Pinkie Promise

I don’t use the word promise lightly. I’ve learned first hand the pain of broken promises and the pain of kept promises that shouldn’t have been made in the first place. So I’m careful to make promises that won’t harm someone if kept (ex:I promise you’ll be sorry if you do ____ again). And I’m careful not to promise something I know I can’t or won’t deliver on (ex: I promise I’ll fly you to the moon). If I make a promise it’s becuase I will do what I say I will.

And as we learn as kids a Pinkie Promise is the most sacred of promises. And when I had my children I made them 3 Pinkie Promises:
1- I’ll love you until I breathe my last, no matter what happens, there’s nothing you can do that will make me stop loving you.
2- I’ll never do to you what was done to me, I’ll never barter your body or heart and soul.
3- I’ll always be there for you when you need me, no matter what, even when you don’t think you need me, I’ll be here doing my very best for you.

The first two have been easy to keep. I love my children, all three of them. More than life itself. I have never abused them, mind or body. I’ve made mistakes, I’ve lost my temper and overreacted and apologized when I did. But I’ve never made them feel unsafe at my hands and in the process I’ve taught them that no one is perfect and when we mess up and hurt the feelings of someone who didn’t deserve our actions, someone we care about, we apologize and do better next time.

It’s that damn number three I’m having trouble with lately. It’s becoming harder and harder to be there for one of my children. Mental illness has among other things messed with her perspective and while those of us outside of her can see the troubles, in her mind we are the problem, I am the problem. Yes me. It’s all my fault in her mind.

She doesn’t want my help. She doesn’t want to be here in our home. She doesn’t want to or isn’t capable of (or both) caring for her body, her space, her belongings, her family relationships. And she’s making it harder to keep that third promise.

I’m failing her. I love her. I want to make her better. I want the real her back, the her she was before this insidious worm worked it’s way into her brain and changed her, remade her, took her from us. But I am not taking the kind of care of her that she needs. And it sucks. Becuase the law says 18 is the age of maturity and her mind says she’s magically an “adult” so she thinks she doesn’t need to listen to anyone other than herself. But her mind isn’t giving her solid and healthy thoughts on what to do and who to be. So how do I keep that promise when I don’t want to be around my own child? When I’m so sad and angry and finding the love is easy but the like is gone? How do I keep that promise when my own PTSD is triggered and I just want to run?

I’m sorry I’ve got nothing witty today. Just a lot of anger and confusion and fear and guilt. And I think the word that best describes it, these feeling, mourning. I feel like I’m mourning.

But one more thing...adult..what the fuck does that even mean?
Except that I can choose to eat cereal or ice cream or both for dinner and eat pizza for breakfast and no one can stop me, the rest is over rated. The bills and responsibilities don’t seem worth the trade off for a bowl of Count Chocula for breakfast.