Hospital Halls And Feelings Of Hopelessness

"Where do we go from here?" 

The words leaked from my lips, in more of a whisper, as I sat sullenly, staring at the bland concrete walls wrapped around me like a relentless bully, battering me with unmatched strength. 

I cupped my hands over my face, dragging my fingers down slowly, the shine of the waxed floor glistening in the bright halogen lights above. 

Across the hall, a young man, somewhere in his 20s, thrashed about on his bed as the effects of withdrawal raced through his veins, clawing to break through his skin. In another room, just beyond his, 6 husky hospital officers suddenly poured into the room of a manic patient, restraints dangling from the lead officers hands. 

"Where do we go from here?" I whispered again. 

The weight of hopelessness pushed me down hard, as if someone had wrapped a weighted blanket, filled with canon balls, over my shoulders. My breath was short, and my head pounded, the feeling of utter weariness pushing hard behind my eyes. 

In that moment I felt crushing defeat. Everything I knew as a parent for more than 25 years washed away, like a leaf in a downspout during a spring downpour. I couldn't decide if I wanted to start running, Forrest Gump style, right out of those hospital doors, or curl up in a ball in the corner and go to sleep for a hundred years. If there was a pile of sand in that hallway, I would have plunged my head in it, my eyes shut tight, hoping to wake up from a bad dream. 

Have you been there? Felt this same crushing feeling? Free-falling from the edge of a cliff you never thought you'd careen over? I'm positive you have, or you wouldn't waste your time reading these words. There a trillion other things word doing with your time then read a sad soliloquy such as this. 

But you're here because you identify. You know the feeling (100 fold!). You've sat in the same hard plastic chair, your head pressed hard against the concrete wall behind you, wondering (no, begging) the same question... Where do I go from here?

You've felt the deep, driving, painful, feeling of hopelessness... a feeling not like running late for work, or waking up to a rain storm on a day you were meant to go sailing with friends (you know, all the stuff, normal people do with their time). The feeling I'm referring to is so deep and un-ending, you feel the black hole has more promise. 

Hopelessness.
Sadness.
Searching.
Lost.

They run synonymous with one another. 

You had dreams for this child. You had hope. You had plans. You brought them home, opened your arms, gave full permission to your heart to love deeply. You hoped, prayed, gripped the rosary, lit candles. And yet, here you are. 

Trauma doesn't play by the rules. 

You still love them, of course you do. If not, you wouldn't be sitting in the hell you're sitting in now. Your heart and mine are good. They're right. And right now, we are doing what we need to do for the child we still love with all of our hearts, in-spite of the dark days we've endured. We'll walk out of that hospital at some point, our child next to us, bruises on their wrists, dark cycles under their eyes, and we'll work on a new plan. We'll take the first step into the new normal, for the 1000th time. 

And therein lies the hope in all of this my friend. 

You WILL walk out of there, eventually. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even the next day. In fact, today might be Day 1 of 20, or 40, or 275. But someday, you will walk out of those bland, opaque hallways and start the healing process. 

I was having a conversation with one of my coaching clients the other day about this type of hope. "The hope," I said "in this, is that you've come pretty far with this child. Think about the connection you do have, in-spite of the trials."

The hope we have, and receive, will not be served up to us on a silver platter. It just won't. This journey is hard and unending. We will be involved in our child's life pretty much forever (that doesn't mean they will always live in our house though). 

No, we find hope, in the walk out. Walking out of the hospital, or psych ward, or jail. Hope is in the fact that we'll get through the storm and have the chance to start over and find healing. There's also hope in this. You're here because you need solidarity. And so do I. We need camaraderie and connection with one another. So may these words wash over you like a warm shower, soothing your deepest wound, bringing peace to the choppy waters of your soul. 

Looking for hope but, more importantly, direction and someone to walk with you on this journey? Check out our Thrive Coaching program here.