I Pretend

My natural personality pounds against the walls of my insecurities; fists raw and bleeding.

This thing that's slowly taking me over, enveloping every piece of my personality, has turned me into an anxious overly controlled mess.

My initial reaction claws at my insides, laying strips of what I can't fight bare.

I acquiesce.

I pretend.

This mask I wear stapled to my face with anger and terror is a perfected piece of art.

The world has invaded me.

Surrounded everything I used to be with restrictions and fears and I choke on the ideals forced down my throat.

Blood dripping from the razors edge.

This isn't me.

This socially accepted, dying inside, version of the girl I used to be is constricting what little life I have left until my breath dances over that edge between too little and just enough.

There is no just enough anymore.

Soon I'll be swallowed beyond recognition and drowning in my own lies.

*A very raw intense version of my day to day life. 

Dear Zoe's in Pullman..

We walked into Zoe's at 10 to 7, all four kids in tow. We'd tried other places but they were full or closed or not good for kids. We were ecstatic when we pulled in and the open sign was still flashing. Reyna had already begun "picking a seat" which translates to running around in circles saying "hi" to random chairs as I tried desperately to corral her while also carrying three littles worth of stuff in a giant diaper bag. My husband had both babies, one car seat in each hand, and Lindzy walked beside us laughing as I tried to grab my overly active nearly 2 year old.

"To go or?" the man asked smiling at them.

I smiled back and told the man we'd like to sit. It took us a bit to figure out what we all wanted (except my frap, I ordered that by the time my ass hit the bench) and everyone was pretty restless. Reyna and Lindzy ended up watching Netflix on Zoe's free WiFi while the boys sprawled on the floor beside us attempting to crawl but really just face planting on the too slippery floor (they've only ever been on carpet or grass). The waiter even washed out Reyna's accidentally moldy cup so she could enjoy the root beer Lindzy had.

I'd love to blame the two spills of water on the tiny kids littering my table but really it was my clumsy self. They brought out napkins and helped us clean up while cooing over how adorable the babies were. We'd begun eating by then, Reyna dipping her grilled cheese in ketchup, Steven and I playing Hearthstone while simultaneously feeding babies and eating when I realized we were the only people in there.

"Man I would feel terrible if they were actually closed and just waiting on us. But I mean, they'd have told us to leave, right?"

Steven nodded. We continued eating.

At 7:30 a man walked in and asked if they were open.

"No I'm sorry, we close at 7 right now."

I looked to the window and noticed they'd switched the open sign off. I finally looked up from my plate and kids long enough to realize they'd also cleaned up and only a couple workers were actually there.

I panicked.

"They're legit closed, we have to go."

I scrambled every piece of crap we'd spread out into my bag, we loaded up the screaming kids into car seats, corralled Reyna by making Lindzy hold her very upset to be controlled hand, and went to pay. I apologized for our unintended rudeness profusely and the woman checking us out said it was NO BIG DEAL.

I wanted to cry.

They were so exceptionally nice in the face of my loud and expressive dinner party when they had absolutely no reason to be. They checked on us while we ate, gave us extra time to think about what we wanted, even listened to stories about the kids and laughed at them any time they threw a fit (which was unfortunately often because it was bedtime).

My husband happened to get overtime the week before so as a celebration of our upcoming birthdays and anniversary we decided to go out - something we never do because it's expensive and most people are pretty open in their judgement of my family.

I want to say an extremely sincere thank you to Zoe's for not only accepting us without judgment but doing so after hours when you could have rightfully sent us away. Thank you for making the experience enjoyable for my kids and for myself. Thank you for going out of your way to make me feel better about being so inconsiderate. Thank you for cooking us really tasty food (also reasonably priced I might add) after you'd closed and not complaining or limiting the menu.

Just, thank you.

My 5$ tip isn't as much as you deserve or as much as I wish I could give but our very limited funds don't allow much wiggle room. Please accept this letter/blog/review/apology in lieu of something more. I wish I'd gotten your names because you all made my extremely stressful week so much better. Unnecessary kindness is rare these days. Thank you for showing me it still exists because I had begun to doubt it.

