With B, who is the children's stepfather, leaving for work and still learning how to navigate these more intense episodes, I decided it was time to intervene. I walked into my daughter's room to find her buried under her blankets from head to toe. When I finally coaxed her out from under the pile and asked her what was going on, her response surprised me. She said, "You don't understand! You just don't get it! Dad probably gave "E" (her brother) the working Kindle on purpose because I was a mistake! That's probably why he left!" In that moment, feeling her pain as my own, my heart shattered into a million pieces.
Our minds and our emotions work in tangent, weaving together our perception of reality. It never occurred to me that the Kindle was more than just an electronic device in my daughter's eyes. To her, it was the last thing her father had given her; after years of limited-to-no contact, this was the only tangible evidence she had of his love for her. When hers broke and her brother's didn't, it brought to the surface a fear that had been lingering deep within her heart: It was her fault. It was her fault that her Dad had left because she was a mistake. She wasn't enough. She wasn't worth staying for.
Of course, this wasn't the case. Not at all. For the last four years, I'd been keeping the truth about the split from my children. I thought I was protecting them. What I didn't know was that my daughter's reality, the truth that she had created in her mind, was worse than the actual truth. I knew then, as my daughter exposed her broken spirit, that by withholding the truth I had impeded her ability to grieve.
Through tears, I told her that the simple answer was that her father had left because I'd asked him to. Why I asked him to leave was the hard part to explain. I struggled, at first, to find the right words. I had been dreading this conversation for so long and felt unprepared. How do you explain to a child that good people often do bad things?
I'd once told my daughter that the reason her Daddy stayed away was because he was sick. I likened it to a really bad cold. I told her that when someone is sick, they don't want to spread it to others, so they keep to themselves until they are well. I decided to ask her if she remembered that conversation. She said she did. I explained that her Dad was sick but that his affliction was far worse than a cold: he had an illness called drug addiction. I told her that her father was a good man who held a lot of pain in his heart and unfortunately, had chosen to deal with it in an unhealthy way. I told her that sometimes all it takes is one bad decision, just one time using a drug, for it to consume your mind and body. I told her that I had loved him and that I had tried to help him but he'd been unable to win the battle against the drugs. I told her that when people use drugs, they are unable to make good choices and that our home had become unsafe with him in it. I told her that even though it broke my heart to end our marriage, I had to let it go. I had a responsibility to her, her brother and to myself to create a safe, stable living environment. I had allowed my love for her father to cloud my judgment for far too long. I had to make a better life for the three of us.
As I shared all of this with her, I cried. Hard. With every sob that escaped from me, she held me tighter and patted my back as if to show me she understood that Mommy had been hurting, too. Once the hard part was over, I talked with her about the most important thing: that she had always been wanted. I told her about how I'd always dreamed of having a daughter and how her Dad and I had planned for her. I told her that we had loved her even before she was born; how we'd listened to her heartbeat for the very first time, how we'd selected her name excitedly and how enamored we'd both been when we were finally able to hold her in our arms; a vision of perfection. She listened intently to every detail and smiled. "God doesn't make mistakes", I said, "He makes miracles." And she was ours. And now she was B's, too.
We clung to each other for a while as we wept silent tears and let it all sink in. After a few minutes had passed, we talked about love and how not only were there many kinds of love but that we all had the capacity to carry an infinite amount of love in our hearts. We talked about her Dad and how wherever he is, he no doubt loves her and that maybe the best way he is able to show it to her right now is to stay away and allow her to enjoy a better life than the one he can provide for her. We talked about it being okay to love her Dad and to love B, her future adoptive Dad. We talked about choices, promises, commitments, respect, love and everything in between. In the span of an hour, we had traversed a rugged terrain of emotions and furthered the healing of our souls.
As adults, we often underestimate our children. We believe they are too young, too inexperienced, to understand life and the consequences of our choices. We forget that we need them as much as they need us. Today, I was able to relieve some of the hurt my daughter had been holding inside and in turn, she relieved me of the burden I had been carrying. She absolved me of blame and told me she understood. She comforted me as much as I had comforted her.
Today was a lesson in compassion and resilience. Tomorrow we begin anew, assembling the fractured pieces of our past with those of the present, building a future filled with healing, hope and as always, love.
:-( sad but happy. You are a great mom! THe kids are so lucky you are theirs!
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