Tossed and turned beyond 3 AM. The past few weeks replaying in my head, not quite in the way they happened, but in the way my vicious mind said they should have happened. I lay awake imaging what was not. I got more miserable by the minute. By dawn, I was angry.
The daughter suffered a terrible blow yesterday. After weeks of intense preparation for a sports event in school, she lost. I watched her crumble. I experienced her terrible disappointment. I wanted to take away all her pain. But I was paralyzed. Her entire team wrapped her in a huddle, shielding off others from seeing her in tears. I couldn't find the strength to break into the circle. I couldn't even summon up the words of comfort. I stiffened up, felt trapped somehow. When she needed me most, I just couldn't make myself emotionally available to her. I felt like Alice in Wonderland, suddenly shrunk into a helpless inch, shoved into a bottle of my own critical thoughts.
At my daughter's lowest point, I collapsed into self blame. I kept accusing myself of not doing enough. I beat myself up. I tortured myself with regret. And, unfortunately, made myself emotionally unavailable to her. I hated myself and lost the precious chance to be there for my daughter. This afternoon, bleary eyed and punch drunk with fatigue, the truth dawned on me: the cliche is right. You can only give your kids the love you have for yourself. If there's not much love there from you for you, your kids lose out.
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