Stupid Invisible Diseases

I used to be that mom. 

The one who climbed in play tunnels, who went down slides and rode the teeter totter, the one who chased her child through the park screaming sarcastically just to make her laugh. I was not only helping her climb ladders I was following and managing the monkey bars she was so obsessed with and pushing her on the swings and tire swings (then jumping on) until my arms felt like they'd fall off. And then, I pushed some more. 

But not any longer.

Now I sit on the sidelines, I laugh and encourage while my children play and beg me to push them or watch while they climb really high. I watch while my oldest crosses the monkey bars that she's still obsessed with and struggle with my insecurity that people are judging and staring at my free range parenting: my "parenting" that's really another form of neglect and ignoring. 

Except I'm not ignoring them; it's actually killing me not to be able to give them what they want.

I preach independence and learning their own limitations which is partially true, but it's not everything. Yes, I totally believe in teaching my children to be strong women and men that don't need to depend on anyone to hold them up. I push my kids to do things for themselves that surprise others because they WILL be able to care for themselves if need be.

I'm sitting there not for any of those reasons though. I'm sitting there because I physically can't go play anymore.

I see the stares. 

I'm not stupid.

I know everyone watching me say "no" and shooing them away assumes I won't get up because I'm fat. My insecurities tell me that every time I smile and wave or choose to shoot a picture rather than stand up I'm being judged for my weight.

The sad part is that I'm generally correct. At least 90% of the time people assume I'm lazy and a bad mom because I'm fat. 

Not that I have health problems.

But I do.

They're practically invisible which means that even though they're so bad all my doctors are working to get me disability, no one notices.

Fibromyalgia seems to be a big one, and the back pain from damaged nerves during my surgery for spina bifida at a young age, or my dislocated knee cap/torn meniscus that seems to keep re-dislocating no matter how much rest I try to give it, maybe it's the debilitating headaches from my pseudo tumor that keeps me from doing anything. Oh I know, it's probably the hashimotos that's killing my thyroid making me so fatigued I can't move and still making me unable to lose weight. 

Y'know, that weight you're judging me for. 

I'm constantly in pain. If it isn't my wrists and elbows throbbing or going numb it's my back or my ankles giving out. Sometimes my hip/groin area pops out of place for awhile or my legs go numb. Every once in awhile I can't even carry a bowl of food because my arms are too weak to hold it, my hands to weak or numb to grip the sides. 

If I manage to take enough pain pills or push it away with force of will hard enough to play with my kids I pay for it all night. I cry myself to sleep because of how much it hurts, I barely manage to stand and walk to the bathroom, and getting into a position that doesn't make me throb or ache is such a fight it takes hours. 

Yet I still wake up multiple times a night to rearrange myself. On top of the boys waking up. On top of Reyna refusing to sleep. On top of my own insomnia and sleep problems. So I'm even more tired on top of the already so exhausted my eyelids feel like they're being held down by tiny sand men who are throwing grit and sand into my eyes the handful just because I have crappy health.

And before it's argued, my health problems are not in any way related to my weight. In fact, most are causing the weight that's just making everything even harder.

A simple trip to the grocery store takes me a few hours to recover from; my joints and muscles and bones fully aching as if someone hammers them over and over and over. Then a few more times. And then, for good measure, they run me over with a semi.

It kills me.

Not being able to get on the floor and actively crawl after my kids, to chase Reyna while she screams down the hallway, to go down slides and swing, to not be able to to do anything I want to do is slowly eating away at my insides like a new disease that crawls through my skin coating it with shame at being a bad mother; it's so thick I fear I'll slip on it while attempting to play.

I sit there shooing them away and hate myself. I take extra pictures rather than participating because I can't participate and dig my nails into the skin of my palms to keep from crying my frustration and rage. 

