Irrational Anger

Tomorrow I take my daughter in for the beginning of mental health assessments. We suspect autism with more complexity to it.

It is one more diagnosis behind her name. One more thing to add to an IEP, to discuss. You know what?

I am irrationally angry. I am. 

And I think too often we hide this part from the world. We show you the end result once we feel better. Once we can present a better picture, then we tell the story. Today, I'm telling you the story from this place of numbness and anger. 

It is okay to be angry. Moms, Dads, siblings....this is okay. 

I am angry.

I hate that the world will hear these terms and feel even more of a distance between her and them.

I hate that the world is so dang discriminatory.

I hate that mental illness feels like the bottom of the swamp. 

I am angry that I have these biased thoughts in my heart.

I thought I was better than that.

I hate this numbness that accompanies this anger. 

And most of all I hate that I couldn't fix her. 

I hate that for 2.5 years I held onto this tiny hope that hard work and lots of love could draw her out. 

I hate that I took so long to ask for help. 

I hate that I was raised and taught in church that mental illness can be fixed with prayer. 

I despise that anyone ever suggested demon possession. 

I hate that I ever heard that mental illness was simply sin. 

You know what? I despise that I heard that. 

Because she is beautiful and strong and brave. She fights everyday to be part of this world. Everyday I make her uncomfortable to the point of exhaustion by trying to get interaction. And every single day she tries again and she tries harder. For me. For her. She tries. Dang it. She tries so blasted hard. 

I want to wrap this in a pretty bow and talk about how Jesus is my all in all and everything will be okay. But today? It doesn't feel okay. Today it isn't okay. Because tomorrow I take my girl in for mental health evaluations. Tomorrow I will spend three hours telling someone about all the ways she doesn't fit in, all the ways she won't interact with us, all the ways I feel rejected. And that sucks. And it makes me angry. Irrationally angry. 

Jesus? Still here. Still abundantly giving grace to my angry heart. Thanks be to God that He simply accepts all of our emotions. He is just here, with me, in this my space of anger. 

I am angry that I spent two years trying to get her to want to play with me.

I am angry that I wasn't more fun.

I am angry that I wasn't the person that could break through to her.

I am pissed that after all my hard work someone else, with some high and mighty degree, will swoop in and get her to come out of this shell. 

I'm so angry that tomorrow I will sit and put her on display. I will let them see all of the things we try so hard to hide and I will tell them all the things we never tell a soul. I will admit that my daughter has never once brought me a toy to play with her. I will admit that she won't come out of her room unless I pull her out. I will let them see every single reason why strangers give us dirty looks and call her cruel names. Tomorrow I will show them all the ways she is different. And I hate it.

Attached and autistic. 

Attached so much that I don't want to spill her secrets to some stranger. I don't want them to see her scars from digging at her own skin. Attached so much that she and I know how to exist in a single moment, fully present, together. Attached to understand each other without one word spoken. 

Autistic with no words. Autistic with fast and unpredictable mood swings. Autistic with no imaginative play. Autistic with no favorite toy. Autistic and flapping her hands for two straight years. Autistic and no desire to find her people to gain meaningful interaction. 

And I hate that I couldn't fix her. 

Love wasn't enough.

Prayer didn't give us miracles.

God chose to leave us here.

It's grief. Pure and unadulterated grief. She and I are old pals. I recognize Grief a mile away at this point. I can rationally say that my anger is misplaced, directed at the wrong source and it will soon give way to tears. Someday anger will move to sadness will move to acceptance. But not today. 

Knowing this doesn't make it easier. 

Mental Health. 

Anger.

Irrational anger. 

Tonight I will let my anger simmer. Because tomorrow, I will wipe these angry tears away, put on my big girl pants and go be brave. Because she is brave. Tomorrow we will be vulnerable and we will be brave together. Because that is how we roll. Together.