I brought GB home from therapy today. We arrived at home shortly after Hope had gotten of the bus. Hope was surly as we walked in the door. Today is a Dad day, so I said hi to Hope and headed straight for the stairs, up to my bedroom. GB went to to find The Dad. Within moments, Hope was screeching and crying. I listened from my room as The Dad tried to figure out what the trigger was, tried to calm her down and tried to get GB outside, away from screaming that was louder then she can tolerate. The screeching goes on. My head pulses with each screech, and I slow down my breathing and still my body, reminding myself that it is not my day. Reminding myself I need to let go.
The Dad came up to tell me he didn’t know why Hope was screaming. After 56 months of intensive therapy, extensive services, of living with us, Hope still can’t or won’t use words. What happened today happens most days, usually more then once. I usually can handle it. Today I cried. And cried.
I cried for Hope, who is still defending herself against horrors we have only vague images of. I cried because Hope may never move past the spot she is stuck in. I cried for GB, who has lived with Hopes rages for almost five years without being able to keep them from invading her core. I cried for my marriage, which shattered under the impotence of being unable to heal Hope. I cried for for The Dad, who lives to heal this little girl. I cried for myself. I haven’t been able to heal Hope or protect GB from Hope’s pain. I should have been.
Reality is different then I had expected, wanted, hoped for. I am reaching for a new reality, a new future, and a lot of times the act of reaching requires courage beyond what I thought existed. After the tears have stopped, after The Dad left with the girls, in the silence that is, that courage is all I have left.