A journal entry – Thursday June 25, 2015
“Louise made me cry.
I didn’t realize how close to the surface the despair had been lingering.
A kind gesture, a hug, an empathic word were enough to tap the sadness pressing on an impossible journey.
I’m supposed to know what’s wrong. How to fix it. And I don’t. And I haven’t.
I lost my pride a long time ago. But I cling to the possibility that all of those ledges are steps and not cliffs.
We’ll make it.
All my sweet babies are just going through the necessary dark and gnarled soil of maturation.
I even try to tell myself that all our expectations of normalcy are part of the problem. If we just relax and continue to set boundaries. To love them fiercely. They’ll rise into the lovely humans we’ve seen in there from their first brave gasps of life.
But the doubts linger like ghosts haunting the shadows, tapping on us when we’re drifting off into our day dreams or hard earned slumbers.
Beating back the thorns and bramble along the path we’re on is weary work.
After two to three years, I can’t remember any more, I only sometimes notice the raw, jagged scars along my skin and limbs.
Sometimes I am surprised to see my own face, an aging stranger to my determined heart.
The battles don’t seem like battles until I dare to rest. I fear I’ll not have the strength to get up.
I pray each night for the strength to always get up. Again. To protect my babies as long as they need me.”