What people don't realize while they sit there judging is that I'm sitting there judging myself too. I hate that I can't do anything anymore. Coming to terms with the fact that I have to be sidelined for the entirety of my children's lives rips me up inside. I'm not being lazy, i just have these stupid invisible diseases no one knows about. I have to convince myself that I am not a bad mom every second that I can't do things normal people can. 

Stop making it harder by throwing around judgment, please.

Do I Break Your Mold?

Everyone knows the people who receive welfare benefits are just drug riddled, fat, lazy fuckers who sit around all day spending your hard earned money on beer, tattoos, expensive items and coke to snort up their nose. We all KNOW they don't want to spend money on food rather than heroin so they apply for these benefits. We all know they keep having kids so they get more money from the people who actually work. We all KNOW they do nothing because they're lazy, have zero skills, don't have a job, and basically leech money and air that is better spent on the people who pay for them.

That's all fact. Right?

Except...

I'M a welfare recipient. I don't use drugs. I drink once every 7 months. I have a 4 year degree. My husband works full time and attends college full time. I stay at home with our children because daycare is too expensive and I have mental and physical health problems that make working impossible.

I'm not lazy.

I chase around 4 children every day, one of whom is a tiny terror that is a living breathing reincarnation of the phrase YOLO so I am literally on my feet more often than not. I crawl around, I go down slides, I push on swings, I get up, then down, then up, then down because someone is always unhappy, I play peek a boo, I read baby books over and over and over, I cook dinner, I clean every corner of my section 8 house, I do our finances, I look over my husband's college work, and I spend every waking minute with my children.

I do have 4 children. It's excessive, even I think so. Why do I have 4 children? Because my government health insurance refused the permanent birth control I wanted two kids ago and #sorrynotsorry I choose to still fuck my husband. And really, should I have expected twins?

I DO have tattoos.

Tattoos that I worked to pay for.
Tattoos that I got for free.
Tattoos that friends who design and ink professionally did for a very low price.

Tattoos that my husband saved up money for with every birthday, holiday, or anniversary present to pay for. Rather than buying each other gifts we save up money for things that will last forever like permanent bonding that I can stare at everyday or things to remind myself that I DO mean something even when my insides are crumbling apart - pieces of art that live on my flesh rather than my walls because I choose to decorate something I hate with something I love.

I have piercings. But, all of them were done while I was working and able to pay for them or I did them myself. I haven't had a new one in 6 years even though my body itches for another.

Being lumped into the drug riddled population is insulting. Being told that by using food stamps or any form of government help I am enabling myself to become a drug addict is insulting. Reading that people believe they are contributing to the drug towns by paying into government aid is insulting.

I dug my way out of that life with willpower and came out on the other side with dirt crusted and bloodied fingernails from the fight. To imply that I am still in that life is insulting and something I will not tolerate.

 I was never on government assistance of any form while using drugs, only afterwards while I was attending college, working, and trying to better my life did I need it. It's there to be a stepping stone to better things, sometimes those better things take longer than a person expects and that's ok.  It was and is my stepping stone. I needed help paying for food while I got a 4 year degree, worked, and took care of my child alone. I chose to feed her rather than worry about my pride or what it might look like to other people, how terrible am I?

So, I'm not uneducated. There's another misconception. I'm not living off the state because I have no schooling or skills, my husband isn't working at McDonald's and getting food stamps because he has no skills; we're doing what we have to in order to survive until we can make it on our own. We are WORKING on making it on our own, not sitting at home on our lazy asses collecting your hard earned money.

Oh wait.

It's also our hard earned money since he's working, right? Not only that, but welfare actually receives a pretty pitiful amount of your taxes.

I do have nice things and my kids are always dressed impeccably when we're out. That's because I was raised poor and I know how to shop sales and clearance in thrift shops. And, because I have friends.

My BIL gave us his xbox, kinect, games, controller, and a bunch of computer parts for my husband to build his own. I have a computer that I bought on sale for school years ago. Our daughter has a computer because my husband had 3 when we first got together and he's good at updating and fixing them. You kind of have to be good at fixing when you're poor.

Because of amazing friends, we have awesome kids toys that they fill our home to the point of annoyance.

