The weight of sorrow bears down on me, tearing the covers from my soul.
Dear God! It’s 4 am. I just want to sleep! I try deep breathing for the umpteenth time, this time my mind stills just enough to settle on a single thought.
Everything I’d dreamed I’d give my children has been left unfulfilled. The time is gone and I have failed.
The tears come, drenching my pillow until it’s so wet I can’t stand the cold dampness against my face, and I shove it to the floor. Qeue neck ache for tomorrow.
My children will never know what might have been if they had been raised with security instead of scarcity; what it’s like to grow up without losing everything…more than once.
It tears me apart inside and the sobs come uncontrollably.
This was not my plan. I didn’t have one of those. I didn’t know I needed one. I wish I’d known.
If you read this, and know me, you’ll want to point out the good parts, the overcoming stories. Please don’t. I’m well aware of how strong I am and how “resilient” children are. I’m painfully aware of the many different ways anxiety and depression can manifest in children, preteens, teens, and young adults. I’m exhausted by the struggle to find competent, affordable people to help them heal. I don’t need to be told that they’ll be okay, stronger, and better for having endured so much. I know them better than I know my own reflection in a mirror. What they’ve gained because of the struggle isn’t the point, but what’s been lost.
I don’t need to be reminded to stay positive and pray for peace.
What I need is to sit with this for a while. I need to be allowed to own my failings and feel my feelings. I need to mourn the hopes and dreams I had for their upbringing, and apparently I need to write about it in order to do so.