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.
