It’s been a difficult year, to say the least. My daughter, service dogs, and I lost our home due to abuse right about this time last year. We’ve depended upon the kindness of others to provide temporary shelter, food, and clothing; and are truly grateful.
For a while after the attack, I was numb. Post Traumatic Stress froze my emotions in an attempt at self-preservation. I tried to remain strong for my daughter, waiting until she was asleep to cry the tears of fear, loss, and panic that gripped my heart.
I tried desperately to rationalize the situation, but no matter how I looked at it, I came up empty. I kept thinking, “On the whole, I’m a good person. I give of my time, possessions and my heart to others. I treat people fairly and always try to do the right thing. I’m teaching my daughter the same morals and values that had been instilled in me as a child...” and yet, though I was a good person, and my daughter was an innocent; we sustained a brutal attack brought on by alcoholic rage of a once-loved and trusted family member. I couldn’t get my mind around the betrayal. I prayed—a lot. I was disheartened that I didn’t get any response, and felt that God had betrayed me as well.
I became obsessed with my loss, and the injustice of the whole thing. At one point, I felt as though my daughter might be better off without me, that I was holding her back from having a secure future. If she were placed with a real family, then she would have a chance at a good life...one with a roof over her head. I was the one who was disabled and unable to provide adequately for her; I was excess baggage. She had her whole future ahead, and I feared that having me in it ensured her a difficult and dismal one. I prayed for guidance, I prayed for answers, I prayed for hope; but I didn’t get the answer I’d expected.
I felt as though I failed my little girl in so many ways. She misses having friends, a place to play, a room of her own with pretty things, and the security of knowing what tomorrow will bring. The guilt felt like a wet coat, gradually getting heavier, wearing me down and preventing me from moving forward.
Children are so resilient. I’ve learned so much from my little girl over the past year, and I look at her with a new wonder and admiration these days. Though she clearly remembers the horrors that no child should ever have been witness to, she forgives as we are taught early on. For most, true forgiveness is lip service. “I forgive you,” is a benign phrase we are prone to say when we know we should, but we often lack the ability to truly let go. Not my little girl. She still remembers the attack, still feels the loss; yet she has somehow found it in her heart to completely forgive our attacker who hurt us so badly.
She never complains, although she has every right to. She went from having a beautifully decorated bedroom of her own, to having only what the police could load into our van that cold, scary night; and a few subsequent, police-guarded truck loads that permitted us a few more boxes of belongings. The rest was left behind...along with the only home she ever knew, all her friends, and the innocence and security that should be a child’s right; all that was cruelly snatched away from her.
Commercials she sees on TV with toys and trips to amusement parks, (things that she knows she can’t have), taunt her at every turn, yet she is the first to offer up one of her few remaining and cherished toys to another child who is sad or hurt. At bedtime, she thanks God for the blessings in her life and offers up prayers to others, never asking for anything for herself, because she feels as though she has all she needs.
