Exhaustion.
A little about me.
My children are gifts from God that I do not seem to deserve.
I ask them to forgive me when the weight of single parenthood becomes too heavy to carry—when I yell, randomly sing opera to let off steam and scare them, or hide in the bathroom for a moment’s peace, which usually ends with all three sets of hands wiggling under the crack in the door.
I have been raising three children alone “officially” for almost three years, and spiritually and emotionally for almost six. While the ache and heaviness were distressing when their father chose to end the marriage physically, the prior disengagement left scars on my soul that now permeate my physical strength and mental acuity.
When my daughter smashes her body into mine for a hug, she does not understand why I become so overwhelmed that I stiffen, stone-like.
They cannot understand why I struggle to look into their eyes out of sheer exhaustion and neurological overwhelm—even when I am lying on the floor lifting them high into the air as they balance precariously on my feet, their little cartoon eyes peeking out from among their chubby cheeks.
I make sure to keep pictures of their father in their room. Each time I walk past them, I feel a little deflated. Like Eeyore’s popped balloon—except this time, I can’t find the quiet joy Eeyore always managed to hold. What I keep hidden is the longing I have for their father, and my bitterness and utter devastation over what he did. These feelings clash violently in the cavernous spaces of my rib cage, making my heart feel as though it is pulsing with concrete magma—until I am ripped out of the revelry of my rage by my son’s voice echoing from the basement: “Mama, wipe my BUM!”
My children are joyful, pure, and aching for connection. I feel their needs flutter around my heart and mind like little birds. It only makes me feel guiltier that I cannot push through the trauma and pain and “just love them.”
Trauma is sneaky in this way. Each reaction, each wave of exhaustion, triggers the immense pain of desiring companionship from their father while viciously confronting the reality of his broken wedding vows, ended laughter, and the violent termination of shared moments. So while I am not necessarily triggered by being snowbound, hit in the face with a Lego, or realizing I accidentally washed a diaper in the laundry, it awakens the absence of connection—and the mourning of this loss catapults my body into a static freeze. As if my body is trying to comprehend the sheer vastness of it all.
One person was never meant to carry this by themselves.
I, however, have no choice but to continue to carry it.