Finding the Beauty in Pain

This new periodic column was written by Raygan Zononi, a single mother of two children whose oldest was diagnosed with autism and bipolar disorder. She has spent the last 12 years as an advocate for her special needs son, and is the author of the page Finding Hope for Elliott on Facebook. She is pursuing her degree in journalism at Asnuntuck Community College, and has a deep passion for writing and mental health care awareness.

It makes sense that the first story I would tell would be my own. In my search for the perfect story, I found myself deep within the abyss of my worst nightmare. I want to tell you, so you can feel the beauty of pain - what it steals from you, and what it gives back to you.

The crosses we bear are so heavy, aren't they? We hide within ourselves, because the fear of letting go - letting others see what you hate most about yourself - is more frightening than living inside the walls of our own prison. We live in fear and in isolation, because at some point in our lives, someone told us it was better there. Somehow the phrase, "It takes a village," became a myth, a story or legend passed down from a time when life must have been more simple.

Raising children is hard. It's a combination of losing and finding yourself all at once. You lose who you were, but revel in the newness of who you become. Then, after the years pass, and the newness of parenting morphs into routine, you completely forget who you are. Because everything becomes about them.

Raising children with special needs is harder. You begin to lose yourself the very first day you hear a diagnosis. Your every step, breath, conversation, sleepless night, tear...is about them.

Raising a child with special needs, while you battle your own mental illness, is hardest. There is so much fear there. You're battling wars with IEPs and programs for your child, fighting the good fight to get them what they deserve, all the while inside,you're screaming, "I'm drowning! Can you see me? Help me, please. Don't let me let go!," but you can't find the right way to actually get the words out. How will I be judged if I do? How will people respond? Will my children be taken from me, when I ask for help?

Mine were.

It's not easy to tell you this. I wonder what you must think of me? I never hurt my children, never neglected them or put them in an unsafe situation. I was crying every day for weeks. When my depression hit me like a hurricane, I couldn't breathe. I couldn't stop the tears, and my children had to watch that. Every day. I knew it wasn't fair to them. I reached out to every person I could think of, begging them to take my babies so I could get help. But we all have lives, jobs, kids, obligations. Maybe they, too, were battling their own illnesses. In some ways, I felt my asking was unfair. It might have actually been unfair, but I also think I didn't ask for help from the right people. For the sake of privacy, I will stop here, so as to not hurt the ones who couldn't be there.

Help came. But it started as the most painful experience a parent can go through. I asked DCF to take my babies. Now, I know what you must think of me. I know what I would have thought about you. How could I do that? What kind of mother am I? I gave birth to them. They are my responsibility. But it was also my responsibility to make sure they were well taken care of, not subject to a mother who struggled to get out of bed each morning. I did what I thought was best, and that's all we can do, isn't it?

I spent eight days inpatient. The first two days, I cried the pieces of my heart into every pillow or sleeve. I regretted what I had done. Part of me still does. Slowly, I began to allow the other patients into my darkness, and they allowed me into theirs. The healing started, as I began to see how beautiful it was to share my hurt with others who also hurt, sometimes far more than I was. I absorbed their stories, their trauma, their tears. I saw that I wasn't alone. Maybe my story was unique, but my pain wasn't.

Why do we hide from each other? How did we become a race who fight against unity, instead of offering our open arms to each other? Do you know how beautiful, how healing it is, to let go and let others see how beautiful we are, in spite of our flaws? We are all a little bit damaged. We are all hurting in some way. We are all unique, but entirely the same. We are all strength in weakness. We are all capable of incredible things. We are all imperfectly, perfect.

My journey is only just beginning. I have a long battle ahead. It won't come without its fair share of wounds and scars. I will have to prove myself, and show a group of strangers I entrusted my children to, that I am okay enough for them to come home. I will cry. I will hurt. I will miss, and at times feel empty. In turn, I know I will also grow. I will fight. I will roar my personal battle cry. I will bring them home. And I will heal.

To all of you, let it go. Let the wounds within you become visible. Let yourself love someone you don't know. Vulnerability is not a weakness; it is a strength we all forget we have. Do this, and maybe together, we can be everything we were meant to be.

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