RSS

Tag Archives: autism parent

Autism: Letting Go

It isn’t that the entire day was hard, but…

I woke up at 4am as I have been doing far too often lately. Since it is typically after 12am that I finally fall asleep (that takes a couple of hours itself) it is very unfortunate that, less than 4 hours later, I am awake and unable to get back to sleep. It certainly isn’t that I am not tired. In fact, I can’t even get up – I just lie in bed for the next three hours trying unsuccessfully to fall back to sleep.

Needless to say, I have been very tired, and not functioning very well.

There was some cleaning to do – laundry especially. Ever since the city workers came by and blasted out our storm sewers while I had laundry going, it has been prone to flooding. I don’t know if they are connected, but that is the load it started with. The clothes get cleaned fine, but when the washer is spinning, piles of fur and debris (much more than what is reasonable from what went into the wash) pour out with the water into the sink.

If I am not there to catch it, the water floods over the sink to cover the laundry room floor, hallway, and the bathroom beside (where it pours down the drain by the shower.) Such a mess! This has been happening for at least a couple of months now.

Since I have to watch the washer as I do laundry, I stayed downstairs to sort through boxes of food storage containers. I have no idea why we have so many – but they had been sitting in boxes in storage for over a year now, and we don’t really have storage space in our home.

That was exhausting, but I mostly got through it. I put our Christmas tree outside (so the animals wouldn’t eat it) for the thrift store – I was the only one who cared since our kids were moved, and we really haven’t the space for it (we will use a small tabletop one instead.) I left the rest down in the hallway, though I am sure it will annoy my son who rents the space from us since he has a very curious cat.

In the afternoon I spent several hours sorting toys into bags to give away. This was a very painful activity for me. Though our (foster) kids have been gone for over 8 years, and I haven’t even babysat in 7, and have been considering giving these toys away for at least 6 years, it was still exceptionally hard for me.

But I have felt a strong (near constant) prompting over the past few weeks to do this. Because it hurts, I kept blocking the prompting out, saying I wasn’t ready (I would probably never be ready if left to myself, to be honest) and the push kept getting stronger.

So I got the toys sorted and waiting in the upstairs hallway – but as I said, it hurt… a lot!

DSC02530

So many hopes, dreams, memories, and losses tied up in those toys – and to give them away!!! But they should be played with, and…

I can’t have children, and I can’t go back – both of which frequently cause me a lot of pain in themselves. I am being asked to let go, and though it really does hurt, I know it is the right thing to do.

It was Misty (my newest addition – Chihuahua) who was most concerned as I sat crying, surrounded by piles of toys my children used to play with – though Clara and Molly looked to see what was wrong, too. Sweet girls! I am so very thankful for them, and it is only because of them I was able to answer this call to let go, but…

This is hard!

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Autism: Only A Dream

It was only a dream, though I longed to stay there. First my foster son came to me: beaten, fearful, longing for love. “Can he stay here?” the people standing behind him on the porch asked, “He can’t go back there.”

“Of course,” I replied, and took my son inside; still a child; still wanting to be with me; still wanting ‘this’ to be home. From wherever they were, the girls followed close behind.

I read the file belonging to the youngest. “Nguyana” was written at the top. I hadn’t the time to question it; there was so much to do.

I cleaned their rooms and set up their beds. The younger two were still in cribs. I prepared my birth son as best as I could for their homecoming.

I was in the baby’s room, watching the girls play. “I love you,” the preschooler told the baby with strong emotion. “She has grown,” I thought; feeling thankful that they were mine once more.

Their brother walked into the room. “They called her Gooyanna,” he told me, “We didn’t like it.” Well, they were only foster parents, it wasn’t a legal change. “We will call her (by her real name,)” I told him, and he was satisfied.

It was only a dream. It didn’t last long. My children came to me, but when I woke they were gone. I was sad, and longed to return.

They come to me in my dreams. Only my dreams. And I wish I could remain there with them. I awaken sad and broken for only when I am with them do I feel whole.

preadoption

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Autism: Carrying On

I was feeling better today. Partly I convinced myself that my ‘baby’ would be okay. Also I admitted that it made sense for her foster parents to adopt her, and even to move away – though it did make me really sad that they didn’t adopt my other two in that case. I know they were more of a challenge, but they longed for a home and stability, too.

I suppose the wording in this is confusing for those who don’t know of my history. The ‘baby’ I speak of here was the youngest of three foster children placed with me a little over a decade ago for the purpose of adoption. With domestic adoption, finalization doesn’t come right away. It typically takes 6 months to a year for the paperwork to be put through, and because we had a sibling group of three, they extended that time.

In short, we had the children with us for a total of 35 months. In the end the children were moved, and we had no way of fighting to keep them since they were legally not our children. We did want them. Did want to keep them. Did try to fight for them. Did fail.