We have an incredibly nice van that we are paying 50 dollars a month for to my in-laws because they knew we needed the extra seating. (see above, 4 kids, welfare insurance and all)

I also have a decent smart phone with internet access because I got the phone free with my 2 year contract and the data comes with my friend's plan that I kind of infringe on because I can't afford my own.

Why is it alright to judge and assume about other people just because they're poor? What if they've just become poor enough to need government assistance and still have a host of nice things? Selling them won't get you anywhere near what they're worth. Trust me, I've pawned many a things just to get some tampons for a never ending period.

I feel shame every time I swipe that EBT card, every time I pay rent, every time I use WIC, and I can't look anyone in the eye if it's apparent that I'm doing either. I had a super great Wal-mart employee the other day who apparently didn't hear the part about discretion during her training and shouted about my WIC purchases a good twenty times for all the surrounding people to hear. I never once looked up because I didn't want to deal with the stares or judgement.

That's what you people do. You make us feel like shit because we are using a service that's intended to help because you assume. Because you don't know us. Because you think you have that right.

I use government assistance and I am not a freeloader or a drug addict. Do I break your mold?

I'm Taking Sexy Back

Every time I look in the mirror I cringe - stretch marks and fat. My hips have spread to unimaginable proportions and after two c sections I'm pretty positive this belly over hang will never go away.

I feel disgusting.

I grab fistfuls of my stomach and cry. Its like the tears are ripping apart my throat they're so strong but I can't stop. I hate it.

"Mama!" Baby two screams from outside the bathroom door, because anything longer than a minute means a portal must have opened in the bathroom and I've been sucked inside. I hastily wipe the tears away, lower my shirt, and open the door.

She uses the opening to her advantage and busts inside like the koolaid man smashing the door against the dryer. She smiles.

I survived the black hole.

I walk out to see baby #1 holding both baby 3 and 4. "They were crying so I picked them up but I finished my homework first because I didn't want to hold them in my room.." Kind of scary since she's only 8 and they're squirmy month old twins.

I stop then, halted by the sudden realization that I'm happy. I finally feel complete with what I have. My body gave me this. 

The body I hate so much housed and raised 4 perfect babies.

It carried twins for 37 1/2 weeks keeping them snug and healthy until way past doctors thought I'd make it. My body didn't want to give them up, fought to hold them so hard an emergency c section was the only way to remove them.

It protected Reyna from the car crash that deeply bruised my stomach. My body shielded her while a car slammed into us, while the windshield smashed around us, and while the steering wheel invaded her space.

My fat did that.

My body kept Lindzy safe from every drug I ingested before knowing I carried her. It made and perfected this tiny person who ultimately saved my life even when I was actively working against it.

How can I hate something I'm so fucking proud of?

How can I let everyone else warp my view so much that I'm spending hours at a time telling myself how wrong I am? I force myself to eat food I hate and deny food I love based on a stupid lie.


That I'm not good enough as I am.

That I need a flatter stomach.

Tighter thighs and arms.

That my stretch marks are ugly.

Stretch mark cream is directly aimed at mothers like we should be ashamed of what our children gave us, like we should change and hide every little thing that proves how fucking awesome our bodies actually are.

I call bull shit.

I'm finished thinking I'm not good enough to feel sexy. I'm finished falling into the trap of needing to change to be worth anything. Finished dressing to hide myself and cropping photos so only my face is visible. Finished being self conscious every time I leave my house. Every time I see myself.

I'm fat, my stomach is flabby, my stretch marks have stretch marks and i'll never be what i'm "supposed" to be. But it's not about everyone else or "supposed" to be's. It's about me. Convincing myself I'm beautiful as is.

Why spend time hating something that's so amazing? Every stretch mark represents the months I spent giving my life to someone else. The hips my husband loves to hold onto cradled four babies safely. The fat on my stomach and thighs fed my children when I couldn't  manage my to eat. My body is a fucking rock star and it deserves recognition not to be shoved in the back of a closet like it's something to be embarrassed by.

Hating it is stupid.

