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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 657424" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>I understand, I have been there, too. I am so sorry for the pain and the isolation and the hurt of it.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>You have had to be very strong. </p><p></p><p>You did the right thing.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>It is better for us when we are not alone with it. I am glad you posted, glad you found the site. </p><p></p><p>Welcome, JulieAnn.</p><p></p><p>:O)</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>This helps me: There is a difference between guilt and intense sorrow. As Jabber noted, we can feel sorrow about those little kids we don't know who are suffering or who don't have enough to eat or any of those other terrible things that are happening in faraway places in the world. We can donate money or time, we can do what we can. Our understanding that they are out there somewhere doesn't change, but we can know we have done what we could, that we have done those things our consciences tell us are the right things to do, and then, <em>we can let go.</em> We can go to dinner, or relish clean sheets and fresh coffee and be so grateful for what we have. With our children, sorrow and guilt become confused. We cannot see our way through that because we see our babies too, in our minds, when we think of our grown children. That our babies, those children of our hearts, are vulnerable ~ even though we get it, intellectually, that our children are grown men and women ~ that is where the guilt part comes in, I think.</p><p></p><p>We are their mothers. We are the mother of that little boy who was our son and whatever he looks like now, my child is in trouble. He needs help; he is floundering and I will find a way, some way, to save him.</p><p></p><p>He, my child, needs me.</p><p></p><p>And he does, actually. But not in the way that I think; not in the way I believed I could help him. And even though over such a long time, over the years of mounting defense after defense, my sacrifice of time and money and head room somehow not only did not save him but somehow made everything impossibly worse, I still think I have to do something.</p><p></p><p>He is still in so troubled and dangerous a place.</p><p></p><p>And there is no answer to that one. There just isn't. My heart and my head are two different parts of me. </p><p></p><p>But there is detachment parenting. To me, that means learning how to honor our emotions and rationally understand why we must do what we are doing in refusing money or a place to live or another driver's license or vehicle.</p><p></p><p>Or even so much as a sandwich.</p><p></p><p>Which makes me hate myself, of course. Which makes me leap in to save him again but this time, the person I am really saving is me. I cannot face myself, knowing I turned away. But before I know it, I am right back where I started except I have less money and less time and no energy.</p><p></p><p>And no son.</p><p></p><p>Huh.</p><p></p><p>And there again, this theory of detachment parenting, which is what finally helped me help my children stand up and save themselves, can help us survive not helping.</p><p></p><p>***</p><p></p><p>So, it helps me to envision the adult male my son is. Bearded, now. Loud when he talks and when he laughs, like a man is. Then, somewhere in the heart of me, I can separate the man who is my son from the baby who was the child of my dreams, and of my heart.</p><p></p><p>And I know that sounds all hokey and mushy, but the thing is, <em>it's true.</em></p><p></p><p>Normal moms never have to make that distinction between their babies grown into men and their baby *** separation point *** their grown man son who is so troubled. But helping turns into enabling, and that is such an ugly part of our stories, here. What we know, and what you already know, is that the one person who could help your son is your son.</p><p></p><p>If you could do this for him, if you could love him out of it, he would already be healthy and independently strong.</p><p></p><p>But what do we do with the guilt? That happens to me, too. When I go shopping, when I have special food, when I am warm and one or the other of my children may not be. This is what I think I know about that: There is a difference between guilt and deep sorrow. Someone I love is in trouble. That is very true. <em>But it is also true that there is no sacrifice I could make that can help him.</em></p><p></p><p>And that is all I know about that. We cannot ignore the feelings. They are very intense.</p><p>But we can honor and understand them. We can bless ourselves for our courage, and for the depth of our love <em>and decide we are going to get through this somehow.</em></p><p></p><p>We decide to survive. And that is an intellectual decision that our hearts don't get and so, we repeat the phrases that comfort and strengthen us and we survive it, that one time. And that gives us strength to survive what feels like guilt or heartlessness or something awful, the next time it has at us. We choose to care for ourselves in the best ways we can know of for today, for this one, little minute. We can expect the bad feelings, we can welcome them and soothe ourselves through them because this is a very hard situation we are living. Every single day, we are living with knowledge too awful to put away from us and too awful to ignore and we don't know how to do this.</p><p></p><p>But here we all are.</p><p></p><p>Together, each of us will have strength or understanding for the others when that is what we need, and we will do the same for them, when their time comes.</p><p></p><p>I am so glad you were able to find the site, and that you decided to post in.</p><p></p><p>You are here with us, now. </p><p></p><p>Here is a concept for you. This is from Child of Mine. The concept is a tool box where we keep all the tools, all the things we have learned or taken comfort in, readily accessible to us when we are in that lost, little place where we feel overwhelmed.</p><p></p><p>That helped me, too.</p><p></p><p>My toolbox.