A Mother’s Cry..

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Photo by Wendelin Jacober on Pexels.com

My whole world has become complacent lately. Feeling like a machine with my heart renewed on an assembly line by a conveyor belt each day only for it to be broken into pieces once again. Broken heart after broken heart. I am a born again living dead girl. Floating around preparing myself for the next jab. A pride carried from a naive heart who only felt she had gotten at least one thing right in her fragile, brittle life.

Take that molded rug right out from under me. Over and over again until the bends of these knees that have prayed for you shatter in two. While I lay here, a puddle of poison and battered, I will finally admit to myself that it was a facade.

With every strength and effort in me to break a cycle and do it better than those who had come before me, I have seemingly failed. I lied to myself and continue to do so. And since that was the only good that was ever in me, I’m emptied of a want to. I am hollowed with a who am I. I am robbed of a purpose.

Convinced now that I everywhere I turn, everything is polished before I get there, and rusted out by the time I pass through.

Damaged goods. Homeless.

How does one who is broken time and time again, die inside, and then awaken again to die once more but never stay dead?

When I said I’d take the pain of this world off of you if I could, I never knew or imagined that it would mean that I would take not only the pain, but the weight of every ocean, the blame, and every ounce of hate and resentment that had passed through the vicinity of us.

But even so, torn limb from limb, I steady myself to stand once again with half the sun rising on my beaten face, to take my place on that front line once more.

A failure badly bruised, mentally paraplegic, and dead but still breathing; prepared without hesitation to do it again. And again.

A maternal love is unfailing, unwavering. At least that is what it’s supposed to be. And maybe you’ll never see it in me, or find any sense of pride in my silent and suffering efforts, but I will press on in it in hopes that in the end, you will awaken to the knowing of how profound the possibility is of someone, who is so broken, numb, and beat down, could still love someone else and fight for someone else with an unfathomable, immeasurable, unfaltering, unconditional, and powerful will to live again, and also still love someone else with an entirety and unbreakable spirit, while unable to look at her own self in the mirror.

Live fully, my sweet joy. Live powerfully as my favorite chapter. I’ll be here fighting it for us. And always loving you out loud and working through the dead in me silently.

And even when you didn’t think I cared, or don’t think I care, I have loved you and will love you with every fiber and every second of my existing…

A Mother’s Fight

It’s really incredible how quick life can pass by. You can sometimes think back on your kids being little, stomping through the house, and asking a million questions. Back then, you used to be annoyed by it at times. Even ignoring them sometimes. I remember spending every waking minute with my daughter trying to make things perfect, which doesn’t exist by the way.

Although we never had much money, I always wanted her to have the shoes she wanted, the clothes she wanted, and there’s not a picture I look back at where her outfit wasn’t cute and in every single one, her socks matched her bows.

I spent all this time doing this partly because I never got the chance to be girly. I have always been tomboyish. I wore boy clothes a huge chunk of my early teenage years, and never got too heavy into makeup unless there was an occasion specifically for it, and even then, it was black lipstick, or something dark.

Everyone made fun of me the whole time my daughter was little because I never let her get dirty. And if she did get dirty, I would follow her around with baby wipes cleaning her up. I carried 8-9 outfits with me at all times in a diaper bag and if she got so much as a single stain on her, I would change her entire outfit. I carried the whole can of formula, and the whole box of cereal in the bag, and pretty much a whole pack of diapers. It was as if I was always prepared to leave and never come back, if necessary.

I was more than over-protective. I was constantly fearful, that what happened to me in my life, would happen to her. I didn’t want anything to ever even come close to making her feel, how I had felt most of my life.

In the end, turns out, I further damaged her by protecting her so much. By the time I braved up to start letting her doing anything, she didn’t really know how to make friends. And really didn’t trust people (Also my fault). Each attempt at social pairing has for years, been mostly a flunk. And each time, I blame myself.

I wonder to myself constantly if one day, she will also blame me. Or, does she already blame me now?

The struggles we face today aren’t just simple bullying trials, or even just fighting off loneliness with no friends. It’s a pure and constant sadness. Darkness. Each day, a new demon to fight off, and each night, another night I lay my head on my pillow feeling like a failure, like I failed her and myself.

For 15 years, 7 months, and 28 days, each second of my life has been dedicated to wanting every best light in the world I could think of for her. Everything to chase the darkness away.

I spent my life before that, chasing my own darkness away. Did I morph my demons into this beautiful little girl just by merely being her mom? Did my overprotectiveness do everything except….. protect her?

I wanna see happiness fill her til she overflows. How do I get there? The one lesson I learned the hard way that I avoid reminding myself of constantly is that you can’t make other people happy. But I want to. I would be sad and dark forever if it meant her life could be filled with happiness, never-ending love, and a future filled with hope and the greatest of adventures.

I know my page is normally much deeper with poetry, and poetic views of real life situations.. But sometimes, you need to let people who support you see the truth. Real, raw, and unequivocal truth.

My life is not this mysterious bed of roses. It’s just the thorns. It’s the instant pain when they prick your finger, and the shock when you stub your toe.

My baby is depressed. And that is a summary. She is deep in a basement with no light, depressed. But to me, that’s not all she is.

She is my coffee in the morning. And the only light I see. She is orange blossom, in a field full of pink roses. She is a powerful rock and doesn’t even know it. And she is my reason for breathing. She’s creative. And when in motion, completely unstoppable.

But she is depressed. It is taking her down, and I’m fighting that demon like a soldier on the frontlines. I’m not sleeping, barely eating, and none of my smiles will be real, until hers are.

I am her mother. And in the light that she doesn’t see, I am her warrior, her biggest supporter, and even when she shuts me out completely, I am still here, fighting with everything in me, and loving her to top of every mountain we need to climb. And one day, we’ll get to the top and rejoice at the echo of our victory.