I love my kids. I try to provide the best life I can for them. I make sure that they have everything that they need. I can’t always get them everything that they want, and, in a way, that’s a good thing because I don’t want them growing up thinking everything is handed to them.
They know that Mommy can’t provide everything for them. They know that we struggle financially, so they don’t ask for things that their friends have anymore. And they don’t go for the expensive toys anymore, or they say something along the lines of “I know we don’t have a lot of money, but one day I’d like to have one of these,” so that I know for future reference because they know eventually I try to get them one or two things when I can for special occasions.
For the most part, they are good kids. They have their quirks and bad points that I wish I could correct (but at the moment, I’m having a hard time getting through to them), but I’ve raised them well enough, so far, that in public, those issues are not to come out. I guess it’s just one of those things that no parenting book will ever be able to assist you on; you just have to figure it out as you go.
They see me cry, but they never know why exactly. They just give me a hug and tell me that it will be okay. They deal with Daddy being mean, which none of us will never understand, and I try to protect them from it as much as I know how. Asking why yields no answers, but they are not learning from his actions.
I can’t explain to them that my mind is shattering beyond repair. They watch me take medications and struggle with all of the surrounding physical noise, but they don’t realize that all that noise is amplified. But still it continues. I can’t explain to them that my depression (or, according to my doctor, bipolar disorder) is why I yell more days than others when I don’t want to and know I shouldn’t.
Regardless of all that, I show them all the love in the world. I stay as patient as I can. I try my hardest to be the best mother I can, even though it’s not the role I feel I was made for. (I know some women want to be moms, and that’s great. I was not one of those women.) I am not main one home all of the time because I am the sole financial provider, but they know that it’s only because of them.
They are the only reason I am still alive. They are the only reason I haven’t opted-out of my torment.