I clear my mind, wake up a little earlier, drink some tea, drink less wine, sleep peacefully, but not always peacefully. I still occasionally roll up into that scared little girl in my mind, or feel the rage of that 20 some year old in my blood. I suppose it will never all go away. I suppose living with peace in my body, soul, and mind will continue to take more time. For an impatient person like me the thought of giving up seems easier at times. But I’ve given up a million times before, I have to know how peace in my soul feels.
My concern is you are dealing with a brilliant little boy who is taking medication in order to help make him “school” teachable. I’m risking his well being to make life easier on you. I’m interchanging medication because he’s not the ideal child in your classroom. When things aren’t going as expected he is being punished to “behave” within your expected guidelines. Where do I as a parent draw the line and expect you to work within his guidelines? To convert your expectations of the ideal child into non-ideal solutions?
This isn’t going to be easy, this is going to be hard. This is going to require even more thought and effort on your part then me as his parent. You are going to run into expectations from the state, from your superiors, from me, to meet all their guidelines while serving him as a child who needs the same education and support as those “ideal” children around him. So what are your plans?
It stopped working again….Things were going picture perfect. He was happy, I was happy, she was happy….until about a week ago.
His afternoons started bringing back memories of his past. When he was angry, self deprecating, suicidal. He was only 9 at the time. He’s only 10 now.
His side affects are crippling his life. Our lives are being flipped upside down again. The evening are turning into him only happy if he’s alone in his room with the tv on. He just wants to be left alone.
No one needs to tell me it’s not about me. But my reality isn’t yours. He has no control over his emotions, but I have control over mine and still can’t stop from being angry, sad, and confused.
I miss him when he’s gone, when the medicine isn’t working, when he’s angry and not himself. I just want to scream at him and ask him to stop hurting his sister and me. But he’s not there. He’s not him.
It’s always after they fall asleep, lights off, darkness around me with only my phone shining that I read a blog post, or article about parenting. How we should do better, be better. Why shutting off our phones or closing the laptop and really listening is so important. I read about the kids who remember one thing, not the money, not the toys, not the gifts, just the memories. The ones who only have memories. Tears literally pour and I want to go and wake them up and tell them how sorry I am. I’ll be more present, I’ll do better. I’ll play that game, bake that cake, read that book, hug them a little longer because they’re fading into finding that joy elsewhere.
The truth is I’m scared. I am so afraid that I’m not getting this right. That I’m spending so much time on providing “things” that I’m not providing the only thing that they need. That they want. Just me.
I was told tonight that I’m right where I belong. You know what, they’re right….right now, right here I’m exactly where I need to be. I’m allowing myself to be in a place where no one gets to take advantage of my life, of my heart, or of my soul. A place where I can give freely because that’s where my heartbeat is, in giving. I’m free of expectations, of judgement. I’m not 100% yet but I’m getting there, and when I am even I better watch out 💪🏼
We, WE, You, Me, WE…are going to be ok.
Has anyone ever asked you that? I vividly remember the day someone asked me “what’s your story” and I just stared at them not sure how to respond. I remember not digging to deep and sheepishly answering “Well I’m 27 and a single mother of two kids”. She looked at me oddly and said is that it?
I think about that day 6 years later and wonder if she really wanted to know “my story”. My journey to that night where I was downing vodka, flirting with whoever I wanted, and likely ended up passed out or blacked out somewhere. Just another weekend. Did I look like, act like, resemble someone who had a story.
How did I get here? A place where from the exterior my life is moving along and may even look ideal to some. I wake up, show up, try to look my best, put my best foot forward, try not to complain, and put a beautiful shade of lipstick over my lips and keep it moving. I build and build and take some down and then remove a couple more…. bricks have always been apart of my story. I’m on a rollercoaster. I try to look up and often catch myself looking down.
My story. Sexual abuse, domestic violence, rape, abandonment. Their story. Two kids, no father, abandoned.
Pull up a chair… Let me tell you a story about how and why I’m here, standing up, fighting to look up, and not wanting to give up.
… it’s not humble. It’s not honest. It’s not just being “real.”
It’s prideful. It’s selfish. It’s cruel.
