Hate is a strong word

Hate is a strong word:

I hate being a parent to a chronically ill child.

I hate it because it often makes me feel helpless when I can’t help them feel better.

I hate watching my son throw up multiple times a day and there’s nothing I can do to help him. The medication that he was taking no longer stops the cyclic vomiting.

I hate hearing people tell me that I’m spoiling my child when I know that I am adjusting expectations to the skill level he currently is functioning at socially and emotionally.

I hate watching my son laying on the sofa all day when I know he would rather be up playing.

I hate watching my children suffer from tics are involuntary muscle movements it caused them to hit themselves or the wall or tighten the muscles in ways that hurt. All I can do at those times is try to cushion them from hurting too much or offer a compassionate hug when it is done.

I hate seeing my child working to calm himself and then an adult repeatedly telling him what he should be doing so that he is unable to calm down, but then the resulting meltdown is his fault.

I hate when my son cries in pain from my hug or even my gentle touch because he has cold pains from anything touching his skin.

I hate spending so many of her days at the doctor’s office or on the phone trying to make appointments. I would much rather be spending that time teaching and and some things with my boys.

I hate seeing and hearing the ignorance and inflexibility of people around me who don’t even attempt to understand my children.

I hate not knowing day to day or hour to hour how my child will feel or what they will be able to deal with at that time.

I hate spending hours and days and weeks researching their disorders and finding doctors who are truly familiar with them because each one interacts with the other in so many ways.

I hate watching my son stop to catch his breath after a tic attack that doesn’t allow him to take a breath.

I hate the judgement that I get from other people when they don’t understand what my child is going through.

I hate not knowing how hard to push them or when to allow them to rest.

I hate worrying about their future and wondering what they will be able to do when they reach adulthood.  First we have to make it through puberty when the chemical in the body can wreck havoc on their body with so many changes.

I hate watching my son trying to lift a small thing and crying in pain because his wrist or arm decided at that instant to not work right.

I hate hearing my son tell me that his body feels heavy and too tired to move and knowing that the salt tabs I give him will likely be only a minor help if any.

I hate dreading extended family events because the added stress and sensory overload are likely to lead to a meltdown.

I hate watching my 10 year old struggle to read simple words and sentences and and hearing him declare that he is giving up on reading.

I hate hearing my son tell me that he hates me and that I’m the worse mom ever.  I know that he is having a difficult time with something at that moment, but his feeling brain is in charge at that moment and we can’t really communicate until his thinking brain is back in charge.

I hate people who tell me my child is behaving badly when they don’t know how much he has improved from what he was when he was younger or even a year ago.

 

I hate knowing that what they have will never go away.

 

Most of all

I hate losing my temper with them because I too become overwhelmed.

 

 

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