Sometimes it hits like a freight train. I cannot keep my child safe. His own brain is his enemy, and I don’t have the remote or the instructions.
So I’m sitting in the sunroom with a thousand pounds on my chest while he sleeps, moments after his brain attacked him with violence. And it’s not about me, I know, but when the crisis is over and all the adrenalin fades, I’m left with myself. And my helplessness.
And I know God loves him, and me. I know he is a miracle of God every day of his life. I just wish God was more programmable, or something.
There’s not language for this hurt.