There are Some Good Things

We live in a nice, cute & safe home, which I can afford. My boys are able bodied and minded and excellent in many ways. They are creative, strong, bright, fun, and funny as hell. We enjoy the stability and love of Sweet Greg and Favorite and her family for all of the special days, crises, and best of all – for the majority of ordinary days in between. Favorite and Sweet Greg remain unshakable sources of goodness and comfort and so much laughter. We also have the good fortune of a few great neighbors. I have satisfying work in which I feel increasingly competent and valued. I receive steady income, health insurance, paid time off for vacation and illness, things I went without for 7 difficult years, while caring for small and frequently ill children by myself without court ordered support. I have a program of recovery to guide me through the easy and the hard times—as I had been neither raised nor encouraged to effectively navigate the world.

My older son will undergo a four hour MRI in 2 weeks, ideally to rule out MS. Without program wisdom and support, I would be utterly deranged over the implications and possibilities- a puddle on the floor over the fact that we (his father and I) will not support him similarly or together through whatever this may be.

Recovery teaches and reminds me to live one day at a time, to surrender what I cannot control or know. While I still struggle to accept haaaard things, I at least am now able to accept the reality of them. The practice of acceptance, not the feeling. Like, I accept that there may be something amiss in my boy’s spine, something scary. AND I still feel the fear, only I dont spin my wheels trying to change, understand, or know what I cannot. Worrying and obsessing will change nothing about the outcome. I have faith that I will do whatever needs to be done and that I will not be alone. These are my miracles. I am not hopeless, helpless, or alone –as my FOO and boys’ father insisted and wanted me to believe.

Fock, it always comes back to this. But seriously. I cannot help but marvel at initiatives to communicate, that I was wrong(in my being), invalid, discardable. The lies, the myths, the cycles, the impact of that: so much pain and anger with no place to put it or heal it– until I found the rooms and wisdom of recovery. And so, the healing continues. One day at a time I persist in the work of growing my capacity to love and be loved!