So I'm not.

I'm taking back my own worth and the definition of sexy. Sexy is every woman. Sexy is real. Sexy is the unconditional love and commitment it takes to carry a child.

I am sexy.

Exactly as I am.

So I'm a callous, heartless, bitch.

Maybe I hold onto my view so desperately because to break away from it is to admit that my father DID love me, just not enough and that would break me. I'm clutching to the idea that he didn't care with both hands, knuckles white, like it's the ledge between myself and death.

And really, it kind of is.

Could I handle knowing that while my father loved me, he loved drugs and alcohol more? That while he looked at me the same way my husband looks at our children, it didn't matter? That even though he cradled me in his arms and cried with happiness he STILL thought only about his next fix?

So I cling to my beliefs. I wear them like a well loved jacket and never take them off because the cold would cut through my insides.

He didn't try.

If he had maybe I would feel differently. You can't say that someone has tried to get clean or stay with his family when he walks away from it, when he hasn't been to rehab or counseling, when his every "attempt" is met with more drugs and a stop at the bar on the way home because it was "calling" to him.

Do I sound callous?

Yes, I fucking do.

Because I've been there. I was scraping meth off a public bathroom floor to shove up my nose bad. I was so high I peeled the "skin" from my eyeballs until they swelled so much I couldn't shut my eyelids bad. I was dealing to survive bad. I was pouring beer into soda cans to drink at church bad. I was snorting in the high school bathroom bad. I was so far gone nothing even registered anymore.

And then my child registered.

It was like spending my entire life in a wasteland full of heat and dry staleness then being given a sink full of water. My life literally began and ended in that moment. There was a choice between continuing and finding a new life.

So I turned away.

I lost every friend I currently had. I just stopped going where we used to go and stopped calling. I didn't answer them. I detoxed and stayed clean alone because I was terrified of telling someone like a doctor and having them decide I was an unfit mother and taking my life saving child away. I spent my entire pregnancy getting ready for college and sitting on my grandparents couch reading so many books I can't even remember the authors trying to escape the pain.

The calling.


And that's the thing. I know what the calling is like. Drugs still call my name. My entire family had to move 6 hours away from my home town because the calling was too much. It's this voice in your head that tells you everything will be alright and better if you just go with what you know. Go with the drugs. Go with your friends.

Do you know how much you could accomplish if you just got ONE tiny bowls worth of meth? And how much weight you'd lose. If you were pretty enough you could even get it free. You could clean your entire house. Your husband would love it. You could play with your kids without pain. You won't cry everyday. You won't be tempted to cut because you'll finally be HAPPY.

Lies. So many fucking lies that have to be acknowledged and fought or simply believed.

I chose to fight.

I used every trick I had in me to win this constant battle against using and giving in. Does that make me strong? I don't know. Maybe. To me it just means that I survived. That this bullshit I let control me for so long didn't actually win.

But that's the thing.

Giving "weak" people the excuse of being weak is just that. An excuse. There is no weak and strong when it comes to a child. There is just doing everything within you to give them the life they deserve. It's loving them enough to realize that you're totally fucking up and need to become an adult.
It does no good to let people believe they're weak. To give them excuses. They don't need anymore excuses, they have a trillion on their own!

I need this to function. I'm not actually that bad. I still pay my bills. I see my child, on the weekends, one day, for a few hours. No one knows I'm on drugs because I don't act any different. I look incredibly sexy, I have no side effects related to drugs at all. I'll quite before I become like him.

Fucking news flash.

You ARE like him.
Everyone knows.
You don't pay your bills.
And you look terrible.

I would much prefer my husband, friend, even a random fricken stranger to say "I have to walk this bar everyday when I go to work and everyday it calls to me. It's getting harder and harder to walk past it without wandering in for jut a second... Can you please walk with me?" Than to tell me he couldn't help it because the drugs and alcohol just kept pushing at him until he had no choice but to succumb.

THAT'S true weakness. Giving in without actually fighting.

Strength is giving everything to the fight until you're breathless and shaking but still standing.

