The Bad of Good Parenting

Most things in our lives have that "what to do in case shit goes sideways," saving grace protocol in some form, be it the local emergency number, personal panic alarm buttons, or even the Emergency Shut Off Button at the gas station, and most semi sentient humans are aware of these "in case of emergency or fuck up fixers" and how to properly use them. With all the new technology and fancy AI we have and use on a daily basis, there is still one aspect of life where an instruction manual, in case of emergency, or reset button is null and void, and that is being a parent. For those moments too ugly, too humiliating, and way too authentic to reveal on the next Facebook status update, there is no pause, fast forward, or big red easy button for when parenting goes sideways.

I am not talking about the joyful, beautiful and gratifying parts of parenthood that allow us to maintain that little sliver of sanity, no, this is the raw, unsettling and clandestine parts of being a parent. It's the tumultuous moments that have parents worldwide voiceless, and despondently pining for help, yet too ashamed to admit that they need a break from being a parent. Many parents are muted by societal expectations that parenthood should always be easy, planned, perfect, and most importantly Instagram worthy, though this cut, copy, and paste facade does not accurately reflect the reality of everyday parenthood. In addition to the joy, beauty, and boundless gratifying moments of parenthood comes the inevitable bombardment of immense sentimental sacrifice, perpetual worry, paralyzing frustration and limitless fear, yet the real torture of parenthood makes all that mere child's play. Always at the forefront of every parental decision and action we make, yet we purposefully condemn our shame, repressing it in the deepest, most restricted, and heavily barricaded part of our being, depleting every ounce of willpower and strength to prevent from facing our biggest fears about ourselves. It's that growing panic, the suffocating anxiety slowly engulfing your sanity, that all too familiar feeling of virulent self doubt, the nauseating, soul gnawing inevitable torment of "am I a bad parent?"

When self doubt is combined with the judgemental societal standards of being a good parent it creates burned out, mentally unhealthy, and beyond exhausted individuals, who believe that asking for help as a parent will equate them to being labeled a bad parent, thus feeling that they have failed as a parent for their inability to be the socially defined perfect parent. As a single mother of a 16 year old daughter and 9 year Autistic son, I am all too familiar with this torturous dilemma, convinced that asking for help, not knowing what to do for the well being of my children, admitting I need a break from being a mom, even just for the next 10 minuets, makes me a shitty mom, and shows my kids that I am weak, selfish, and don't love them. In my sleep deprived stupor I make diligent, yet asinine attempts to conceal my emotions, and pretend like I am fine, when in reality I am secretly berating myself for feeling and even wanting, to not be a mother, for that moment at least. I am both physically and mentally crippled, I am devoid of the energy, motivation, and desire to be anyone's mom, but even so I still manage to cling to reality and keep any sanity I possess safe and protected. In this moment I sit isolated semi barricaded from the chaotic world that resides on the other side of my locked bathroom door within my small, messy garage apartment. No one knows I am struggling at this moment, no soul is aware of this merciless barrage of guilt, shame, embarrassment, regret, anxiety, judgement, fear, and self loathing that today I am not able to deflect or avoid, and this is just one warzone I cowardly concede from more often than I bear the ability to fight within my self.

