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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 639435" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>Detachment can mean so many things. For me, to detach means for me to be aware of how I am communicating <em>with myself</em>. We talked on the site once about developing a kind of cold eyed determination to choose to survive this.</p><p></p><p>Stephen King once described physical pain as coming in waves. At the crest, when his strength was gone, he remembered the tide was soon to go out...and so, he survived. When the tide was out, he marshaled strength and determination to make it through ~ nothing more, just to live through ~ the wave of pain just now cresting on the horizon.</p><p></p><p>We need to do that, too.</p><p></p><p>We need to acknowledge and become familiar with and nurture ourselves and our pain and our children and I don't know how to do it, either. But it doesn't matter that I don't know.</p><p></p><p>The pain is still coming, still cresting or draining away....</p><p></p><p>What I believe in my secret heart is that parents of difficult child kids mourn as deeply, feel as trapped, try to escape or deny just as fervently, as the parents of children with terminal illnesses. But, awful as it is to say so, our children go on to be terminally ill over and over again. We have no opportunity to process any of it. There is no end point. There are no casseroles or neighbors or family coming round, there is no time of remembrance; there are no pictures we keep lit candles beside, because our children are here, and in danger, and mythologizing and grieving and loving and putting away is not an option. For us, the shame and the shock keep coming.</p><p></p><p>Remember the Rocky Balboa movies? And Rocky is always getting beat to smithereens but he stays loyal and he stands up and he keeps going?</p><p></p><p>And no one can really say for sure whether he is stupid or magnificent.</p><p></p><p>But those movies certainly were popular, which means they are speaking to all of us.</p><p></p><p>I certainly do feel like I've been popped in the head a couple of times.</p><p></p><p>:O)</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>For me, detachment means to step away from the heartrending emotional trappings of what is happening, of what has happened. It means doing my best to keep a clear intention, it means speaking clearly, it means believing for the best.</p><p></p><p>When our children are sick, when they refuse to come home or when we just.can.not have them living at home with us anymore...that is a living hell. All of it, everything about it, is luridly hellish.</p><p></p><p>And yet, though we grieve impossible pain, we proceed through the days of our lives as though we are not grieving, as though freshly steaming dumps of kinds of grieving we have never even suspected existed are not appearing out of nowhere any time, just any time at all.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>To detach, for me, means to navigate a very narrow path that is my sanity, that is my sane response. And just like they say on the old maps written before we knew more about the world and ourselves in it, there are dark, mysterious places here in my heart where I cannot go, alone. "Here there be monsters."</p><p></p><p>I literally do not know how to incorporate what's happened into my life. I literally do not know how to live with myself given what has happened to all of us.</p><p></p><p>Detachment, for me, is about detaching from the immediacy of those emotions.</p><p></p><p>I know what I need to see from difficult child son before I will allow myself to respond openly, freely, from the heart.</p><p></p><p>I have learned that, here.</p><p></p><p>I know that I am walking as well as I know how through the wreckage and reparation of difficult child daughter's life.</p><p></p><p>Between those two things that I know is where I walk a very thin, winding little path that is sanity for me ~ that is sane response, for me.</p><p></p><p>I did not exactly choose this path Echo, and neither did you choose your path. But for us, those narrow, winding little paths are where we can be quiet, are where we can think and be honest and consider and make choices in this unbelievable, trickster kind of place the world seems to have become.</p><p></p><p>I am grateful for that little space, Echo.</p><p></p><p>So grateful.</p><p></p><p>And thank heaven we have the site and one another. This is where we can come to rediscover that sane, twisting little path again, when we have been pushed to the ground.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>Regarding being so hard on yourself for loving him, for believing in him, for believing in anything at all...I always do say I have been a fool for lesser things than to believe in all of us.</p><p></p><p>And I do believe in us. </p><p></p><p>I don't know why this is happening, but I read once something to the effect that "at the touch of eternity" all would be revealed, and we would understand. </p><p></p><p>And when I am helpless before the hugeness of what I've lost, choosing to believe that, though I sure can't figure it out, there is some purpose here that is not malevolent helps me.</p><p></p><p>And that is really the only thing that helps me, when the days are very bad.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>I always do say it is never, ever wrong to love our children or to hope for them or to believe that somehow, some way, these things can turn around. That is where the balancing point is, I think. I (and you do too) am very consciously balancing between loving and guilt and responsibility and frustration. There is no role model for us, there is no one who can mentor or really, even console us.</p><p></p><p>We have to be our own best mothers, now. Somehow, we have to teach ourselves how to do this. Maybe, gracefully, over time, or at least, with courage.</p><p></p><p>It helps me to remember that my intention is to love, and to forgive myself.</p><p></p><p>Some days, when things have gone very wrong, it is impossible to do that and still carry a tune. (Woody Allen said something similar, once ~ about it being impossible to contemplate one's own mortality and still carry a tune.)</p><p></p><p>:O)</p><p></p><p>But I am serious in a way, because unlike those parents for whom there comes an end...we have to go on with our lives like none of this is happening. We have to proceed over the days and months and years as though nothing is wrong!</p><p></p><p>And we are somehow supposed to muster the generosity to celebrate the lovely families and the accomplishments of others...and the miracle is that somehow, we do that.</p><p></p><p>We do that.</p><p></p><p>We are amazing people, but we don't even care about that. To us, the wonder of our courage and our strength and our pain is just what happened, next.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>I try to be very aware when I am hating, when I am angry, because at the heart of it, it becomes a way for me to punish myself.</p><p></p><p>I know better.</p><p></p><p>I know no one is going to like that I said that.</p><p></p><p>But it is true, and I do have to be very careful with myself, not to despise myself for failing, or for the suffering of my children.</p><p></p><p>That is what I meant by forgiving myself.