Everyone has that option some just choose not to take it because it's easier to do what they've always done. I take offense to people that live in a bubble of weak people vs strong ones. It's like saying my battle wasn't as bad as there's because I just don't understand. I'm tired of hearing that its just "easier" fir some people.

No it fucking wasn't, but I did it anyway.

Someone recently likened it to sweets. "If someone told you to stop having candy and soda and sweets or you'd never see your kids again, you couldn't."

Yes. Oh yes I would. I would walk away again, in a heartbeat. Because nothing is worth more than my children.

"Am I supposed to be able to feel the coldness?"

"Where do you feel the coldness?" The anesthesiologist looks down at me, grabs my hand, waits. "All over my belly, right side, now left, middle, upper thighs," I answer haltingly. He frowns behind his mask, I can tell because his eyes squint a little at the corners and his forehead wrinkles. He glances over the sheet draped across my chest , "Thighs is normal. But we'll test before cutting to make sure, I promise it'll be alright." He squeezes my hand again then passes it off to my husband.

I glance at Steven, smile.They're taping my stomach up now, making it easier to reach the babies after making the incision. It starts to feel like my lungs are compressed to nothing and I struggle to breathe, my chest is refusing to expand. My arms are strapped down, my legs. I feel panicked, begin shaking, "I can't breathe." Everyone glances at the monitor to check my oxygen. "You're alright, you're ok," Steven says, "Your oxygen is good."

I know this.

Pushing it away I concentrate on the anesthesiologist as he talks about his kids, his new grand babies. I focus on the man complimenting my make up. On Steven gripping my hand and try to be strong enough for him.

Then pain, sharp and strong in my lower stomach and I cry out. "I can still feel it, it's not numb." He frowns again, checks some levels, "I can't add anymore epi, your blood pressure is falling. They'll give you a local anesthetic and that'll give the epi time to work and get deeper." I nod, unable to do much else while silently losing it. Too many stories of people feeling their c sections has made me paranoid.

I feel the stick of the needle, but only barely. They wait a few seconds where my breathing is still shallow and quick before starting. I look at Steven again, holding his eyes as I try to calm myself and smile because I will finally have my babies.

I scream.

Startled, confused. I feel the scalpel as it starts cutting my flesh, a sharp pain shooting through me as I jerk my legs against their straps. "Stop, stop!" I can't breathe. Anything they give me passes to the babies. We're not doing alright. We can't pass anything. I don't want my husband to leave. I don't want to miss their birth. They stop to give it more time to numb me, only it doesn't.

I keep crying out, tears are streaking down the sides of my face as I try to hold still, as I stare at the ceiling and the lights and try to breathe myself to relaxation. "You're focusing, that's good," the anesthesiologist again,. I know he's trying to help. He wipes the years away from my face but they just keep coming. "Her bp is too low. 60/30."

That explains it.

My body is floating. I'm somehow floating above it and still inside it feeling every time the scalpel cuts through another layer. "She is in excruciating amounts of pain!" Steven yells. He knows me enough to know that my crying and actually screaming is abnormal. I want to stop, I want to be calm and relaxed and let Steven enjoy this birth.

I scream again. "It's almost over right?" I stammer through my teeth, still feeling lightheaded. They don't say anything, just wipe away the tears that keep leaking from the corners of my eyes. Steven keeps squeezing my hand while I stare at the lights and jerk against the straps every time I can't hold myself still anymore. I know they have to cut through the scar tissue but its so slow. Torturous. "We'll give you something to calm down and relax you and take it away as soon as the babies are out."

I manage to nod my head in between screams.

"Do you hear that? It's the water breaking, they're reached baby A. They're pulling him out now." I tried to focus on that intense pressure, the feeling of him leaving my body rather than the sharp pain radiating through my vagina and pubic bone. They keep saying they don't know why I am feeling pain there, just that it is probably referred pain from the incision. I jerk. Straps cut into my thighs.

