Tonight’s blog post was going to be about the massage I had today and it’s beneficial affect on my body. It was supposed to be happy. Upbeat. Light.
But I’m not feeling light right now. I’m laid in bed, it’s the middle of the night and I’m feeling anything but light. The weight of the world pushes hard upon my chest, constructing my breaths to short painful gasps. Or at least so it seems. My mind whirs away hashing and rehashing over my problems whilst the stress that was released earlier seeps back into my every sinew. It gnaws at me, scratches at the corners of my thoughts, spoiling them. Fraying them at the edges and pulling at the seams, until they unravel and I’m left with only my stress and a tension headache.
At the moment I’m fighting a battle. A battle no parent should have to fight. I’m fighting with my daughters other biological parent for what I feel is best for her. No, before you think I’m one of ‘those’ women, I’m not trying to keep him out of her life. I’m trying to get him involved. I’m trying to make it so instead of a 200 mile round twice monthly trip, she has that trip only once a month. I’m trying to encourage her biological father to come here, instead of forcing her to always go there. To miss birthdays and events, clubs and memories.
Since she was young she’s visited him. I’ve always encouraged it. In fact me and his family almost forced it upon him. But those visits have always been on his terms. She has to go there. He will not visit here nor attend anything for her up here. Which I’ve said all along will not work for her forever. As she’s grown up she’s been made to choose between seeing him and going to birthday parties. Seeing him and attending social events. No compromise. No fluidity. Just choose. Here. Or there.
Recently things changed. She chose. She chose a club which helps her with her health. She chose to only visit there one weekend a month. She chose for her biological father to come here. To support her. To be involved. He is fighting against that choice. He is taking things down an official route. He is bribing and cajoling to get his way.
But things run a little deeper than just being able to join in clubs and see friends. In fact, last week, things just got a whole lot more serious. My daughter went to a geneticist. She has EDS. Hopefully the same type as me, but at this point it’s not certain. This diagnosis is now a weight on her shoulders. It is now her shadow pulling at her, caught beneath the boulder of EDS and holding her back. I saw the signs. I knew this day would come. But I prayed I could work with her biological father to do things right for her.
Her club, the weekend hobby that’s unimportant, has actually built her muscle tone so much her EDS has improved in her arms and legs. On the weeks she’s not travelling so far she is easy to get up for school. She’s calmer. She’s happier. She’s well rested. She’s as close to perfect as any child could be. I’m trying to teach her to pace. The doctor stressed how important rest was. Travelling long distances in a car does not constitute rest.
But today. Today I found out everything regarding her health seems to have been pushed aside. Her need for her biological father to take part in her home life has also been pushed aside. The system that’s supposedly all about the needs of the child seems to be veering towards being more concerned with making life easy for her biological father.
So here I lie. Stressed. Worried. Tying myself up in knots.
I’ve tried my best. I’ve explained her needs to her, her biological father, everyone involved. I’ve gathered statements. I’ve spoken to doctors. I’ve done everything I can. I feel like I’m shouting to a crowd of people wearing ear defenders and not one of them is willing to take them off. People don’t understand. My daughter doesn’t understand. She can’t. She won’t understand until she’s older and in agony. When she looks back and sees the safety nets I tried to put in place flung aside. Until she sees a wrong turn was made.
I hope beyond all hope she doesn’t end up in the same crippling pain as me. But I fear now she will. If she does, who’s fault is it? The biological father who refused to listen to her needs, or me the mother who passed it on?
No matter the answer, I know I’ll always blame myself.