The Life of a Trauma Mama

I am not the Mommy I always wanted to be. My children are not “the reason I breathe” or the “light of my life”.

I am not the fabulous career woman I was and wanted to continue to be.

Now I am a Trauma Mama.

I don’t look great. Most days I don’t even look good.

My hair is a mess, my clothes are wrinkled and I’m pretty sure I took a shower today but I can’t remember.

Mental health coupled with parenting kids with massive trauma is burning me out every day.

People talk about burning the candle from both ends but what happens when there is no candle left?

I have no candle left. I am merely a burning puddle of wax.

Most Days are Hard…

Everyday I wake up and have to calm the chaos and endure the cruelty of two little boys who think they have to fight to survive.

I get hit, kicked, spit on and verbally abused every second of the morning. I can’t even use the bathroom until they have left for school unless I manage to somehow get up before them. If I leave them unattended, even for a second, something is broken, something is stolen, something is hidden away to be used as a weapon.

I have to search them before they are allowed to get on the bus because of all the threats of bringing a weapon to school. I search them the way they taught me to when I worked in probation. Legs and arms spread, full body swipes. Most times I get through it without finding anything. Some days a cat food pull off lid has been hidden away in a pocket or a shoe.

I take them out to the bus with my tattered pajamas on, the morning evident on my face as the driver gives me a look of pure pity. Every so often as they jump happily on board the bus while cursing at me he just looks at me while shaking his head saying “I don’t know how you do it”.

I shrug and say “neither do I” because what other option do I have?

Most days I cry my eyes out when they leave.

• I cry for the pain they still feel.
• For the physical and emotional pain they impose upon me.
• As I clean up my open scratch and bite wounds.
• While I pick up everything that has been thrown around the house or broken.
• I cry for the picture of what I wanted my life to be
• Because there is so much pain, so much hurt.
• And there is no relief, no rest, no help.
• There are just tears, until there are no more of those left either.

Then I take care of my responsibilities. I move through my day even though most days I have no idea how I am out of bed and still alive. Some days I go back to bed and sleep until I have to start over again.

Then the phone calls come throughout the day from the school. Who hit, who peed on what or who, who broke what, who refused, who damaged property. Oh the list goes on.

Then they come home and we start all over again.

I count the minutes until their bedtime and hope so deeply that even a few of them will be easier than usual. Most of the time none of them are. When the evening fights are over and they have gone to sleep sometimes I eat dinner, usually the first time I’ve eaten all day. I sit and watch television hoping to clear my mind. It doesn’t help.

Before I bother to head into bed I remove the stove and oven knobs. I lock the dozens of locks I have installed throughout the house to keep them in the house and out of everything else. Secure anything that could harm them or they could use to harm anyone else. I check and set the cameras, monitors and alarms around the house to ensure no one is getting out of bed to harm an animal, person or themselves.

Most nights don’t bring relief either…

Insomnia keeps me company at night even though everything in me begs for rest. The few hours I do get aren’t restful. Listening for every tiny noise on the monitor keeps me hyper vigilant and barely asleep. I jump at the tiniest sounds in fear for what comes next.

And then the morning comes again.

At least I can be thankful that the morning always comes and brings with it the hope for a better day. One day there has got to be better days.

Right?