Some days…

Some days I feel like a super hero.

I know I am a good mom and a good person.

Perfect I am not.

And I hate that word.


Nothing is perfect.

Life is messy. Life is trial and error.

Life can be calm. Hectic.

Every day I grow and learn.

But, some days I am completely on point.

I feel like nothing can stop me.

I feel empowered and strong.

I feel pretty and my self esteem seems settled at an acceptable point.

Then you have days when the whole world comes crashing down.

The evil that lurks in the shadows lashes out.

Looking for control, looking to strike you down.

Everything suffers.

You suffer. You can’t breathe. You struggle to get ahold.

Slipping and losing grip at the mercy of your destroyer.

I will not allow the forces to win.

I will battle for what is right no matter the consequences.

The consequences of watching myself temporarily weakened, broken down and feeling defeated.

But, I will still not let them win.

The things that keep me fighting are always in my heart and mind.

They are the images that let me know that it is okay not to be perfect, but to always be the best I can be.

At every moment, even when I feel like I am failing.

I am my best for them, even when I believe I am not enough.


Life sentence

I am doing a life sentence. No, I didn’t murder anyone, I merely got a divorce.

November 13, 2015 is when it was official, but somehow I am still dealing with the mental and verbal abuse.

He doesn’t specifically call me names, not to my face anyways. He saves that for telling the kids so when they get back home with me, I can hear all about what daddy said or what there soon to be wicked step mother has said about me.

And I don’t mean to retaliate, but I am almost 40 years old. Getting really tired of having to hear highschool drama. I bite my tongue most of the time. I know, just say nothing. But, it’s hard not to when it is so hurtful.

But, the never ending abuse is that no matter what I do or say, it is never the right thing, by his standards anyways.

I am not him, and I will make certain never to be. I don’t parent like he does, but that doesn’t make me a bad parent.

Their clothes aren’t new enough, or don’t meet his approval.

A long sleeved white t-shirt and pink sweatpants does not make a kid a hobo. As he called her that right to her face.

Loud flowery pants are not ridiculous if the kid likes to wear them. Kindergarten is not a fashion show and why can’t she within reason make some of her own decisions. It’s called having a mind of her own.

They obviously frown upon that considering they are all treated like little soldiers.

And it all comes back to me. I am a bad parent for allowing my kids to make small choices in their lives. Why does it matter what design was on her pants. She didn’t look “ridiculous”, she was happy with them and you made her feel bad.

They have clothes on their backs. Yes, the majority are hand me downs, because I just can’t afford to hit the malls and buy them the latest and greatest.

They have plenty of food to eat. They have a roof over their heads, running water and electricity. They have heat. They do homework and go to school each day. I buy them new shoes one at a time as I can afford it. They have backpacks and lunch bags to carry their stuff in. They have beds to sleep in. We do stuff as a family. I make homemade meals most nights.

I punish them when need be and revoke privileges when necessary. I take care of them when they are sick and I urge them to talk when I know something is wrong.

We play, we laugh and we love.

I don’t do things his way, but that doesn’t make me a bad parent.

I shouldn’t have to always defend myself. I shouldn’t have to always feel judged and scrutinized. I shouldn’t have to look over my shoulder constantly worrying that if I don’t do something to his standards that he will threaten to seek full custody or call children’s services on me.

I shouldn’t have to live with constant anxiety.

And yet I take the abuse. Being talked down to like I am a child. Berating me and my decisions.

It is a life sentence of constantly having to hear about how bad of a mom I am because I don’t force my kids to clean baseboards as a punishment.

Because a coat is old and worn and needs replaced, but I just don’t have the money for it right now. I don’t even have a coat.

Or hear about how my one daughters hair was a mess because she didn’t want it pulled up and quite frankly doesn’t give two shits about being perfect all the damn time.

I have to hear about how he gave me everything in the divorce and how he still needs to pay for two households.

I am tired of being beaten down and harassed about everything he doesn’t agree with.

It is abuse.

When my kids are skipping school, not doing homework, running the streets with no clothes, malnourished, doing drugs, stealing, living with no heat or electricity, unclean and unhappy, then he has every right to attack me.

But, that is not the case.

Every day of my life revolves around the lives that I carried in my womb for 9 months. Every sacrifice I make is for them so that I can give them the best that I can give them. I give them my best, always. Doesn’t that count for something?

It doesn’t make me a bad mum.

And yet I am bullied and broken down and because of him, I feel like I am.

I have no leverage to make it stop. He won’t stop and I don’t know what to do. There are no laws or rules that can make it stop.

I just want to live in peace. It has been nearly three years since the separation and I am still being punished. I am still being treated like I am garbage. I am still being made to feel inadequate. I am still being bullied and talked down to.

It makes me sad, it makes me want to cry at times. It makes me angry. It makes my anxiety shoot through the roof. It makes me second guess myself and feel like I am not good enough.

I received a life sentence of being treated like shit from a narcissist. An angry bully who feels superior.

All because I wanted a divorce.

Self Conscious

My skin has always been an issue.

I always wished I were one of those girls walking around with flawless skin.

Adult acne, due to hormones, was always a problem, up until now.

Us moms, our bodies go through so much shit as we age and go through pregnancies and beyond.

I am not at the beyond yet, but I know it’s around the bend as I approach 40.

This last pregnancy left me with a new skin problem that has really trampled my self esteem.

Mask of pregnancy or Malasma.

It it characterized by brown or dark patches of skin, mainly on the face.

Finally, my skin is pretty clear of acne, but now I have brown spots.

I guess I just can’t win.

So, today I finally got a haircut after many months.

And, I am sharing my face. Make up helps. But, it still looks like I have a 5 o’clock shadow above my lip and my forehead is affected too.

But, I have this gorgeous little girl now.

I have a 5 year old who also has marks on her face. She was born with a port wine stain on the side of her face and up around a part of her eye.

She rocks it! She is so beautiful. She is fully aware of them and just says that the birthmark just makes her her.

So, even though my spots aren’t as dramatic as my daughters, they are there. I am sure my anxiety fuels me feeling bad about them too.

Feeling good today with my haircut and not caring what anybody thinks.