Let’s call it what it is, let’s be real. You, my self-righteous brother, are an ass hole. You are disrespectful and continue living in your excuse that you deserve to treat others poorly because you’ve been treated poorly. You seek out an audience to cheer you on while you tear others down. You’ve made your own definitions for the words blunt and honest.
I HATE that the whole time I had an influence on your life I stood by and cheered you on instead of calling it what it is. That man you hate so much, that man that made your life a living hell, the truth is you’re just like him. Everything I hated about him, you are. When you demean the love of your life, when you make your child feel less than because his ideas aren’t in line with yours, all of it…. it’s him. A part of me wishes that I could tell you what you needed to hear 34 years ago…. that maybe would have changed the anger and selfpityness you carry.
The reality is though that in your bitterness and self loathing you’ve pushed away the ONLY one that stood by you through it all. That hated for you, that fought for you, that loved for you, and that accepted you for you.
It’s a lonely and long road only hearing your own voice….Peace and love brother ✌🏼️
Let me be clear, this blog is strictly for venting tonight.
I have a 9 and 11 year old and both of my children are biracial. I’d like to address common misconceptions that I hear often and frustrate the shit out of me. If these offend you good, because they offend me too.
1. “So you only date black men?” – No dumb ass, I’ve dated black men, and white, and Mexican, and whoever the FUCK I want.
2. “Your kids really should be in a more diverse school” – Why? Ohhhh, they’ll feel more accepted. Interesting… Hm… So it’s impossible for a community to accept two children that don’t “look” just like there’s? Personality, character, and kindness mean nothing then. I’ll be sure to remind my kids of that. 😒
3. “How can you live in a community so small and country with biracial kids?” 😂😂😂. Shut up. Really?
4. “Your kids are so beautiful, most mixed kids are so handsome or pretty” – well congratulations to my “mixed” kids for being good looking. Nevermind that they are simply beautiful. Or maybe I should tell them how beautiful their whatever race child is, ya know most kids of their race are usually ugly.
5. “Did he have a big dick”. – I shit you not… I have heard that nonsense. I don’t know how to respond so I usually just throat punch the person for such an ignorant comment.
6. “Do they have the same dad”. – Frankly that’s none of your business but “let’s make it interesting” and just say well I’m not really sure… I mean I think…I mean he was cheating on me so … So there was this one night .. At band camp.
7. “What do they identify with”. Say what?! What does that even mean….they identify with being human, as my son would tell you “he’s a person not African American or Hispanic”
8. “Your daughter got that good hair” – ok. Thanks I guess.
9. “I’m not surprised you’re raising them alone” – oh your not? Well I was because I was seeing more then an ethnicity and statistic, just a man, and your not. Go ahead, tell me more.
10. What are their names… Say that again… How do you pronounce one more time … Ohhhh that’s nice…. – I’m done.
3 months ago I started seeing a therapist, I started taking Celexa, I started wanting to know why I continued to give the people I love the most all of me. My time, my love, my space, my energy, my money, my strength, my all.
As she described my closest relationships,, she continued using the terms give, gave and take. She subtly described my relationships as draining and selfish. Eventually she told me she wanted to get to the bottom of why I value myself so little. Why I lacked self worth.
I thought back and related my need to give, my extreme empathy, and my selflessness to my past. I wanted to make excuses for those who took advantage of me. That week I cut ties with two of the most draining people in my life. By cut ties I mean I created conflict to push them away, to give myself an excuse to hurt them the way they hurt me for so long.
That moment hurt, it still hurts.
I won’t deny the pain those relationships caused. I also won’t make excuses for the pain I then caused. I couldn’t believe someone on the outside was able to point out my need for love, my willingness to accept less was being taken advantage of by people I trusted the most… it made me angry, it hurt.
As I make decisions on what I will and won’t accept anymore I still question if it was “that bad.” If maybe that’s just who I am…. someone who’s available at the drop of a hat, someone who will give every last drop emotionally just to see others smile. Someone who “understands” what I give can’t be reciprocated. Someone who makes excuses for others and where they are lacking. Someone who has compromised my need to show my children what healthy love looks like.
As I seek out how to find my self worth all I can do is pray I’m strong enough to set healthy boundaries. That I’m strong enough to say no. That I’m strong enough to allow myself to be loved as deeply as I love.