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p><p></p><p>One more thing. In my toolbox too is the concept of how to suffer with strength and dignity and acceptance. I learned that on Child of Mine's Highchair Tyrants thread, here on this site. It had to do with the suffering of the Mary. If you google paintings of the Mary, look into the eyes.</p><p></p><p>That is how to accept it, and make it real, and nothing more.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 657424, member: 17461"] I understand, I have been there, too. I am so sorry for the pain and the isolation and the hurt of it. You have had to be very strong. You did the right thing. It is better for us when we are not alone with it. I am glad you posted, glad you found the site. Welcome, JulieAnn. :O) This helps me: There is a difference between guilt and intense sorrow. As Jabber noted, we can feel sorrow about those little kids we don't know who are suffering or who don't have enough to eat or any of those other terrible things that are happening in faraway places in the world. We can donate money or time, we can do what we can. Our understanding that they are out there somewhere doesn't change, but we can know we have done what we could, that we have done those things our consciences tell us are the right things to do, and then, [I]we can let go.[/I] We can go to dinner, or relish clean sheets and fresh coffee and be so grateful for what we have. With our children, sorrow and guilt become confused. We cannot see our way through that because we see our babies too, in our minds, when we think of our grown children. That our babies, those children of our hearts, are vulnerable ~ even though we get it, intellectually, that our children are grown men and women ~ that is where the guilt part comes in, I think. We are their mothers. We are the mother of that little boy who was our son and whatever he looks like now, my child is in trouble. He needs help; he is floundering and I will find a way, some way, to save him. He, my child, needs me. And he does, actually. But not in the way that I think; not in the way I believed I could help him. And even though over such a long time, over the years of mounting defense after defense, my sacrifice of time and money and head room somehow not only did not save him but somehow made everything impossibly worse, I still think I have to do something. He is still in so troubled and dangerous a place. And there is no answer to that one. There just isn't. My heart and my head are two different parts of me. But there is detachment parenting. To me, that means learning how to honor our emotions and rationally understand why we must do what we are doing in refusing money or a place to live or another driver's license or vehicle. Or even so much as a sandwich. Which makes me hate myself, of course. Which makes me leap in to save him again but this time, the person I am really saving is me. I cannot face myself, knowing I turned away. But before I know it, I am right back where I started except I have less money and less time and no energy. And no son. Huh. And there again, this theory of detachment parenting, which is what finally helped me help my children stand up and save themselves, can help us survive not helping. *** So, it helps me to envision the adult male my son is. Bearded, now. Loud when he talks and when he laughs, like a man is. Then, somewhere in the heart of me, I can separate the man who is my son from the baby who was the child of my dreams, and of my heart. And I know that sounds all hokey and mushy, but the thing is, [I]it's true.[/I] Normal moms never have to make that distinction between their babies grown into men and their baby *** separation point *** their grown man son who is so troubled. But helping turns into enabling, and that is such an ugly part of our stories, here. What we know, and what you already know, is that the one person who could help your son is your son. If you could do this for him, if you could love him out of it, he would already be healthy and independently strong. But what do we do with the guilt? That happens to me, too. When I go shopping, when I have special food, when I am warm and one or the other of my children may not be. This is what I think I know about that: There is a difference between guilt and deep sorrow. Someone I love is in trouble. That is very true. [I]But it is also true that there is no sacrifice I could make that can help him.[/I] And that is all I know about that. We cannot ignore the feelings. They are very intense. But we can honor and understand them. We can bless ourselves for our courage, and for the depth of our love [I]and decide we are going to get through this somehow.[/I] We decide to survive. And that is an intellectual decision that our hearts don't get and so, we repeat the phrases that comfort and strengthen us and we survive it, that one time. And that gives us strength to survive what feels like guilt or heartlessness or something awful, the next time it has at us. We choose to care for ourselves in the best ways we can know of for today, for this one, little minute. We can expect the bad feelings, we can welcome them and soothe ourselves through them because this is a very hard situation we are living. Every single day, we are living with knowledge too awful to put away from us and too awful to ignore and we don't know how to do this. But here we all are. Together, each of us will have strength or understanding for the others when that is what we need, and we will do the same for them, when their time comes. I am so glad you were able to find the site, and that you decided to post in. You are here with us, now. Here is a concept for you. This is from Child of Mine. The concept is a tool box where we keep all the tools, all the things we have learned or taken comfort in, readily accessible to us when we are in that lost, little place where we feel overwhelmed. That helped me, too. My toolbox. Cedar One more thing. In my toolbox too is the concept of how to suffer with strength and dignity and acceptance. I learned that on Child of Mine's Highchair Tyrants thread, here on this site. It had to do with the suffering of the Mary. If you google paintings of the Mary, look into the eyes. That is how to accept it, and make it real, and nothing more. [/QUOTE]
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