I began to think that all of the feelings in my heart about my daughter were terribly wrong. I was a loathsome, despicable mother for not just accepting who she was and continuing to battle with thoughts of alternate realities.
I began to hate myself.
I no longer believed that God had given her to me for a reason. Why didn’t He give her to an extraordinary mother who could just deal with this unexpected twist and not ritually beat herself up about what was wrong.
I felt small and worthless. Tired and overwhelmed. I felt like I was sinking on a slow leaking ship. I watched all of the other passengers confidently leap to safety while I remained steadfast, determined to somehow repair the damage or die trying. Everyone else was moving on, but I just couldn’t.
I loved her. I knew that I loved this little girl with all of my heart, but hated the fact that she had a disability. More importantly I hated that I hated that she was different.
I felt like I was all alone and that I was the only mother in the world with a special needs child who had experienced this sense of loss. I felt like I was the only one who grieved what might have been. Although I had all of these feelings in the beginning, as she got older they only intensified.
The weight of this emotional load began to get heavier and I grew weaker.