That failure is the main trauma in my PTSD, though I had the condition before as a result of childhood abuse.

The foster parents had the children before they were placed with us, during the three months they were taken the first time (we fought and got them back) and from 6 weeks after they were taken the last time. They had the baby straight from the hospital at birth until she was placed with us at just over a year old. We liked them; they were good Christian people – and much, much better with social skills than I could ever possibly be.

In the days since reading updates about her, I have slowly been able to admit to myself that this is possibly a good place for my baby. They are giving her the experiences that I would want her to have – and they actually know how to do these things in order to teach her.

Also, if my baby is sick and dying – as they posts hinted towards – I… it isn’t that I wouldn’t want to be there for her (I ache to have her with me constantly) but… I would blame myself for her illness (I take on the blame of everything even when I couldn’t possibly have caused it) and that would destroy me many times over as losing her has done, and would do again.

Then there is the (questionable) gift that I have of altering reality in my mind. After the shock that lasted for several days I have partially been able to separated ‘her’ baby from ‘my’ baby – so it is hers that is sick, and mine is the same girl I remember in my mind.

Perhaps this isn’t great for my sanity – but in truth, life isn’t good for my sanity. This at least allows me to carry on.

s551655900_1544891_7890

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Autism: A Heavy Cross to Bear

My heart has been hurting all day, and the tears continue to flow. We went to the petting zoo and fed the animals again, as part of my husband’s birthday celebration. While it still felt natural to be there talking with and feeding the animals, it did not remove the pain.

I still haven’t been able to talk with my husband about ‘our’ daughter… I just can’t. He knows I am upset, but not why. Likely he thinks it is him and so is afraid to ask.

Instead I immersed myself into the life of Sims, building a new family; us really, with our kids, created much the same as we were when the children were first placed with us. The resemblance – especially for all the children, is remarkably strong to who they were then.

I only moved them in. I haven’t started playing yet. It got late, and I think I am afraid of them ageing – or worse, having the kids taken by the social workers (this happened playing Sims before when I couldn’t get the children to do their schoolwork – it was very traumatic for me and took me many days to recover.)

My ‘cross’ is a very difficult one to carry. Here is another trauma, which I must experience on my own for in ‘their’ eyes I haven’t the right to be told. If ‘my baby’ dies, will I be told that?

wii

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Autism: Terrified

My heart aches. My head hurts. I cry out to God – my hope is gone.

I want to reach into the pictures from before I lost her and pull her through, and never let her go again. But I can’t do that and it tears my heart all over again. I want my babies, and I can’t have them – and how do I live with that?

How do I keep going knowing this?

The future is filled with pain and I am terrified of it.

Battlefield Park

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Autism: Unwanted Dreams

As thoughts of my children overwhelm me, there is a sadness which catches within and threatens me with memories and fears of despair. My heart and soul long for their return even now, though they have been gone eight long years.

I woke up with the song “God is Awesome,” running through my head. “… there is power here for miracles to set the captives free and make the broken whole…” I am broken. I was broken before my children were taken that day, but in that moment I was shattered.

The thought of my children returning fills my mind with dreams of a future; an expansion of my heart and life where all other ‘dreams’ are of shelter, isolation, retreat. I still want to learn such things, and still think they are ‘good’ things to do – but in my children I see ‘life’ and ‘purpose.’ I see ‘future’ and ‘hope.’ And while I worry about the transition for my son that was left with us, I also see that my fears of him being alone, and even for his faith, have their answer in this.

But what is the point? This dream is a fantasy on par with my desire for teleportation and wishes that come true. It won’t happen – and this hope? It fills me with life and joy for a moment, and crashes in despair in the realization that it won’t ever happen.

The ministry would never come seeking us to take our children home – they neither saw the children as ‘ours’ (since we never had finalization on the adoption and weren’t related by blood) nor did they see us during that last year with us as a decent answer for the children.

And why would the children want us? They are settled where they are, even if it is foster care, and the girls wouldn’t even remember us, they were so young. Besides… what have I to offer them?

So the dream that shows me a life full of purpose, and healing in my heart, mind, and marriage, turns to despair as I admit to myself that it is impossible. And my heart breaks as I feel myself losing my children all over again. And again the loss threatens my sanity for there has been far too much of it.

The thought came strong after hearing the apology from my sister in law – for until that night I would have said that was more impossible than having my children returned to us, but it came. Unexpectedly, and unsought, it came. And I thought, if God could orchestrate that, having my children returned to me couldn’t be so hard.

And I allowed the thought. I fixated on it for days.

But dreams… in my life, dreams don’t come true.

And the pain that comes crashing over me when I realize again that the loss was forever… it destroys me. It shatters me all over again, and I wasn’t even healed from the first time.

