After reading my most recent post, a little less stress, about giving up on logging Calvin's behaviors, etc., in a daily journal, a friend my age, who some years ago lost his daughter to opioid addiction, shared his thoughts about what I had written. He said:
Letting go. Acceptance. It comes last, and in endless layers, one thin peel at a time. I know. Believe me: I know some version of this.
We hold on to magical thinking, and only in release ... slowly, sequentially, only as we are able, feather by feather ... is there relief.
I think I know ... I can't say I for sure know, but I think I know ... I think I understand this sort of surrender of which you speak, and the modicum of peace that follows.
Time and readiness. Patience and prayer. For all of us.
His gorgeous words were particularly moving to me. I hadn't considered my decision to give up the daily task of logging in a journal as a kind of acceptance of Calvin and his stubborn condition of intractable epilepsy. I thought of it more as a way to reduce my level of stress. However, in my first day of not logging, I felt more present in my son's life, not feeling compelled, whenever I saw what I thought might be a seizure harbinger, to run to my journal to jot it down. The result was something I hadn't fully expected, which was a kind of admission and acceptance that I didn't have full control over my son's epilepsy, and that journaling—though it once served a purpose—might no longer be necessary or helpful, and that Calvin will be okay even if he seizes. Rather than logging every suspicious behavior, I've just noted them in my head, sat with each for a bit, then continued to engage with my child—embracing, kissing, tickling. It was a relief not to be hyper-focused on documenting. I was focused instead on my son without suffering some of the angst I usually feel. Putting the journal away, to a great extent, has allowed me to let go.
With new insight, I reread what my friend wrote. Certain words stood out. Acceptance. Endless. Thin peel. Relief. Surrender. Peace. I felt all of these things the first day I gave up logging Calvin's woeful and suspicious behaviors. In giving up that routine, I also give up emphasizing in my mind and on paper the negative aspects of Calvin's days, therefore depriving them of a certain agency. So, too, do I relinquish a certain amount of cynicism leaving more space for hope, optimism and healthiness. Maybe Calvin will feel this effect, too. Perhaps he'll seize less. We run in such close circles, inches or feet away from each other at all times, I can only imagine he'll benefit.
Letting go. Acceptance. It comes last, and in endless layers, one thin peel at a time. I know. Believe me: I know some version of this.
We hold on to magical thinking, and only in release ... slowly, sequentially, only as we are able, feather by feather ... is there relief.
I think I know ... I can't say I for sure know, but I think I know ... I think I understand this sort of surrender of which you speak, and the modicum of peace that follows.
Time and readiness. Patience and prayer. For all of us.
His gorgeous words were particularly moving to me. I hadn't considered my decision to give up the daily task of logging in a journal as a kind of acceptance of Calvin and his stubborn condition of intractable epilepsy. I thought of it more as a way to reduce my level of stress. However, in my first day of not logging, I felt more present in my son's life, not feeling compelled, whenever I saw what I thought might be a seizure harbinger, to run to my journal to jot it down. The result was something I hadn't fully expected, which was a kind of admission and acceptance that I didn't have full control over my son's epilepsy, and that journaling—though it once served a purpose—might no longer be necessary or helpful, and that Calvin will be okay even if he seizes. Rather than logging every suspicious behavior, I've just noted them in my head, sat with each for a bit, then continued to engage with my child—embracing, kissing, tickling. It was a relief not to be hyper-focused on documenting. I was focused instead on my son without suffering some of the angst I usually feel. Putting the journal away, to a great extent, has allowed me to let go.
With new insight, I reread what my friend wrote. Certain words stood out. Acceptance. Endless. Thin peel. Relief. Surrender. Peace. I felt all of these things the first day I gave up logging Calvin's woeful and suspicious behaviors. In giving up that routine, I also give up emphasizing in my mind and on paper the negative aspects of Calvin's days, therefore depriving them of a certain agency. So, too, do I relinquish a certain amount of cynicism leaving more space for hope, optimism and healthiness. Maybe Calvin will feel this effect, too. Perhaps he'll seize less. We run in such close circles, inches or feet away from each other at all times, I can only imagine he'll benefit.
Fully being in the moment with your son is probably the best gift that you can give to him (and, also, to yourself). Your journal has been valuable and it has finally led you to this point where it can now sit on the shelf while you and Calvin fully share together whatever is to come, as it comes. I barely know you, but I know that you are a good mom and a good person. Keep on at it and keep on growing. Hugs to you all.
ReplyDeleteIt sounds like huge growth is happening for both of you, Christy. I'm so glad that you're writing about it.
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