I read a line today about a doting mother. I felt a knife of grief twist in me because I’m not that. When I die, no one will say that about me. Maybe I used to be. I even question that now. Don’t get me wrong, I love my kids, but they are emotionally hard. They have so many needs that I can’t fill, and so many demons they use to hurt me on purpose that I am the mean mom. I don’t get to sit and rock them in a chair. They won’t let me. I have to call out their manipulations, and I get the backlash from other family members from doing it. Few other special needs mom’s even understand the level of hell that RAD is. I am the mom who loses my cool and yells at my kids. There are days they push that far and I fail. My kids hate me. And I’m not exaggerating, ask them, they’ll tell you.
This week one told me he would rather die than live in my family any more. Another told me any home would be better than here. I get that they are trying to hurt me so they can be the first one to leave the relationship, but it hurts in a way that is not present. That sounds strange, but it’s a lot like grieving for a face you never saw, which I also do. I wanted this pretty family where we made cookies together, and talked, and had dance parties, and I gave them great books to read, and they loved me. But we don’t and they can’t.
Instead my house is Spartan, because they can’t handle the pretty clutter. Their rooms are empty of the cute things of childhood because they destroy them. My Christmases are small and sugar free because they freak out. And vacations are my personal living hell.
I spend nights in my office crying and praying for a way through. I don’t have one. I have the best I can do every day. The one hug a year they give me. The thousands of apologies I have to give for breaking under their pressure. And the heavy aloneness of not being a doting mother. There are days I hate them. I hate what they do to me. I hate that I grieve the things that cannot be. I am still angry over them. I have not come to acceptance yet. I wanted to be a doting mother. And now I just want to make it through. Somehow. Holding on by the skin of my teeth to that best I can do. No Pinterest projects, no cute cakes, no pretty holiday decorations. And frankly it sucks.