Just a few years ago, life was really dark. I often wondered if my family would be better off without me. I didn't want to end my life, but wished I could just fade away, slowly being erased from existence so no one would hurt when I was gone. I now know this was a result of multiple traumas in my life which caused severe panic disorder. At the time, I just thought I was really screwed up and carried the fear that life would always be this painful on my shoulders like a 1000 lb boulder.
I'd often heard about a "gratitude practice". It was this catchy trend at the time, all the popular social media influencers were talking about it. *Cue the eyeroll* But the way they said it would help, while I wasn't nearly convinced, sounded great. I desperately needed help, needed something to change if I had any hope of surviving this season. I felt utterly alone, while being surrounded by people who I knew loved me and were trying to break down my walls.
For so many, today is joyous. For others though, it can be bittersweet, or downright hard.
For the ones who's moms are in heaven...
For the ones who's moms were absent...
There we were again, engaged in another yelling match. It would surely lead to hurt feelings, mom shame, and possibly tears. But I just couldn't help myself, and neither could my 8 year old. As two very headstrong individuals, these battles have been raging since he was old enough to realize he had an ounce of power to say no. It used to be worse, much worse, because toddlers, and also because I was far less healed back then. But it still happens far more often than I'd like to admit.
Before I became a mother I had these grand plans that I'd be a gentle, hippy dippy type mother. I had no desire to co-sleep (joke's on me there!) but I didn't want to spank, or be super strict, or be a yeller, and I didn't want to be the reason my children needed therapy. I thought I'd be nurturing and talk about feelings, and all that warm fuzzy stuff. And we do sometimes. My parents were FAR from abusive. They were honestly pretty great parents most of the time, and their shortcomings were simply because they were doing the best they could with what knowledge and emotional intelligence that they had at the time. But I do remember one time being genuinely scared, because I'd just pushed too far and they were only human. I didn't ever want to cause my children to feel that fear. And then I became a mom...
When we talk about the transformation of becoming a mother, we acknowledge that it's a tiredness like no other, but mostly we hear how it is a beautiful, indescribable, wonderful transformation that you couldn't even imagine. And while that may be true, that wasn't my experience.
The truth is, becoming a mother was very difficult on my mental health. Motherhood made me feel very helpless, and after awhile that made me feel hopeless. I felt helpless when it came to nourishing my baby, getting him to sleep, controlling my emotions. And as he started to grow, so did my negative feelings. I felt helpless when he would get in trouble at school, when he wouldn't listen at home, when he randomly decided he no longer wanted to eat fruits or veggies, ever again.
See, I had built my coping mechanism for anxiety on control. So when my son became a very headstrong toddler, and wouldn't listen to mommy (like toddlers often do), it severely triggered my anxiety. And when my anxiety would get triggered, it manifested as anger, rage, and violence. I knew becoming a mom was making my anxiety worse. And then one day, I got my wake up call....
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The baby started spitting up, then slung his head in the other direction, also slinging spit up all over his shirt. Then he spit up again, the slung his head back the other way again, adding more spit up to the mess. As it dripped down my leg and I said, "Oh great," I heard a giggle behind me. No, not a giggle. A taunting laugh. A "Haha, that's what you get." My blood started to boil. I got up to change the baby, and myself, and as I walked past my still smirking 8-year-old, I raised my leg to tap his hip and get his attention, signaling that what he was doing was not appreciated. I was going to give him the stank eye.
Instead, I missed his hip and kicked him right in the gut. Immediately he grabbed his belly and said ow, and I knew I'd messed up. I apologized but was still really angry. I told him the laughing was disrespectful and not appreciated. He told me he was laughing at the creature he was fighting in Prodigy, his math game, not me. I felt sick. How could I have jumped to the wrong conclusion so quickly? How could I think the worst of this sweet (and yes, mischievous) boy. My anxiety was still peaked though, and honestly I didn't know if I believed him. I didn't want to believe, because that would mean that I was wrong, and that I'd REALLY messed up.
As I took the baby to the room to change him, I started to spiral...