I guess that there are some hopes, and some dreams that I must convince myself I don’t want. Children? That is one. My children? Never, ever, ever!

And yet even telling myself I don’t want them brings pain, and tears, and despair.

welland

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

Autism: Memories That Haunt Me

Well, the day is here. Seven years. It hasn’t always been this hard, but hard enough. Today I think of my children, and what might have been. I think of how quiet my house is. How empty. How large. Perhaps that is why each year at this time it becomes really hard to live here.

Last night I fought my way to sleep through tears, hopelessness, and an overwhelming sense of how broken the world is, and how broken my life is. I feel every loss, and every failure. Each and every one.

Vacation July 2016 014

I see my daughter at four, leaning in for a hug before she left for preschool with my husband. Achingly I hear my self deny her. I know why – I didn’t want her leaning across her sister, who had been sent from school despite spending the weekend treating her lice at home. I was overwhelmed. I would see her in a couple of hours, but was anxious about the appointment we were about to go into. I had my reasons. None of them good enough. I wish I had taken my baby in my arms – for three days later, when they let me see her for the last time, she had already been turned against me and wouldn’t come close.

“It is okay, Mommy,” she said. “They will let me come home.”

But they never did.

I see my daughter at six. Happy and smiling despite all of her struggles. Allowing us to change her plans, and drag her to an appointment (because she wasn’t allowed to go to school) even though we knew how hard change was on her. I see her relax as I assured her we would pick her up from the play room at the ministry when our appointment was over – but we never did.

I see my son at ten. Afraid, and vulnerable, and wanting so much to believe he would never be moved again. Wanting so much to be liked, and to fit in, that he would do and say anything. I see this child, who always surrounded himself with people – yet always seemed so alone.

I see my son at thirteen. Bravely coming to a strange place to watch his sister, while we went into an appointment – and being told he wasn’t allowed to go in with her. Awkward, and uncomfortable, and trying so hard to do the right thing despite all of this. I see his face as I walked out, and told him she wouldn’t be coming home with us. None of them would be coming home with us ever again. And I hear his words, and see his response these past seven years. “Family doesn’t matter,” he says. “People don’t mater.” “I would rather be alone.” And he is. That is the moment he stopped wanting to visit people. That is the moment he started hiding in the basement.

And I hate them for what they did to my children. And I forgive them, and think, “Maybe they were right.” Because I am broken now. And I hate myself for losing them. And I hate myself for trying. And it is so much easier to forgive other people – even when they took my children away.

The tears flow. Seven years, and that is enough pain for a lifetime. Yet the memories don’t end there. Over and over again I see those moments:

  • The last, struggled breaths of my dog – and how he looked lying dead on the table once he was gone… and the box that now takes his place.
  • The last pained breaths of my cats, my rabbits, my guinea pigs – and the very tears I cried as I held them in the end.
  • The last look at my Grandmother before I turned the corner in her apartment building, and left her for the last time.
  • My Grandfather, two of my cousins, my father, my mother’s mom…

And I think, as the losses pile up, and the memories haunt me like ghosts – I don’t think I can take any more. My mind will break. My heart will break. I can’t. I can’t. And I remember that thing that people say, “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” Is that biblical? I wonder. Can it possibly be? But what about those whose minds do break? What about those who snap, and take their lives, or take the lives of others – was it not too much for them?

I don’t know. Seven years. Seven years, and the pain remains. A hard, hard day.

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Autism: This Week Broken

This is the week. The most difficult week in all the year, and I am feeling it. By the time I post this, it will be over – but that makes it no less difficult to get through. I can feel it coming, like some dreaded experience, though the experience of it happened seven years ago. Seven. Such a Biblical number, don’t you think?

Seven years should bring rest. While my body pretty much is at rest (my dog is still recovering from her surgery, and I don’t like to move from her, for she wants to follow) my heart and mind are not. I am full of anxiety, irritation, and depression. I feel anything but restful. Not grateful. Not content. Not calm. I know I am supposed to be, but I am not, and that only makes me feel worse.

Seven years of “after.” Seven years of “since.” It happened so long ago, that I should have healed. But I haven’t. In moment I think I have, but so many things are triggers, that so quickly I realize that I haven’t really healed at all. I should have healed. I haven’t. Another failure to add to my list. I begin to think that I was never resilient to begin with – that word that they like to throw around to help them feel better for the things they feel they have to do. “People are resilient,” they say. “Children are resilient.” Whatever helps them to sleep better at night, I guess, but not all of us are. Not all of us. Probably in their line of work, the majority of the people (adults and children – who are not that different, really) are likely not resilient.

welland

So maybe I shouldn’t have tried to adopt in the first place – being one of the not resilient ones. Maybe they shouldn’t have approved me. Only I was taught (as if it were fact) that if I tried hard enough, I could… and if I worked hard enough, I could succeed. Never was it even suggested that this might not be true. Those who fail are those who don’t try hard enough, or work hard enough.

