It’s been awhile.. Things are.. amazing, and scary, and challenging, and rewarding.
Sometimes I feel like.. I’m thirty one years old– ALMOST 32- and I am still finding my fucking way- barely.
But sometimes… like this past week, I’m… flying- for lack of a better term. I’ve been working my ass off, my days at the facilities, most of my free nights at the bar- putting away every single ‘spare’ penny I have, trying to give Seamus this incredible birthday gift (more to come)!
9 in February. NINE!!!
He’s incredible- I know all parents say that; but he’s incredible.
He’s just this amazing, smart, kind and sensitive kid- and he’s just… he’s hurting so bad, and I feel so lost. And part of me feels so awful; because our life, this life that I have been working so fucking hard at, is finally coming together! We can get groceries and gas in the same day! And though I still shop on a tight budget (saving all the pennys for the amazing bday gift), seeing all the hours, and brain power I have been putting in starting to pay off… is more than I could ever ask for. But my kid is struggling so hard. And I feel guilty. His anxiety- if genetic, not only comes from me- but obviously partially it does! And I hate cystic fibrosis- more now than ever! Because I can fix the coughs and colds; we can stay home and do extra treatments, wash our hands, take the meds- we can do that! But the anxiety… there is no one fix- no quick fix I KNOW- I have been there, I am still there. It doesn’t go away, you just learn to cope, you learn (hopefully) healthy ways to cope- but he’s eight. He’s only eight, and I know better than anyone, there isn’t something I can say to make him feel.. more secure, more confident, less anxious..
I see him trying to navigate this new, scary world, and I feel like someone has tied my hands behind my back.
I talk to him, openly and honestly about my struggles, about the ways of coping I learned through therapy, and DBT, and working with my psychiatrist- I remind him every day how smart, and amazing, polite and kind he is. I remind him that we have survived 100% of days up to now- and that no matter what, I am on his team. That no matter what happens, he’s got me- and that I am not going anywhere. But he worries, and I know that that doesn’t go away with a few words. I know that it takes years, of work, real work, to get to the root of the issues, the anxieties, and even then- it’s a lifetime of work to keep them from ruining your life- and I know this because they almost had me. They almost took me from this world, from my life, from his life- but I didn’t give up, and I didn’t give in, and I need to know that he was my strength- and now, finally, I can be his.
But he’s eight; almost nine. And he’s just a kid, and I want him to be a kid as long as possible, but I see it, in his eyes, in his face, that he is struggling, and I want him to know that I am not going anywhere- that I am here, forever, for always. But he’s eight. So instead I’ll write it here, and I’ll save it for later. And when the time comes, I’ll tell him how he saved me- and it’s my turn now, to save him in return.
God. This is never easy. Ever. Even now, when things are good- on the verge of great- I am drowning, still. I take showers so I can cry without him knowing. I work myself to the bone on days I don’t have him so I don’t have to think about it- or anything. I don’t have a spare minute where I am not working, one job or another, or doing laundry, or doing anything that keeps me from stopping and thinking, and losing it.. again.
I’m still struggling. I don’t want this life for Seamus. I just want him to be ok. Better than ok. I want him to be as great as I know he can be.