You are not alone . . . .

There I was.

In the corner with two 2 years olds, playing cars, and I was crying.

Yep, me.
They looked at me strangely, but (the wonderful thing about two year olds) they didn't ask any questions.

I was substituting for Davin in the nursery at our church when Christopher's preschool teacher stopped by to talk.
I love this lady.
She asked if I had heard the news yet.
I hadn't.
She was moving . . . in two weeks.
No more preschool.
She choked up a little when she said "I'm sorry. I'm sorry to do this to Christopher."
In my mind I became the little girl who's best friend is moving away.
I wanted to grab her and plead for her to stay.
Instead I put on a big smile and told her congratulations.

When she left, the tears started falling.
I kept telling myself "It's just preschool! It's just preschool!"
But, it's not just preschool.
Christopher was comfortable there.
He felt included.
He felt special.
He didn't have tantrums.
His anxiety was almost non existent.
Can I find another preschool good enough?

As a mother of a child with his problems it's exhausting trying to explain his issues OVER and OVER and OVER again.
My heart breaks every time I have to tell a school or a playdate or a swim class why he may be a little different.
I want to tell them he is funny, he's smart, he's charming, he's special.
Deep down I know that this is a battle I will have to fight OVER and OVER and OVER again.

Just when I think I am alone in my fight I always find something to push me through.
God blesses me with tender mercies.
I found this blog post from A Diary of A Mom.
She is an amazing mother of an autistic daughter.
I needed this and I am sure it could help you.

My sweet friend,

I know how much you’re hurting. I so desperately wish I could lift you from this place.

You’re not alone. Please hear that. Really, truly HEAR it.

YOU. ARE. NOT. ALONE.

I say that because I know how lonely that place feels. Especially when the people within arm’s reach don’t get it.

But I do. I get it. I promise you, I do.

We push and we push and we push and God, we push some more, don’t we? And sometimes we have absolutely no idea how we can possibly keep pushing. Sometimes we can’t.

Do you remember Sisyphus from the Greek myths? Poor schmuck was punished by the Gods – for what I don’t remember – and his penance was that for the rest of his life he was to push a boulder up a hill. Every time he pushed it, he managed to get just a little bit closer to the top. And every time he got incrementally closer than he had on the last run, the damn thing came rolling down. EVERY. SINGLE. TIME.

So let’s review – Herculean effort. Barely perceptible progress. Dramatic fall. Dust off. Start again.

Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?

And sometimes – sometimes – the pushing is just too much to bear. And we sit for a moment. We try to breathe. And then we find ourselves paralyzed at the bottom of that hill.

We chide ourselves because we know better than to stop moving. It’s the mantra of this club, isn’t it? Never Stop Moving. So we slap a palm to our forehead and shout to the heavens, “How could I have let myself stop moving?” And the guilt and the shame cement our feet to the ground. And now, no matter how much we may want to, we CAN’T move.

And then it starts. A pebble here, a pebble there. The business of life begins to fall to the ground. A rock and then a bigger rock. The stuff that simply must be done to keep ourselves, our family, our children moving forward. The ground is littered with What We Just Can Not Do Right Now.

And while we try to catch the falling rocks, there’s still this business of the godforsaken boulder. And the feet cemented to the ground.

There’s a low rumble, then a deafening roar as the avalanche begins. And really? There’s nowhere to hide. We duck and cover the best we can.

***

We all have moments that flatten us, my friend. And sometimes those moments are days and sometimes those days are weeks. But when the weeks turn to months and the rocks are piling up so high that they are threatening to destroy us, it’s time to get some help. Some REAL help.

And I know that there’s no easy fix. I know what it means to ‘get help.’ It means sifting through the rubble. It means facing down the demons that you’ve worked so hard and for so long to stuff away. And it’s terrifying.

I get that. Far more than I’d like to admit. I get that.

But here’s the thing. You’re facing down those demons every day whether you acknowledge them or not. They’re riding shotgun, sister. Always. And they’re sucking the life out of you.

Saying their name doesn’t make them real. They’re already plenty real. So say their name. Stare them down. Take back the power that you’ve given them. Release yourself from their strangle hold. It’s time.

You can do this.

First thing – Step out of the shoes that are stuck to the ground. Walk away from the guilt and the shame. You don’t need them anymore. You never did.

Ask for help. REAL help.

Walk in and say, “I’m ready.” If you don’t feel it, LIE.

Because the rocks don’t stop falling. The business of life simply doesn’t cease. The boulder has to be rolled up the hill. Our kids demand that we be whole and healthy and present.

And we deserve a life. A life with joy. A life with manageable demons.

It’s too much to do alone. Those dang demons are well-fed after all these years. But it CAN be done.

I’m here.

I’ll help in whatever way I can. I’ll even keep an eye on the boulder while you do what you need to do.

Please.

Take care of you.

With love,

Jess

Why do we forget that there are others who know how we are feeling?

Why do we forget that others have so much more to bear?

I would like to say that I don't have pity parties.

That I can push that boulder up the hill and never complain, but I can't.

Sometimes, I am the crazy woman in the corner with the two year olds, crying. :)

What a journey life is!

I am thankful for the help I receive along the way.