Categories: uncategorized
Date: 26 November 2009 12:23:14
This is a letter I'm thinking of printing out and having handy in my pocket to give to people who try to give helpful advice, seeing as I am struggling to say it outright. Even if I never use it, it's probably useful to get it off my chest. :) Please don’t tell me how to feel. I know you’re doing it with the best of intentions, because you care, and for that I am grateful. I appreciate that you care enough to give me advice, but until you’ve walked a mile in my shoes, you cannot know my life, my feelings, my motivations. You cannot tell me how to feel. So please don’t tell me that it’s time to let my son go. He’s not just my adopted son, he’s my son. I love him. I love him and his brother more than anyone in the world. He may be 17, but in my heart is the six-year-old, the seven-year-old, the ten-year-old, the fourteen-year-old, each moment of the life that we’ve shared where he’s been deep in my heart and my whole existence has been centred around keeping him safe and helping him grow. In my heart, too, is the deep sorrow that I never held him as a baby, never carried him in my womb, never fed him at my breast, was not there to protect him from the bad things which have so blighted the rest of his life. This is the boy to whom I made a solemn promise before God never to abandon him, to love him unconditionally and always be there to support him as he made his way into the adult life he so feared. If he had died, aged 16, how soon would you expect me to stop mourning? How long does it take to get over the loss of a son. If he had caught meningitis and been severely disabled, would you advise me to leave him to the professionals now and get on with my life? This is a bereavement with no closure. My son is gone, but is still there. The house is full of reminders, my daily life is full of reminders. I do get on with my own life – don’t tell me that’s what I need to do, because that’s what I do. Mostly. My youngest is my priority, and keeping myself fit and sane is important for all three of us. I know that. I do that. As far as is humanly possible. And my life is full of blessings. And please don’t tell me I can’t do anything for him now. I know that too. Do you think that makes it somehow easier? This isn’t a faulty camera that you throw away and buy a replacement for… and how difficult is it sometimes just to throw those away? How many households have a collection of cameras which don’t work any more? But this is my son. Through what has happened, I have lost a whole lot more than just him, than just my hopes and dreams for him, than just the companionship of him, than just the joy of watching him grow to manhood. I have lost friends. I have lost financial security. I have lost my health. My extended family relationships have been shaken and tested to the full. And the life I had anticipated for myself has fallen apart and can only be rebuilt one day at a time. But if being there for both my sons can make this worthwhile, then I am there for them, and the loss of one of my treasures will take a lifetime to overcome, whether I want it to or not. My life isn’t over, my heart isn’t completely broken, I have hope and determination - ask me and I will tell you about them and each day they get stronger; but allow me to grieve, allow me to worry, allow me to think of my sons and do all I can to help them both achieve what success and happiness and sanity and goodness and security they can. I have two sons – I do that for each of them, no matter what. And incidentally, I don’t feel guilt. I don’t feel that I’ve let him down. So you don’t need to keep telling me not to feel guilty. I have given him everything I could, to the best of my ability. His problems are not caused by me, well, no more than anyone’s problems are caused by their parents. There are things I could have done better. There are things I am disappointed in myself about, just as all parents are. But this goes back to what happened to him before he came to me. But it doesn’t stop me wanting to do my best for him still. I can’t put it right. I’ve never been in a position to put it right. But I love him and care for him and want what is best for him, even when that is that he stays in prison for a long time. I am working, with support, on building my life, but that life that I’m building includes both my sons. I am working, with support, on keeping myself healthy despite the stress, but this can only be done by working through the emotions and the situations, not by denying them. My youngest son has a game he plays with his friends. It’s called “The Game”. The object of this game is not to think of it. If you think of it at all, you have to say “I’ve just lost The Game”. The game lasts all day, but if you remember that, you’ve lost. Try it. Then realise that telling me to let go and get on with my own life is just like telling me not to think of The Game. Please be there for me, please listen, please continue to care. But I am who I am – letting go is not an option, and it will take time to let this sorrow find its natural level in this life which is still mine for the living.