Tidal Waves

I know I've been silent the last week.  Every time I would go to write I found myself empty, with absolutely nothing left to say.  Life has been rough lately, so very tough, and I found myself hanging on a precipice.  My dear beloved has been wonderful, but we all know there are some battles that we have to go through that are painful, even when we have the support of our loved ones.

I've been tired.  I've been worn. And every attempt to make silver linings were futile.  I looked at life as I knew it and i just wanted to stop.  I didn't want to stop living; I just wanted to push the pause button and get off for a bit.  I just wanted to go away for a year or a week even, just by myself so I could slow down and catch my breath.

But we don't always get that privilege.  We can't always afford to get off the roller coaster just because it's going too fast or too loud for our comfort.  No, once the ride has begun, we're in it for the long haul, until the end.  Sometimes we just want to scream at the top of our lungs to get off, but there's no stopping in the middle of that ride.

The kids have been tough; I've been unable to sleep.  Last Saturday afternoon, I found myself in the boys' room screaming at Nathaniel.  I was so weary, tired and frustrated with him because he was in one of his stubborn moods, and I was in no mood for his attitude.  So I found myself yelling at him over and over to pick up the same three pieces of toy food that he refused to get.

Then I saw his face.  And I saw Benjamin's face.  And I was horrified.  I ran downstairs and clenched my fists, my teeth, my face.  I was frustrated with them, yes, but ever so much more I was furious with myself for my own behavior toward my son.  I saw this monster that frightened me and I wanted it to go back to the pit of darkness from whence it seemed to rise.

This happened just as the babysitter had just arrived and as my husband had come home from work.  We were going out on a date night and it was none too soon.  I cried; I broke down.  I forced myself to calm down, and when I was calm enough, I went up to my sons' room with tears on my face.  I apologized to Nathaniel and to Benjamin for yelling.  I hugged them and held them for a few minutes.  They hugged me back and, wonder of wonders, they forgave me.

We went out, my husband and I, and I finally returned to some semblance of sanity.  We enjoyed dinner at Taco Mac and walked around in a used bookstore, enjoying the solitude of one another's company.  When we arrived home 5 hours later, I thought all was well...for about 3 minutes.  Nathaniel woke up crying.  My first thought was,"Oh God, can I just get out of here?"  And I was grieved beyond measure for the thought I had.

The next morning was just as hard and it took all I had to not yell and scream at the children.  I left my children safely in the nursery while I was off in another room.  I found myself in a place I had not allowed myself to go for a long while.  I let it all out for the first time in a very long time; not just bits and pieces, but everything.

But I wasn't alone.  Those that know me realize I don't just let go in front of anyone.  But it was time.  It was time to let out all the frustration, all the anger, all the despair and disappointment, time to let go of the hopeless feelings of the situation I was in.  I let out the distrust and the pretense of wanting perfectionism in an impossible manner with any child, let alone autistic children.

And I was surrounded and held up not only figuratively, but literally by 3 people who just loved on me.  I cried until I thought there was nothing left.  Then I was hit by another wave.  Unbelievably, this went on for 2 hours as I tried mentally to stand only to be washed back yet again by more.  Still, my rock was there.  One simply held me as I sat on the couch.  Another sang to me every so often, and yet another just spoke words of truth and comfort, combating the condemning thoughts and lies that had been pounding me down.

Every time it entered my mind that I just needed to buck up and get on with it, someone read my thoughts.  "There's no hurry.  We don't have to go anywhere until you're ready."  They were simple words, really, but to one who has been there, they were the most profound words of life, reassurance, and comfort.  It was a supernatural strength which held me.  It was a supernatural gentleness that covered me, and it was a supernatural peace that finally came to rest over me when all the tears were shed and all my doubts, fears, and confessions had been expressed.

I open myself to you about this because once again, I realize that I am not the only one who experiences the drive to shove all the negative down deep inside.  I am not the only one who has been hurt by life's circumstances, and sometimes by those of my own making.  So many are wounded soldiers who need to be held and comforted.

We all need that.  We all need that safe harbor to which we can run when we are being grounded to a pulp by life.  We all need those who hold us, who speak lovingly, without condemnation.  We all need to be surrounded by those who will stand shoulder to shoulder around us, protecting us from the roaring lions that would seek to destroy us.  We need the covering until we are healed so that, once we are strong again, we can join the circle and protect someone else who is hurting.  Even those who have been hurt so badly they think they don't want it need it, and perhaps they need it most of all.  All of us ~ we don't just want it; we NEED it.

Because not one person on this earth has it all perfectly together.  We need each other.  It is in numbers that we can help one another overcome the seemingly impossibilities in life.  And we need to help each other remember that which is good.  We all need to be reminded that we are loved, warts and all, unconditionally; that if there is any ought in us we can be forgiven; that grace abounds for us for any situation we face, and that mercies are new with each and every morning.