for me.

To top it off, my 8 1/2 year old foster/adopt daughter had a surge of attachment-related behaviors – she stole things from me and slammed my bedroom door so hard that she punched out the frame around it. I stared at my trashed door, anger and fear churning as I thought about teen years to come. How will I ever get through this?… A few days later, my mind wrestling with how to forgive her, she got sick with stomach flu and threw up all over the floor. And my feet. As I wiped up a cubic meter of vomit on my hands and knees, I thought: I can’t do this.

Then I looked at my little Anna and every cell in my body screamed: I CAN NOT DO THIS!

Two years old and wide-eyed with confusion when she sees things happen with her sisters, Anna doesn’t understand. I want so badly to scoop her up, bury my face in her precious baby curls and run away. Far away. It won’t be any lonlier on a deserted island than it is here in a big city, raising a family nobody understands. Then at least she’d have a shot at normal. And I’d have a chance to stop fighting and just rest.

Tears drip on my computer as I write this. I confess this is the hardest post I’ve ever written. I don’t feel like I can do this one more day – this raising kids with special needs. And I don’t want anyone to share a parenting primer with me to solve my problems. Or tell me I should pray more. Or look at me with big puppy eyes and feel sorry for me.

What I want is for people to get out their swords and fight with me. Stand with me and scream at the unseen enemies that harass my family every day. Pray for us in ways that drive light into the dark, broken places. Beat them down. Run them off the field. Help me be strong when I don’t have anything left to give.

Like a scene in Braveheart. Raw, gutsy, and real.

Can we be that for each other?

(Photo Source)

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