Losing My Religion

Something dark and anxious has been making its way into my heart and mind. I'm not sure what switch has flipped in the last month that has made me feel less like myself. Pregnancy hormones, maybe. My friend said it's "mother's intuition."

To me it's always the same.

Fear.

This has always been my signature sin. It probably always will be.

Sure, it's transformed over the years.

First, it was fear of abandonment, of not being loved enough.

Then it was fear of failure, of not achieving enough.

Then it was fear of dependence, of needing or relying on someone else.

Now it's fear of the unknown, of the dark abyss that awaits before the second hand moves, when anything can happen.

Why can't I be one of those optimistic, always on the bright side, happy-go-lucky types of people? Why do I wait with dread as opposed to hope and expectation? This is a serious issue in my life and in my faith. I am always prepared for the other shoe to drop, and always taken off guard when something positive and good happens instead. That doesn't mean that I'm a Debbie Downer; In general, I keep my fear and skepticism to myself. That way only I'm the crazy, consumed one.

So what is going on with me lately that I cannot relax? Cannot enjoy this current miracle? Cannot sleep through the night without awaking to anxiety about my boys?

Fostering is hard work.

Not the parenting part...although that is hard.

The sharing part. I've talked about it before here and here.

In the beginning, we knew we were pro-reunification. We still are. We believe in making families whole. We believe that people can be healed, that they can make amends and get second chances and be the parents their kids need them to be. We believe this is possible, and good, and we've prayed these prayers and hoped these impossible things.

And that may still turn out.

But it's more likely that it won't in this case.

And that, that's what has shaken me. That's what has changed my heart.

And I'm not proud.

When things started looking bad, I didn't pray harder; instead I had the urge to pull my boys even closer. To hoard them. To shield them. To make them my own.

The truth is, I love them. I don't want to share them. I don't want them to ask about their mom. I don't want them to miss her.

How sad am I?

I know I'm wrong, trust me. I know this is not good. I know this is not healthy or holy or pure.

I know it by name.

Fear.

I am so damn afraid all the time recently.

Afraid they will always love her more (they might).

Afraid they will always wish they could move back home (they probably will).

Afraid that if it was up to them, they would leave and never look back (one day it will be up to them).

Afraid that every time they see or talk to their mom they will forget about me (ridiculous).

We're at a crucial time in their case. Like pivotal, life-changing-decision time.

And I'm scared.

We're scared.

I'm not sure if I'm scared more of losing them, or losing myself, losing my faith, losing why I wanted to do this in the first place. It wasn't to keep someone else's kids. It wasn't for the goal of adopting. It wasn't to reap the benefits of some else's tragedy.

And yet...

Now that we're here, in this hour, in this time, I'm afraid of what I really want. I'm afraid to look in and examine my heart and see what's there. I'm afraid of what I'll find inside.

I need prayer. We need prayer. Our boys need prayer.

Please pray for us.

This is hard.

The more I've love them, the harder it's become.

I can't imagine how it must be for their mother...