</p><p></p><p>Forgive yourself too, Echo.</p><p></p><p>Forgiving ourselves carries such depth of blessing and compassion and strength.</p><p></p><p>That is what detachment means to me. I must watch the emotions so closely, because the sadness of it, and the guilt of it, and the plain, stupid loss of it, can be overwhelming.</p><p></p><p>But it is what it is.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I'm so sorry, Echo.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 639435, member: 17461"] Detachment can mean so many things. For me, to detach means for me to be aware of how I am communicating [I]with myself[/I]. We talked on the site once about developing a kind of cold eyed determination to choose to survive this. Stephen King once described physical pain as coming in waves. At the crest, when his strength was gone, he remembered the tide was soon to go out...and so, he survived. When the tide was out, he marshaled strength and determination to make it through ~ nothing more, just to live through ~ the wave of pain just now cresting on the horizon. We need to do that, too. We need to acknowledge and become familiar with and nurture ourselves and our pain and our children and I don't know how to do it, either. But it doesn't matter that I don't know. The pain is still coming, still cresting or draining away.... What I believe in my secret heart is that parents of difficult child kids mourn as deeply, feel as trapped, try to escape or deny just as fervently, as the parents of children with terminal illnesses. But, awful as it is to say so, our children go on to be terminally ill over and over again. We have no opportunity to process any of it. There is no end point. There are no casseroles or neighbors or family coming round, there is no time of remembrance; there are no pictures we keep lit candles beside, because our children are here, and in danger, and mythologizing and grieving and loving and putting away is not an option. For us, the shame and the shock keep coming. Remember the Rocky Balboa movies? And Rocky is always getting beat to smithereens but he stays loyal and he stands up and he keeps going? And no one can really say for sure whether he is stupid or magnificent. But those movies certainly were popular, which means they are speaking to all of us. I certainly do feel like I've been popped in the head a couple of times. :O) *** For me, detachment means to step away from the heartrending emotional trappings of what is happening, of what has happened. It means doing my best to keep a clear intention, it means speaking clearly, it means believing for the best. When our children are sick, when they refuse to come home or when we just.can.not have them living at home with us anymore...that is a living hell. All of it, everything about it, is luridly hellish. And yet, though we grieve impossible pain, we proceed through the days of our lives as though we are not grieving, as though freshly steaming dumps of kinds of grieving we have never even suspected existed are not appearing out of nowhere any time, just any time at all. *** To detach, for me, means to navigate a very narrow path that is my sanity, that is my sane response. And just like they say on the old maps written before we knew more about the world and ourselves in it, there are dark, mysterious places here in my heart where I cannot go, alone. "Here there be monsters." I literally do not know how to incorporate what's happened into my life. I literally do not know how to live with myself given what has happened to all of us. Detachment, for me, is about detaching from the immediacy of those emotions. I know what I need to see from difficult child son before I will allow myself to respond openly, freely, from the heart. I have learned that, here. I know that I am walking as well as I know how through the wreckage and reparation of difficult child daughter's life. Between those two things that I know is where I walk a very thin, winding little path that is sanity for me ~ that is sane response, for me. I did not exactly choose this path Echo, and neither did you choose your path. But for us, those narrow, winding little paths are where we can be quiet, are where we can think and be honest and consider and make choices in this unbelievable, trickster kind of place the world seems to have become. I am grateful for that little space, Echo. So grateful. And thank heaven we have the site and one another. This is where we can come to rediscover that sane, twisting little path again, when we have been pushed to the ground. *** Regarding being so hard on yourself for loving him, for believing in him, for believing in anything at all...I always do say I have been a fool for lesser things than to believe in all of us. And I do believe in us. I don't know why this is happening, but I read once something to the effect that "at the touch of eternity" all would be revealed, and we would understand. And when I am helpless before the hugeness of what I've lost, choosing to believe that, though I sure can't figure it out, there is some purpose here that is not malevolent helps me. And that is really the only thing that helps me, when the days are very bad. *** I always do say it is never, ever wrong to love our children or to hope for them or to believe that somehow, some way, these things can turn around. That is where the balancing point is, I think. I (and you do too) am very consciously balancing between loving and guilt and responsibility and frustration. There is no role model for us, there is no one who can mentor or really, even console us. We have to be our own best mothers, now. Somehow, we have to teach ourselves how to do this. Maybe, gracefully, over time, or at least, with courage. It helps me to remember that my intention is to love, and to forgive myself. Some days, when things have gone very wrong, it is impossible to do that and still carry a tune. (Woody Allen said something similar, once ~ about it being impossible to contemplate one's own mortality and still carry a tune.) :O) But I am serious in a way, because unlike those parents for whom there comes an end...we have to go on with our lives like none of this is happening. We have to proceed over the days and months and years as though nothing is wrong! And we are somehow supposed to muster the generosity to celebrate the lovely families and the accomplishments of others...and the miracle is that somehow, we do that. We do that. We are amazing people, but we don't even care about that. To us, the wonder of our courage and our strength and our pain is just what happened, next. *** I try to be very aware when I am hating, when I am angry, because at the heart of it, it becomes a way for me to punish myself. I know better. I know no one is going to like that I said that. But it is true, and I do have to be very careful with myself, not to despise myself for failing, or for the suffering of my children. That is what I meant by forgiving myself. Forgive yourself too, Echo. Forgiving ourselves carries such depth of blessing and compassion and strength. That is what detachment means to me. I must watch the emotions so closely, because the sadness of it, and the guilt of it, and the plain, stupid loss of it, can be overwhelming. But it is what it is. I'm so sorry, Echo. Cedar . [/QUOTE]
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