The irony of this blog is that I started it so that people directly involved in our family's life could read it and stay on the same page: so I didn't have to call or email or contact everyone every time something changed with Sissy's case. It also prevents those but you told "susan" xyz and told me pdq and now we're all confused. what's the REAL story? conversations because let's face it, as hard as we try, humans can never tell the same story twice. But alas, for my best intentions, the people this blog was initially intended for don't read it. Yet I censor what I say here anyway.
I censor myself because there are a mess of thoughts, emotions, truths and issues that if discussed openly would cause my lynching or thereabout by some purposed readers. I'm not really looking for a mob scene or for spilling ugly truths publicly. Over time the censorship became one of protection from the lurkers that think they know a thing or two about what they believe to be true in our RADical homes. Although I've not personally contended with malice, many of my blogger friends have. So I step lightly.
As a result, over time I feel like my posts have been superficial and not really expressed the depth of despair and loss I suffer from. Many of you tell me how much you appreciate my honest, bare-bones, raw approach to what happens in our family's daily life. I have received those praises with a grain of cynicism. Really, I'm not being as truthful as I could be. I restrain myself out of fear.
The truth is, I'm in no way leading the life I thought I would be. You know those conversations we had when we were kids what do you want to be when you grow up? All I got for that is "#$@& that Pollyanna #$**"
The truth is, that makes me spitfire angry; grind-my-teeth-to-nubs angry; punch-holes-in-drywall angry; go-to-the-firing-range angry; drive-off-and-never-come-back angry.
The truth is, I have allowed Sissy's crap to usurp my very being, everything that I am and hold dear.
The truth is, I'm an amazing woman but I don't know it because every day I'm confronted with an alternate truth that I'm a despicable, vile woman, the opinion of an 11 year old girl.
The truth is, I struggle to call her "daughter".
The truth is, I don't care that I struggle to call her "daughter" nor do I care that if Sissy knew of my struggle it could possibly hurt her feelings.
The truth is, it probably wouldn't.
The truth is, I keep hanging onto the sliver of hope that she might care.
The truth is, I don't see the point of carrying on this facade anymore.
The truth is, I don't have a choice.
The truth is, every day is a struggle to get up and try again.
The truth is, it doesn't make any difference to Sissy whether I do or not.
The truth is, once upon a time I had potential, vivacity, hope, joy, vigor, vitality, exuberance, selflessness, kindness, endurance, courage, determination, drive, and tenacity.
Now I have one dark, dismal day after another.
Raising a RAD has stolen it all and I'm terrified I'll never get it back.
At Demonstration Day for AB's Hippotherapy