I still resent the fact that I didn’t manage to do it successfully. I still wish I’d succeeded. I’m not allowed to admit that to anyone (except maybe my therapist - although I haven’t). Because the fact is no matter how hard I try - how hard I work and how much I love my family - I’ve never felt like I belong. And let’s face it, if I haven’t worked it out (even vaguely) by 35 then it’s here to stay, isn’t it. I’m embarrassed that it didn’t work. And I’m mortified about the damage I caused to everyone else. I didn’t even know I was capable of that. Genuinely. But I still wish I’d succeeded.
I don’t believe that I’m a particularly good mother. I don’t think anyone does really. But I do believe my beautiful daughter would be better with another family, which is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to admit. I know for a fact that she deserves better than what we can give her. And that hurts like no pain I’ve ever felt before. No pain I ever knew existed.
So where do I go from here? I don’t feel grateful to be alive - I feel disappointed and shame that I failed. So that’s now something else to heap on top of the worthlessness and self-loathing that I felt before I <method edit>. How am I supposed to carry on with that even bigger weight, considering I wasn’t coping with it before? Instead it’s just a giant elephant in the room all the time, reminding me every second of every day that I couldn’t even get that right. Jesus.
I always thought I wanted the stability of a family and a relationship, but actually that’s not what they offer at all. Not in my experience anyway. They offer confusion and challenges and complications - so the opposite of stability really. Plus falling hard for complicated broken people (as we all undeniably are) comes with a very challenging set of criteria. I love my husband, that’s why I married him, but he drains me. ‘Marriage is a sacrifice’ and fuck me if I’ve ever heard a more true statement than that.
I’m not sure exactly what I’m trying to say here. I’m not sure it even matters. I just wish more than anything else that we could all be a bit more honest with each other and be open about what’s in store. And yes, I probably would’ve run for the hills had I actually known, but then I wouldn’t have ended up meeting my soul mate and sharing this god-awful rollercoaster with someone I adore. Our daughter wouldn’t be here. I just wish I knew that however hard things get, they can always get a damn heap harder. I’m still not sure if I’d have bought the ticket had I known, but as least it wouldn’t have come as such a fucking shock. And when the shit really hits the fan and you end up in a hospital cubicle <method indicator>maybe it’s a little easier to understand how you got there.
I never imagined my life like this. I imagined gentle successes, companionship, celebrations, stability. What I got is constant struggle, anxiety and more loneliness and isolation than I thought was possible as part of a loving (but dysfunctional) family. The most ironic piece of the whole puzzle is that our amazing daughter, the one thing we actually got right (somehow), will forever remain the reason that I need to at least try and stick around. Because even having a bad mother around is worse that being that kid who’s parent committed suicide. And hurting her or even making her life harder with my selfishness, my lack of stamina, is not something I could entertain. So there you have it. What a fucking ridiculous prison I’ve created for myself. That we’ve all created for ourselves. And that’s with hundreds of hours and thousands of pounds spent on therapy, in my case at least. It’s no wonder mental health is such a fucking unpredictable precarious minefield. And is it making us better? I mean honestly, is it fixing anything? Is it making us happier? Because I’m in bed at 10am on a Tuesday feeling more broken than I thought was possible, with a man-size box of Kleenex and ice cream in the fridge and all I can think about is the <mod> in my office and the bottle of whisky in the drinks cabinet. Oh, and the number of my drug dealer that I’ve promised myself I would delete about a thousand times. And yes, I’ve already messaged him. My daughter will be home in about 7 hours. Who the fuck am I?!
I don’t believe that I’m a particularly good mother. I don’t think anyone does really. But I do believe my beautiful daughter would be better with another family, which is probably the hardest thing I’ve ever had to admit. I know for a fact that she deserves better than what we can give her. And that hurts like no pain I’ve ever felt before. No pain I ever knew existed.
So where do I go from here? I don’t feel grateful to be alive - I feel disappointed and shame that I failed. So that’s now something else to heap on top of the worthlessness and self-loathing that I felt before I <method edit>. How am I supposed to carry on with that even bigger weight, considering I wasn’t coping with it before? Instead it’s just a giant elephant in the room all the time, reminding me every second of every day that I couldn’t even get that right. Jesus.
I always thought I wanted the stability of a family and a relationship, but actually that’s not what they offer at all. Not in my experience anyway. They offer confusion and challenges and complications - so the opposite of stability really. Plus falling hard for complicated broken people (as we all undeniably are) comes with a very challenging set of criteria. I love my husband, that’s why I married him, but he drains me. ‘Marriage is a sacrifice’ and fuck me if I’ve ever heard a more true statement than that.
I’m not sure exactly what I’m trying to say here. I’m not sure it even matters. I just wish more than anything else that we could all be a bit more honest with each other and be open about what’s in store. And yes, I probably would’ve run for the hills had I actually known, but then I wouldn’t have ended up meeting my soul mate and sharing this god-awful rollercoaster with someone I adore. Our daughter wouldn’t be here. I just wish I knew that however hard things get, they can always get a damn heap harder. I’m still not sure if I’d have bought the ticket had I known, but as least it wouldn’t have come as such a fucking shock. And when the shit really hits the fan and you end up in a hospital cubicle <method indicator>maybe it’s a little easier to understand how you got there.
I never imagined my life like this. I imagined gentle successes, companionship, celebrations, stability. What I got is constant struggle, anxiety and more loneliness and isolation than I thought was possible as part of a loving (but dysfunctional) family. The most ironic piece of the whole puzzle is that our amazing daughter, the one thing we actually got right (somehow), will forever remain the reason that I need to at least try and stick around. Because even having a bad mother around is worse that being that kid who’s parent committed suicide. And hurting her or even making her life harder with my selfishness, my lack of stamina, is not something I could entertain. So there you have it. What a fucking ridiculous prison I’ve created for myself. That we’ve all created for ourselves. And that’s with hundreds of hours and thousands of pounds spent on therapy, in my case at least. It’s no wonder mental health is such a fucking unpredictable precarious minefield. And is it making us better? I mean honestly, is it fixing anything? Is it making us happier? Because I’m in bed at 10am on a Tuesday feeling more broken than I thought was possible, with a man-size box of Kleenex and ice cream in the fridge and all I can think about is the <mod> in my office and the bottle of whisky in the drinks cabinet. Oh, and the number of my drug dealer that I’ve promised myself I would delete about a thousand times. And yes, I’ve already messaged him. My daughter will be home in about 7 hours. Who the fuck am I?!
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