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<blockquote data-quote="Scent of Cedar *" data-source="post: 627811" data-attributes="member: 17461"><p>Stephen King wrote a book once (Misery) in which he described pain like a tide coming in. During the worst pain, he would remember that the ebb was coming. And that after the ebb, he might be pain free until the tide came in again, until the pain built up again.</p><p></p><p>Knowing that was his situation, the character in the novel was able to find his footing. Knowing that the pain would ebb enabled the character to survive it.</p><p></p><p>That imagery has helped me to survive during the worst of it. Sometimes, it takes days. It feels like it is never going to end, like I am isolated behind this transparent wall of pain. I can see other people, but their laughter, their wishes for friendship or for someone to confide in echo and bounce off those transparent walls so that nothing they say reaches me. When the walls finally thin, when they finally break apart, I feel raw, vulnerable; feel like some prisoner, blinking and cringing at the light.</p><p></p><p>But it passes, T.E.</p><p></p><p>So I hang on to that. That it is going to pass, that I will be okay again one day. </p><p></p><p>You will get through this, T.E.</p><p></p><p>I am sorry this is happening to you, or to any of us. We have one another here, and that is a blessing.</p><p></p><p>Any smallest blessing helps us find our footing, and we don't fall as far before we find a place to dig in to and stand up, again.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>We have to see what is true, T.E. We have to know. I used to make difficult child son show my his teeth. It was the strangest thing. He always denied using. I researched all I could about drug use and addiction. I learned that meth use damages teeth.</p><p></p><p>So I always checked his teeth. </p><p></p><p>And he let me do it, too.</p><p></p><p>Months would go by, T.E., and I would check this grown man's teeth, first thing.</p><p></p><p>?</p><p></p><p>I suppose it gave me something to hang onto? Some concrete thing to look for, maybe?</p><p></p><p>I love myself, I feel such compassion for the self I was, then. There was this unimaginable pain body just in the living of every day, in the jerking into the middle of the night awakeness when my defenses were down.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>I am glad you were able to cry, T.E. </p><p></p><p>Tears heal.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>In honoring the depth of my pain T.E., in acknowledging the depth of my loss, I have been able to understand that those others whose children are healthy and whole, whose grandchildren are well brought up, cannot begin to understand what this has been like. If I hadn't lived it myself? I wouldn't get it, either. There was a time when I was pretty arrogant about my kids, about my parenting skills and where my life was going.</p><p></p><p>Not anymore.</p><p></p><p>But you know what I think now about all this, T.E?</p><p></p><p>I am so happy for them that they will never, ever come to know what I know about pain and loss and hopelessness.</p><p></p><p>I don't know why, but that understanding has been an unshakeable source of strength for me.</p><p></p><p>It still catches me sometimes, when friends or family members (rightfully so) brag about their children.</p><p></p><p>I am grateful for them, then, that they do not know what I know.</p><p></p><p>Somehow, that soothes the pain. I don't know why. but the way I see it is that beggars can't be choosers. Anything, anything at all that helps me stand up again, I am there.</p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p></p><p>It is, T.E., right now. It will pass. Hang on. Honor your grief. You have lost so much already. </p><p></p><p>This is the cost of loving your child.</p><p></p><p>He is worth it.</p><p></p><p>There are times we have to turn away ~ how much to help, what to believe, that kind of thing. But that we love them, that they are self-destructing...there is no turning away from that, T.E.</p><p></p><p>All we can do, the only thing we can do, is accept it. </p><p></p><p>It is never wrong to love them, T.E. </p><p></p><p>You are strong enough to do this.</p><p></p><p>Cedar</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Scent of Cedar *, post: 627811, member: 17461"] Stephen King wrote a book once (Misery) in which he described pain like a tide coming in. During the worst pain, he would remember that the ebb was coming. And that after the ebb, he might be pain free until the tide came in again, until the pain built up again. Knowing that was his situation, the character in the novel was able to find his footing. Knowing that the pain would ebb enabled the character to survive it. That imagery has helped me to survive during the worst of it. Sometimes, it takes days. It feels like it is never going to end, like I am isolated behind this transparent wall of pain. I can see other people, but their laughter, their wishes for friendship or for someone to confide in echo and bounce off those transparent walls so that nothing they say reaches me. When the walls finally thin, when they finally break apart, I feel raw, vulnerable; feel like some prisoner, blinking and cringing at the light. But it passes, T.E. So I hang on to that. That it is going to pass, that I will be okay again one day. You will get through this, T.E. I am sorry this is happening to you, or to any of us. We have one another here, and that is a blessing. Any smallest blessing helps us find our footing, and we don't fall as far before we find a place to dig in to and stand up, again. We have to see what is true, T.E. We have to know. I used to make difficult child son show my his teeth. It was the strangest thing. He always denied using. I researched all I could about drug use and addiction. I learned that meth use damages teeth. So I always checked his teeth. And he let me do it, too. Months would go by, T.E., and I would check this grown man's teeth, first thing. ? I suppose it gave me something to hang onto? Some concrete thing to look for, maybe? I love myself, I feel such compassion for the self I was, then. There was this unimaginable pain body just in the living of every day, in the jerking into the middle of the night awakeness when my defenses were down. I am glad you were able to cry, T.E. Tears heal. In honoring the depth of my pain T.E., in acknowledging the depth of my loss, I have been able to understand that those others whose children are healthy and whole, whose grandchildren are well brought up, cannot begin to understand what this has been like. If I hadn't lived it myself? I wouldn't get it, either. There was a time when I was pretty arrogant about my kids, about my parenting skills and where my life was going. Not anymore. But you know what I think now about all this, T.E? I am so happy for them that they will never, ever come to know what I know about pain and loss and hopelessness. I don't know why, but that understanding has been an unshakeable source of strength for me. It still catches me sometimes, when friends or family members (rightfully so) brag about their children. I am grateful for them, then, that they do not know what I know. Somehow, that soothes the pain. I don't know why. but the way I see it is that beggars can't be choosers. Anything, anything at all that helps me stand up again, I am there. It is, T.E., right now. It will pass. Hang on. Honor your grief. You have lost so much already. This is the cost of loving your child. He is worth it. There are times we have to turn away ~ how much to help, what to believe, that kind of thing. But that we love them, that they are self-destructing...there is no turning away from that, T.E. All we can do, the only thing we can do, is accept it. It is never wrong to love them, T.E. You are strong enough to do this. Cedar [/QUOTE]
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