Every time they pull trying to yank him loose from my body I cry out, the pain becoming more than I can silently handle. Finally he's free and I hear screaming. Tears now fall for another reason as I struggle to turn my head and catch a glimpse but I can't. I'm quickly distracted by more pain as they pull my stomach apart to reach baby B whose wedged himself into my ribs.

I gasp, breath leaving my body completely. It feels like they're laying against my stomach and ribs attempting to pull him out. Finally he's free "he was feet down!" and everyone scrambles. My IV is pumped full of morphine, something to relax me, another something to stop the pain. Steven is trying to look at them so I tell him to leave, to go be with them because something is wrong. Someone isn't breathing right.

My chest is heavy now. the morphine starting to work. I'm heavy and floating and finally starting to drift off into nothing happily.

You Can't Just Walk Away From A Mental Disorder.

this mask i wear

I spent last night alone crying on the couch with a rag pressed against the cut on my upper thigh. I could hear Steven's video from the bedroom and so badly I wanted to walk in there and demand he hold me, demand he tell me that everything was ok, demand he love me.

But I couldn't.

Instead I laid there listening to random noises from upstairs that made me jump. My heart would race even faster than its normal 100 bpm, my limbs shaking, panic setting in over stupid sounds that didn't mean anything.

But I couldn't stop it.

It's like having another person inside me controlling everything I do and say. I don't want to tell Steven to leave me. I don't want to tell him nothing is wrong when we both know I've been sobbing in the shower for fifteen minutes. I don't want to cut myself after so long of being clean.

But I can't control it.

I hear myself saying things I don't mean. I see myself crying and cowering inside a closet underneath hanging clothes struggling to feel safe even though nothing is out to get me. I watch Steven try to help me and get shut down repeatedly.

Its a wonder he's still here.

It's razors constantly living inside my throat because I'm struggling not to cry. My head pounding from the stress of being normal because I have no choice. Living in a state of self loathing and self consciousness at every waking moment - which is often because I can't sleep.

Some days it isn't so bad. Some days I can play and laugh and enjoy my life like it should be. I can watch my children with happiness and love without wanting to also cry at how terrible of a mother I am.

my reasons

Because by all rights my life isn't the most terrible thing ever.

I've overcome multiple drug addictions,  I can drink alcohol without letting it control my life, I've moved past people who abused me, I was a single parent who graduated from a 4 year college, I am raising 2 beautiful smart girls, I'm currently growing two amazing boys, and I'm married to the love of my life and after.

Why isn't this enough?

Because mental disorders aren't logical. I can't just decide that I don't want anxiety or mania or depression anymore. It's not like stepping past drugs through sheer willpower and that kills me. If I did that, surely I can master my fucking emotions right?

But I can't.

I've been to counselors and shrinks and I've taken so many different pills I don't even remember there names. I've tried being honest and open with counselors but have gotten no where. Actually my intelligent and matter of fact self diagnosis often makes them believe I'm fine and in need of no help.

Must I come in sobbing with blood running down the fresh cuts on my legs completely hysterical to get the point across?

Purely because I know I have to function I do.

During the day.
Around people.
With my kids.
My family.
My friends.
Strangers.

this love

And then at night when everyone's sleeping I silently go insane. Every feeling and thought I've buried throughout the day comes rushing to the forefront, lashing against my fragile mind.

There's no stopping the slaughter that is me.

Lately I even wait until Steven is asleep or gone because the thought of being vulnerable to him is too much to deal with. Just thinking about walking to him and asking him to comfort me sends my anxiety and panic into an out control spiral, though I know he's completely willing and ready to help me overcome even this.

But I resist.

I resist him. I resist change. I resist admitting that I can't handle everything. I resist the thought that I'm not strong enough to do everything alone because I resist being vulnerable.

To anyone.

Being vulnerable means giving someone else the power to destroy you.

Perhaps someday it won't be a struggle every day to survive. Maybe I'll find the right combination of meds or counseling. Possibly I'll be committed and forced into taking time to heal the broken pieces of myself.

Until then I'll struggle and fight to be everything I can be for my family and my beautiful children because that's what I do.

they keep me alive