Parenting makes me uncomfortably conscious of my flaws. No one can adequately express to us before we, in our complete ignorance, cross that threshold to become the protectors and guardians of the people who are more precious to us than any other thing in all the world, how daunting that task will actually be. They try... they try to tell us that our hearts will beat outside of our bodies, that we will have to teach them everything, and that they will learn everything from us. That last one is a biggie, not that the others are not, but seriously, these little humans learn who to be from us. To quote Marty McFly "that's heavy."
My eldest has to face things on a daily basis that most adults couldn't even imagine. Most people couldn't deal with flashbacks, with panic attacks, or with profound anxiety, with debilitating separation anxiety... He does and he's only nine. He's nine and he's seen his brother die and his mother completely disappear. Now he looks to me to try to navigate the pain and the fear.
Honestly, this may be the only thing that would ever make me deal with my fury. Anger is where I go. Anger is "safe," anger is the huge, vicious, black protector of pain.
I see anger in my son.
There is so much I use to rely on that just doesn't hold for me anymore. My parameters for morality were based entirely on religion... none of that works now. I've had to rework my frame of reference. Here's what I've figured out. The way I behave, the way I choose to react to the world is about me. It isn't about society, or Jesus, or Budda, or Vishnu, or Allah... it's about me.
Who do I want to be?
This is the question I have had to put to my son at such a young age. Yes, life isn't fair. There is no caveat to this. You've been cheated. You've been viciously wounded and that is NOT FAIR. Denying this to someone so deeply hurt only exacerbates the wound. Yes, you have every right to stew in your anger. Yes, you have every right to hate the world and all of the people with intact families, healthy little brothers, and parents who are not afraid of crowds and sometimes just disappear inside themselves.
But... is that who you want to be?
It has taken me years to get to this place, to get to a place where I am even willing to consider this seriously. Who do I want to be? Sometimes I'm infuriated by the question. Sometimes I just want to be pissed. Sometimes I want to be a jerk. The world doesn't even come close to comprehending the pain of a bereaved parent, not the fear of a moment when my mind wanders, not the nightmares, not the constant, deep, resonating ache. Sometimes I just want to stew in my resentment... Sometimes
But most of the time I want to be a person who can be trusted. Most of the time I want to be a person who is invariably kind, a person who makes someone else's day a little better, even if I don't know it, someone who is an advocate and defender of those who are not yet strong enough to defend themselves. Ultimately, I want to be a healer, not a destroyer.
Being mom makes me battle this dichotomy of grief. It makes me actively choose. Am I going to teach my son to choose to continue to open his heart to inevitable pain and live a life of healing or will I teach him to close his wounded soul to the world and suffocate in his own pain and anger?
One minute at a time I am asking myself, is this who I want to be?
Until next time...
