One day I hope to be seen for the imperfect, yet trying her damnedest, human being that I am.
Instead of the absurd expectations I will never be able to achieve.
One day I hope that the best defense isn’t seen as a reconciliation tool.
Instead of the trauma wound misstep that it is.
One day I hope to be heard for the words I am saying.
Instead of the intentioned stories that play in your head.
~ ~ ~
It’s been a year since this all began. This perpetual isolation. The lockdown. The distancing. The homeschooling and virtual, unpaid, teacher’s aid. The unemployed. The 24/7 household management, education management, business owning hellscape that has become my day to day. And amidst all of this I am supposed to remember my newly minted tools to work through my sh*t, all while never showing weakness in the form of anxiety, frustration, anger, etc.
Hold it all together.
Know when to ask for help, but not too much.
Be the objective teacher, as if your child can forget you are their mother and treat you as objectively.
Hold and handle it all, for us all.
Or cuss or scream or yell or cry.
Don’t tell me how you feel if it pertains to us, no. Your feelings cannot be about us.
Don’t worry, that’s a waste of time.
Don’t think about all the things, it will all work out.
Such funny sentiments. I often wonder if those that speak them actually understand the meaning of responsibility. The burden of womanhood. The weight of mothering.
We don’t just mother children, we mother the grown ass partners that forgot to be mothered into adulthood by their own mothers. I want to blame them, and yet I am unsure where the blame truly lies...
I blame myself instead, for being trapped in the perpetual cycle of extending too much of me.
When they fall asleep fast, snoring from the depths of carefree sleep, while I lie awake furiously pouring out the dregs of my soul onto this screen. Hurting and exhausted and wanting something that resembles companionship. Partnership. Not codependent anxiety. My comfort existing in the sad knowledge that I am not the only one that lies awake at night wondering if equality is within my reach.
If one day my anger will be permitted, or my heartache will matter.
I have fallen asleep lonely and angry so many times that tonight no tears fall. I have none left from a year that has tried me to my core. I only have a deep hope that when all the cards fall it will be as it should be.
Will I one day be truly heard?
I do no know.
Will true healing for come?
I do not know.
Will I survive this chapter and create an exquisite new one?
Perhaps. Or perhaps I will begin a new book altogether.
I will call it: Love me, Please.
And I will hear myself, and I will love myself.
Then those expectations will fall away and only I will remain in my glorious strength and beauty of trying my damndest and that being more than enough.
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