Sixteen Years
After a fit of uncontrollable rage followed by the cycle back down at age seven, my beautiful daughter slept on her bedroom floor.
I called my mother, resigned, sad, and utterly exhausted.
Parenting is hard.
Should it be this hard?
I don’t know. I’m sure it’s harder for some than for others. I told my mother that day this little girl wasn’t going to see the age of sixteen unless we changed her path and gave her a chance. She’d been bullied. I’ve written countless blogs over the years on the failure of schools, the differences between teasing and systemic bullying, and the vast difference kindness makes in a child’s situation. Loving a bullied child as hard as I could may have been fairly new when she as seven years old, but the evergreen thought that my baby bundle of joy might not reach an age of enjoying life’s precious moments weighed heavy.
Yesterday, that little girl turned sixteen. She’s been hospitalized three times in the past twelve months for suicide ideation. She struggles with many emotions. Hardships follow her like bad omens. Her choices as a result have not been the greatest. This cycle has followed her for longer than even she can remember. I can’t say I’m not surprised at the elation I felt as we reached a milestone together. Age sixteen. I’m not ready for a driver. She does it, but it might still be a while before she does it alone. I’m not ready for a public campus school. She’d love to go back to ‘normal’ life despite my teachings of what others see as normal compared to our lives and how everyone’s norm varies from others. She moved to an online school last year and almost completed an entire school year before summer hit. Unlike my other two children, transitioning during a pandemic wasn’t difficult for her because her school was built online. Cool, cool, cool.
At sixteen, I still wish for huge differences for her life. I still hope she makes it. She’s sixteen, not completely healed. We met a milestone, but she’s not yet a survivor. Are any of us truly survivors yet? Each day is different, some more challenging than others, but each day is a blessing. I can’t live each year celebrating a milestone of survivorship… well, I can actually. But instead of doing that, I will continue to love her and support her on her path of healing.
I told her yesterday as she cried after watching our aging Saint Bernard struggle to get up as he does at the end of the day, to try to appreciate where he is and love him every day. I don’t have a two year old buddy who follows me everywhere eyes filled with wonder, telling me not to worry about the goldfish crackers she dropped on the floor because the ‘birdies ‘ill eat ‘em.’ I’d give almost anything for those days again. But I have a sixteen year old, and I’m going to celebrate every moment I’ve had with her trying not to mourn for the past. One day we’ll lose our aging Saint – probably one day sooner than we’d like. But, hopefully, we’ll mourn together because she’s still here with me.
Be well
~ Stellslept