Being the mother of my youngest, my rainbow child, my autistic 9 year old son who loves his X-Box, would rather dig a hole in the dirt for hours instead of ride a bike, is better at math than I ever was or will be, and can be the most sweetest, compassionate, and loving child ever, is also capable of emotional meltdowns that always hold the potential to instantly switch to an anger and frustration that were the real origin of the frequent bruises and cuts I blame on my own clumsiness when confronted by others, often selling the fraudulent narrative with a bullshit smile and casual eye roll. What am I doing wrong, it must be my fault for his defiant behavior, he is with me literally every second of every day, how do I help my child that when he needs me the most, I am terrified of what he is capable of doing to me in a fit of blackout rage? My answer is to retreat and cower to the safe refuge of my bathroom, due to it being the only door to lock from the inside in my apartment, here again I sit back to the door, angry with myself, frustratingly hopeless. Silently listening as my little boy has become possessed by his own anger, tortured by his own inability to process his extreme emotions, he screams, cusses, kicks and punches my cracked and hole littered walls, throwing anything within arms reach, having near perfect aim right to the bathroom door, making contact on the opposite side to my head, this is the usual catalyst that triggers the cascade of my emotional turmoil in a torrent of tears. My son sits winded and sobbing on the other side of my toilet ruled sanctuary, as I sit inside doing the same, its only when the commotion and pandemonium of his wrath has subsided do I cautiously unlock the door and without any evidence of my emotional break I open the door and ask my son if he is ok and is he done acting out. I then begin to survey the damage he has caused this time, I make sure nothing of value has been destroyed and in a catatonic like state I begin another futile clean up. It is in these whirlwind moments that my loneliness erupts into a desire of desperation, desperate to just have some help, desperate to be loved by another adult, desperate to not be a single mother anymore, but it's difficult to find someone who genuinely wants to be with a single mother. As I step on a piece of glass, a remnant of a broken picture frame that fell victim to my son's petulance, it serves as a brutal reminder to why I am alone and too afraid to not be alone. Lacking self confidence, viewing my own body as repulsive since I have gained weight, constantly engaged in some form of back and forth bickering between the proverbial shoulder dwelling angel and devil, self doubt, self hate, and self destruction being my usual psychological threesome that have become much more intense as a parent. Despite knowing that my mental stability is teetering between psychotic break and Mary Poppins I can't just quit being a mother, the show must go on, thus I carry on, concealing all evidence of the seething loneliness, debilitating exhaustion, and soul suffocating fear, that I am tortured with daily by the captor of my sanity, motherhood.

My oldest, my first born, my beautiful and amazing daughter. At the age of 17 I gave birth to my now 16 year old daughter. For numerous years, a multitude of firsts, copious birthdays and holidays my drug addiction controlled my life and forbid me from being a worthy mother to my daughter, at best becoming an inconsistent and unreliable burden, having brief and painful stints in and out of her life as if a revolving door. The trauma and heartbreak my daughter endured from the person that gave birth to her continues to consume every fiber of my soul, engulfing me with gut wrenching guilt, agonizing shame, and nauseating regret I undoubtedly deserve. Fast forward to the present, now with 8 years of continuous recovery from my addiction, and 8 years of repairing a heavily damaged mother and daughter bond, I have a profound and revered relationship with my 16 year old daughter today. I am beyond grateful for the bond my daughter and I share, but my smiles, the tons of I love You, and the motherly advice camouflage my maddening worry, my unshakeable fear, and copious nights spent desperate for the sun to rise. Depression has kidnapped my daughter, stolen her will to live, and holds her hostage to herself, and I sit as the audience to my daughter's suffering unable to stop the show. I relish in the moments of laughter, careless silliness, and loud radios with off key singing, our happy times, a sliver of freedom from her capture to live without wanting to die. With the good comes the bad they say, its those moments where I can see her agony in her eyes, where her tears are filled with immense pain and sorrow, those middle of the night phone calls where I can hear how tired and afraid she is, her texts that translate to say she can't go on just from saying hey, its these moments that I don't want to be a mom in. Never knowing if she'll make it through those nights, frantically hoping with every cell of my being that she remains strong, remembers that she is loved so much beyond measure, realizes that she is enough, knows that she is beautiful and amazing, and can feel how much I need her in my life just as she is!

I have questioned my methods, decisions, actions, and fit as a mother more times than I probably should have, deeming myself a bad mother on numerous occasions, denying that I need help as a parent, convincing myself I could do it all, and declining offers of much wanted and needed assistance, is what made me a not so good parent. The moment I decided to liberate myself from myself, was the moment I was able to ask for help, to admit that I need a break as a mother, knowing its ok not being able to it all, I quit being so hard on myself and trying to match unrealistic standards of being a good mother. The example I showed my kids was not my once feared one of weakness, selfishness, and not loving them, I showed them courage, humility, understanding, acceptance, and love. As a result of my courage it gave my kids their courage, my son is working hard to learn how to manage and process his emotions and ways to cope with intense anger and frustration, my bathroom door hasn't been locked in a month. My daughter has reached out for help and goes to therapy frequently, she is gaining more self confidence daily, our singing is still off key but we are singing more than ever, my nights are not filled with fear and paranoia and now I as her audience I proudly applaud the show with a standing ovation.