What makes a good mother?

What makes a good mother?

I don’t know a single person who hasn’t asked that at some point in their life. Every woman, man, child, maybe even animal (although of this, I cannot be sure). Whether you have one, are one, have thought about becoming one, are looking for a partner in life to raise a family with…

Every single one of us knows a mother.

It is in that experience that we shape our idea of what a mother should, and shouldn’t, be. What a mother should, and shouldn’t do. It could come from your real-life experience – how your own mother lived, the choices they made, how they treated you, or perhaps how they allowed themselves to be treated. Maybe your definition includes the things you admired in other people’s mothers, watching matriarchs in popular television shows, reading about them in your favourite books, or simply a combination of the many things you were told in the course of your life. One thing is certain, you HAVE been told what a good mother is, even if you were too young to remember.

If you were lucky, you had a great one in your life. If you are REALLY lucky, you still do. I am fortunate enough to still have my mother, who despite our MANY differences in personality and parenting styles, remains one of the greatest loves of my life. She was not perfect and never claimed to be. She made mistakes, she made choices, she lived, she learned.

I got pregnant with my eldest son when I was 20 years old, and because of that, motherhood is something I’ve struggled to define for my entire adult life. I didn’t always want to be a mother, but I’ve embraced it, enjoyed it, grown with it, loved it – I have no regrets.

But I do often have questions.

Am I doing this right? Leaving them? Attempting to balance who I am and what I want with what they need? Will they grow up to recognize and admire me for it, or will they hate me for leaving them when they felt they needed me more?

I’ve worked full time since I was 16 years old. I’ve survived with nothing and challenged the constant thoughts, and guilt I’ve felt, in the desire to have more than I need. I struggled to find the balance in parenting, working, and finishing my education when all the odds were stacked against me. I’ve taken shortened maternity leaves to focus on the career I worked so hard to build, with my first one being only 8 weeks long. When they were younger, I balanced it with the idea that they were too young to even remember that I left. As they get older, I balance it with the need to teach them about a world out there that is larger than their own. But, I know it’s hard on them when I leave; it’s hard on everyone.

So, the questions are normal. The questions are real. The questions are great. And like every other mother out there, I have yet to find the answer to any of them except that there are no answers.

YOU REALLY NEVER KNOW!

There is no perfect mother, just millions of individuals struggling to find that balance. Having to be strong when you need to be weak. Having to get up when you just want to stay down. Having to be everything to everyone while still trying to find yourself is one of the most difficult things in life. So, to every mother out there struggling to find the balance, and to everyone out there cheering them on, you are imperfectly perfect.

Keep on doing you, whatever that means and whatever that looks like!

I was bleeding truth

I’m in a strange place.

Even the familiar, seems unfamiliar.

I feel like I’m frozen in time, while the rest of the world zips by me on fast forward.

Do they see me?

Do they know I’m watching them?

I’m distracted by everything.  Everyone.

I’m searching for distractions.  Distractions that will make me feel something.  Anything.

I’m numb.

Last night, I found myself curled in a ball on the floor of my bedroom.  I collapsed into myself.  Crying.  Sobbing.  Screaming.

Alone, thankfully.

Even for me, it was scary to watch.

I needed that.  Oh, how I needed that.

A moment of clarity.  A moment of truth.  A moment of strength.  A moment.  An instant.  It was not weakness, quite the opposite.  It was the result of having had to be strong for so long.  Every part of me was oozing strength.  Courage.

I was bleeding truth.

34 years.  So much pain.  I unravelled.  Came undone.  Allowed myself to feel everything.  Slowly, then all at once.  I removed my distractions and just felt life.  The overwhelming pace.  The never ending search for happiness.  Peace.  Love.  Success.

I asked myself what it was all for.  I asked questions and I allowed myself to answer them.  Truthfully.  Without distractions.

Just me and my heart and my mind and my body and my soul.

I was bleeding truth.

There are two other moments in my life where I found myself in this way; one was the day I tried to kill myself 17 years ago.

I was 17 years old.  Beautiful.  Tortured.  Sitting on my bed, in a house that was no longer mine.  One that never felt like mine to begin with.  I didn’t know who I was anymore.  I was so lost.

I was bleeding truth.

I stared at the pills for hours.  Hours.

My radio was set to play the same song, on repeat.  The same song over and over.  Every word a reminder.

I had pills.  I had water.  I had pain.  I had nothing and everything.

I was bleeding truth.

The first pill was the hardest, it took me hours to swallow it.  The rest went down easily.  One by one.  One pill, one sip of water.  One pill, one sip of water.  If I stopped the routine for even a second, I might change my mind.  One pill, one sip of water.  One pill, one sip of water.

I was bleeding truth.

My sister found me.  I remember her eyes.  The look of terror.  Fear.  I still can’t forget them.  She was the first person I truly loved.  My constant.  I saw in her eyes, what her life would look like without me.  I couldn’t put her through that, no matter how much I hurt.

I’ve never fought so hard to live as I did that day.  Being rushed to the hospital and everything that followed.  I found my truth.  My purpose.  My hunger for life.  My love.

I was bleeding truth.

The end of my first 17 years was filled with both life and death.  The day of my birth.  April 12, 1998.

Here I am, 15 days shy of the end of my next 17.  Suffocated by life.  Surrounded by death.  I find myself on the floor, crying.  In a house that no longer feels like my own.  My radio set to play the same song, on repeat. The same song over and over. Every word a reminder.

Without even realizing it, I had painted a scene that was familiar.  Comfortable.  The last time I knew what it felt like to be desperate to live.  What it felt like to find my truth.  My purpose.  My love.  That meaning.  That hunger.

I came undone in order to come back to me.  I rid myself of distractions in order to reconnect with my truth.  I fell apart only to come back together again, whole.

I was bleeding truth.

I know what it’s like to be afraid of my own mind.  But I am not afraid.  I’m fucking fascinated by the way it shows me exactly what I need to see, when I need to see it.  I thought for a second I was losing myself, but I was simply being shown the way to find myself again.

When I eliminated the distractions, I was able to find clarity.

Today, I make the decision to disconnect in order to reconnect.  I’ve decided to unplug myself from social media.  From Facebook.  From Instagram. When we focus to much on the perfection others portray publicly, we believe that to be reality.  We forget that we are not alone in our pain.  Our struggles.  I want to experience the world as it is, not as it appears.

For a while anyway.