About the not talked about

We don't talk about
the parents who are currently seeking,
sat and just about speaking,
waiting and waiting, unreeling,
the diagnosis they're asking for treating,
the two years before they could see it,
the three or more spent to decree it,
the lack of solution, the bleak disolution,
the millions of boxes to meet it,
the islands of adults unknown,
their youth, elephants in the room,
the decades of reports, of mumbled retorts,
the managing just to be being,
it's something you know - now to know it,
to acknowledge how we've been through it,
and I thought putting words
to all that we've heard
may be a way to process not flee it,
I have seen challenge from height,
been receiving the fight and the flight,
I've rocked her 'til crumble,
sung in flurry and tumble,
I've undone and unpicked and unspun it.
It could be a world of acceptance,
rather than a held at a distance,
it could be a connection,
rather than fear of rejection,
it could be feeling you're in communion,
it could be the difference between difference,
the autonomy of an anomaly
but often it's not,
it's figuring how to jot
down what it could mean to be freeing.
I just want a world she can breathe in,
a world that doesn't feel she must sink in,
hiding behind walls,
I just want the tools,
to know how to help with her feeling,
and I want to know how to exist
rather than push, pull, flex and resist
when everything seems hard,
when day to day leaves a mar
upon the individual she's set upon being,
I want to know how to support her
to be in a society unlike her,
how to bridge the fixate
and not just gestate
in a place it feels she's so sad in,
I don't remember being so glum,
but she is now at six, so at one,
and if it continues
I worry I won't know
how to assist the teen or adult I'll be greeting,
I want her to know she's adored
that there's joy we're moving toward,
that she isn't alone,
that there's other who roam
not really sure how to manage,
somedays clothes are too many,
sometimes one word is just plenty,
some hours a no, or a need just to blow
up at any person is heavy,
some weeks she wants to climb the ceiling
from consistent, unsatisfied feeling,
despite offers to swim, to draw or to sing,
there's a sting and it lives in her belly
and some moments I struggle to muster the will
to sell an exciting thing as a bitter pill,
like a birthday or class,
as nothing will pass
her version of what she is needing.
This goes out to the parents just waiting,
and those too who have finished the painting,
to all we have carried, held, helped and buried,
for all that we see in our raising.