It's Like Giving Up On a Dream

That's what it feels like to start to let go. To realize, that perhaps, you were wrong. That this isn't really the life you are meant to have. That despite how right it feels, it isn't really yours and because you love it so much you have to let it go.

And man it is hard. So very hard, to put on the brave face and cheer on the things that should have been happening all along. That should have been completed before you ever became a part of it. For the sake of those that you cherish, you must be the better person. And twice in the last week I've not been able to do that.

I know that it means I'm human. It means that I'm sad. It means that I felt love in a way I never thought I would- as a Mom. And I know deep down I will get through this because I have to. Because life is not going to stop for me to grieve. I know that because it never did in the past.

I have given up on dreams. A few of them in fact. Because I couldn't hack the schooling to become a doctor. Because I decide too late that law school was something I was interested in. And now I work in the medical field as a paralegal which as it happens is a fine conciliation prize.

But this time I don't want a conciliation prize. The blow of having an illness that isn't curable and doesn't respond to treatment should surely come with a grand prize? An amazing family? Seemingly hand picked by fate. I don't want to be just the former foster Mom. I want to BE the Mom. And it really sucks to watch everyone around you tell you that isn't meant to be and that you have to stick a smile on your face and pretend to be happy about it.

Hubby asked me how I was doing yesterday as the kids were going off to their visit. Through my tears I whispered "it's like giving up on a dream".

The difference with this is that when I was done with those dreams, I was done. My dream is still living in my house until someone else tells me they should go. Someone who hasn't wiped their tears. Someone who never got woken up by scary monsters. Someone who has never rubbed their back when they were sick. Or fed them breakfast or had to leave them at the hospital or accompany them to court to testify against abusers.

The Mom they are returning to doesn't know their favorite colors. She doesn't know that one of her children doesn't like chocolate milk or red grapes. She still doesn't know their clothing sizes despite seeing them 3 days a week. She can't tell when her children are dissociating or scared. And they continue to act out nearly each time they see her.

I just want it to be over. For them. For me. For her. This is no way to live. And really we aren't living. We are waiting. For what? We aren't sure.