Besides, I was feeling pretty good at that point in my life, and fully believed I was healed of those issues in my past (at least in the moment… perhaps if they had asked me on a different day…) and I was already (successfully) working with children.

I had the desire. I had the education. I had the empathy, and the mercy, and the love. I had the time. I had the space. And most important of all, I tried hard. I worked hard. Every day I worked to succeed at this. I tried enough. I worked enough. But somewhere along the way someone was flawed in their thinking.

Maybe if some people work hard, and try hard, they can succeed. Some. Not all. Not all.

So I failed, seven years ago – and above the trauma, and above the loss and the pain, and my own shame over not being able to succeed at something that so many others manage to succeed at (for I compare myself with all parents, and not just those who try to adopt through the foster care system – I can’t help it) but I also still feel the judgment of so many others who seem to believe if I had only tried hard enough, or worked hard enough, I could have adopted those children. I want to shout out, “I did!” Though I know it wouldn’t make a difference.

Seven years. And what is more, I am also turning forty this week. Another biblical number. Forty days and forty nights of rain. Forty days in the dessert. Forty years in the wilderness. Forty. Another number promising an end to suffering and pain, and the beginning of hope. Seven years and forty years, both in the same week. Will things get easier after this?

I am trying. Trying not to think of it – though my days are filled with fear, pain, sadness, hopelessness… My nights are filled with tears, and insomnia. I am struggling through with headaches and exhaustion. This week. Trying, trying, always trying… yet though I try so hard to think of other things, and find positive ways to spend my time, it does no good. This week, I am broken.

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

Autism: The Pain That Never Ends

Though I have only been awake for a few hours, it has already been a rough day. It was rough as I awoke, and while in the past few days, I have awoken to similar thoughts, the rest of the week I quickly got past it. Today has been different.

I conclude that this thought, this pain, this panic, will never truly heal in this lifetime. There is a hole that cannot be filled, and a pain that cannot be reconciled. Though I have days where I find joy, I have never truly forgotten – and I only have to look to my dreams, and the prayer I begin before I even wake up, to know how deeply it affects me still.

I was in a room. A long room filled along one wall with shelves that had numerous toys, games, puzzles, and books. In the dream, I thought it was a room from a house that I used to live in. Now that I am awake, I am pretty sure it was one of the preschool rooms in my church. It doesn’t matter, really.

In my arms was my baby. My angel. Beside me was a friend, and this friend had decided that she would adopt this child in my arms, since I was unable to. She asked me if this was okay, and though it pained me, I agreed with her. The child would have a good home, and at least I would know her. At least I would see her.

wii

For days, weeks, months, in the dream, I spent much of my time in my friend’s apartment (this room where I used to live) with this child who was, yet wasn’t mine. In the beginning, the baby called me, ‘Mama.’ As time went by, and the adoption was going through, she began to call my friend ‘Mama.’ That hurt, too. It hurt a lot! But still I was in the life of my baby, and it had to be enough.

And then I found out that this friend and her husband were trying to buy a condo, and would be taking ‘my baby’ away from me. It isn’t that they intended to take her away, but it was a really nice place, in a good neighbourhood, and it would be best for the child. Besides, this friend and her husband had always wanted to live there, and now they had the opportunity.

It didn’t matter to me that it was a beautiful condo, in a nice neighbourhood. Where they were living was next to me. The apartment was fine, and I never felt unsafe there. What mattered was that they were taking ‘my baby’ from me.

At the end of the dream, I was walking through this condo, holding ‘my baby,’ when my friend found me. She said, “you didn’t even tell me where you were going, you just disappeared.” I needed to see where my daughter would be living, and it was a beautiful home – new kitchen, hardwood floors, gas fireplace in the sunken living room… beautiful.

But nothing could convince my heart and mind that taking my child away from me was worth… whatever they were giving to her.

And I awoke crying, “Please bring my babies back to me,” as if, even six and a half years later, it is still some nightmare that I can wake up from. “Please don’t take them away.” And it has been the same for many days. The dreams are always different. The people, the places, the story… always different. But the message is always the same – my babies were taken away, and I want them back.

How could anyone have thought this would be better for me than raising the children, challenging as they were.

The pain that never ends. The tears that never dry up. The trauma that will never be overcome. The hole that can never be filled. Not in this lifetime, anyway. Is it any wonder it is hard to keep going most days?

*This post was written and scheduled, as were many along with it, before my dog died.  I have been rearranging my scheduled posts, to post the ones about my dog during the time I have been struggling with that loss.

 

Tags: , , , , , , , , , , ,

 
%d bloggers like this: