For the past 3 1/2 months everything revolved around our son. His therapist, psychologist, and psychiatric appointments. His self harm, crisis intervention teams, and hospitalizations. His hand crafted daily schedule, his medications, and his school.
Then in the last 3 weeks a flurry of decisions, hours of phone calls, piteous pleadings to any official who had the bad luck to answer the phone, anxious texts at all hours of the day, and fitful nightmare filled nights.
Then came the fast, intense feeling of peace. Which was quickly followed by the drop to your knees guilt.
Now there is just silence and an empty void. I had been parenting like I was on fire and now the fire is gone. Leaving behind a burned out shell, a blackened and charred ghost of the structure it was. Oh how I wish that fire could have destroyed the memories and events that have caused our family such pain. But our most intense memories cling to us no matter the devastation we survive.
Objects and tangible items were not lost in this blaze, but hope was.
Now I begin the tiresome process of finding new hope. I have done this many times before with our son. This time is different. The new hope I persue is so elusive and fleeting that I cannot hear its beckoning whispers or see its shadows of light. I have looked in the places where it was found in the past, but for now it is no where to be found.