Who Will Accommodate Me?

I started this blog thinking I would mostly share learning stories and examples of documentation about the children's education, and that does and will happen when it feels right, but I'm realizing that what I am really drawn to write about in this season is my own personal journey.

The kids are just fine. They are learning and growing and playing every day and they are happy. Yesterday the two of them spent an hour outside together constructing a pully system out of a skipping rope and a toy pot so they could send secret gifts and messages to each other over the fence. This week we got together for a playdate with a new unschooling family because E mentioned he wants to have more friends who are available when we are (our good family friends all have kids in public school so it can be hard to make plans). I told E there is a homeschool PE class starting up this fall and he agreed we should register so he can try it out. All of these things are indicators of progress. I know my children are doing well.

No, they do not have typical sleep schedules and yes, they are very sensitive souls who have very big feelings, but we understand each other and we do our best in the hard moments and life goes on. Truly, I have come to a place of confidence in knowing that this unschooling, low-demand life is what is best for them. They are thriving as the little individuals they are, and it's because of what I have learned and the accommodations I have made for their needs that they are in such a good place.

I, on the other hand, am not doing well.

So... who will accommodate me? Who will put their own life on the line so that I can thrive?

The real answer is... no one. I have to do it myself. And that's not because I don't have the support of a wonderful husband or friends and family or an affirming team of professionals on my side. I do! I appreciate all the people in my life who help when and how they can. However, no matter how much I reach out, no matter how much I receive, no amount of outside help alone is ever enough to make me feel well inside. That is not a reflection of anyone else's level of care or their intentions, it is simply because the real accommodations I need must come from within. Just as I radically accepted my children for who they are, I have to accept myself. I am struggling, and I am worthy. Both/And, always.

I have come to a season in my own healing from CPTSD where I am out of survival mode. There were years when my body protected me by going into a numb, dissociated state so I could focus all my energy on the struggling child in front me who so desperately needed my help. At that point in time, being numb to my own needs was necessary for survival. Ignoring my own needs wasn't a conscious decision, it was my brain and body trying to protect me. And it worked. We got through burnout. Now, my child is not struggling with the same intensity, my brain and body can sense that, and the dissociation is beginning to fade because being constantly numb to the world is no longer helpful or necessary. I am very much awake and aware to the reality of our daily life, and how I feel about it.

And how do I feel about it you might ask? Well, I'm not happy.

My negative feelings have been simmering under the surface for years, but acknowledging them during E's burnout would not have served me because my child was unwell and needed my full attention. I cared for myself in small ways when I could so that I, too, could survive, but, overall, I put my child first.

If there had been a way to meet both of our needs at the same time, I would have. I didn't want to go into survival mode. I didn't want to spend years floating through my life in a semi-frozen state. Dissociating was a biological reaction to trauma.

Now I am awake to the fact that my needs are not being met, and that it does not feel good living like this. When my PTSD symptoms are triggered, I slip back into my default numbness almost instantly. When my husband is home and it is safe to do so, my whole body shuts down. I can't think, I can't talk, I can't move, I definitely can't parent. All I can do is surrender to the overwhelm and rest. Jarrod takes over and I pull the covers up over my head and sleep as long as I can. Pushing through is no longer an option. I did that for too many years and my body has had enough. It literally can no longer function. Since coming back from our trip, this shut down response has been happening at least daily. It's hard for the whole family because me being unavailable activates my children and requires more of my already taxed husband. But I know I am moving forward because, for the first time, I'm not ashamed to admit I am unhappy. Until now, I would never have admitted that's how I felt. I had a misguided conception that good people were never unhappy; so, if I was unhappy, it must mean there was something inherently wrong with me. Saying I was unhappy would have felt like admitting defeat. Admitting failure.

In truth, It is none of those things. Saying I am unhappy means I am awake and alive and human. It means I went through an excruciatingly difficult experience and survived the best I could. I am broken and depleted, but I am here. And now there is work to do.

A few months ago I wrote about my realization that There is No One Coming to Save Our Family. Now, here we are, half a year further on in our journey, and I realize there is no one coming to save me. And that's ok. The work is mine. I can do this. I just need to figure out how...