Am I OK? How do I answer that? Right now I feel like I will never be OK. My 23-year-old daughter is moving into a group home in days, and I’m not OK.
Externally, I guess I’m OK. I woke up today, I didn’t cry. I got stuff done. I just packed another suitcase full of Brielle’s belongings. Her comfy t-shirts and sweatpants, some toys and stuffed animals she hasn’t touched in years. Some more underwear. A few Sesame Street and Barney videos for her new room.
Internally I am a mess. I’m sick to my stomach. Can I do this? Can I leave her in a group home and walk away? I’m nauseous. I’m going through the motions. We took her this morning to draw blood for a required lead test. Then I opened a guardianship bank account for her. I faxed over some forms to the health insurance company. They need to make some changes that are standing between Brielle and a new supply of overnight underwear. I emailed the doctor to ask for a new prescription for speech therapy. I pulled the winter clothes bin out of storage. I wanted to pack her heavy coat and some more long-sleeved shirts.
I’m trying to just take it step by step, but I can’t ignore the obvious anymore. The day is days away and I’m not ready. How can I just leave her there? Will she cry for me? What if she hates it? What if she won’t sleep? What if she starts hitting herself again? What if they hit her? How will she react when she asks for food for the 20th time in an hour and they say no? How will I know she’s OK? How soon can I visit her? Will they make sure she is washed well? Will they help her brush her teeth and go to the bathroom? She can’t do either by herself. Will they keep her iPads charged? Will she miss my hugs and our snuggling? Will she wonder what I have done?
Today I thank Jelly Roll for his wise words. “I am not okay. I’m hanging on the rails. So, if I say I’m fine, just know I learned to hide it well.”
I know everything is going to be fine. There are no words to say to make me better understand it. I understand it. But it doesn’t make me OK. I am not OK. Maybe in a week, or a month. But not now. Not in these final days with my baby at home. Every walk around the neighborhood, every family gathering. Every trip to a local restaurant. Every 4 a.m. wake-up. I’m at that point. I’m counting down the last x and y before she moves out and into a group home. I’m sick.
Am I doing the right thing? I mean I know I am, but what if I’m not? Is she too young? Should I have waited 5 years, 10 years? Should I have stayed home, worked part time? Should I have not fought so hard? Was I too pushy, too loud? Is this my fault?
“I know I can’t be the only one who’s holdin’ on for dear life. But God knows, I know. When it’s all said and done, I’m not okay. But it’s all gonna be alright.”
That’s all I’ve got.
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