I don’t want to be a mom anymore. I’m done. My nerves are shot, my fuses are short-circuiting, and my brain has backfired on cold, stale coffee for the very last time. The lone spark plug of sanity keeping me out of the loony bin has finally fizzled out. The mounting pressure has become too much for me to bear another tantrum-filled moment of motherhood. This mom is burnt the fuck out.
Sorry but I’m not sorry for admitting aloud how I feel. The little voice in the back of my head chants, “run away and save yourself”, on loop like a Scientology auditor during an audit session. Thoughts of being childless again and only responsible for my own self follows me around like, well…ughm…like my children; constantly tempting me to give in to its illicit demand. For Christ’s sake – I need space to breathe, too, dammit. Some time alone to grow as an individual would be lovely. Maybe even remember how to take care of myself again, because I am pretty sure after my billionth ass wiping, it all went out the window.
Four children, a rollercoaster marriage with The Right Guy (after The Wrong One gave the genetic data sample, which led me to motherhood in the first place), and the lack of familial support over the past twelve years has led me here. The point in my life where I resent my role as a mother.
Brilliantly, I managed to trash the infinite amount of unexploited potential my future still held in a matter of five, sweaty, skin-slapping, fluid-swapping, orgasmic minutes. With that guy who had no future potential once the party phase was over. Between his lack of work ethic and love of getting high, he was the farthest thing from husband and father material I would have looked for – if I had actually been looking to start that chapter in my life. Alas, I was not. This was back before the medical field thought women should be aware of the correlation between taking prescribed antibiotics and birth control medication failure. The newly embraced freedom from the unnecessarily prolonged hampering of my youth was lost forever in the bypassing of a condom, under the influence of alcohol and cocaine, at 4:26 a.m. that 16th of December. Twelve loooong and painful years ago. We had trusted in The Pill far too much.
That decision cost me everything.
Now, here I am at my fucking breaking point; being crushed under the weight of pure exhaustion and the endless amount of bullshit responsibility dumped on me. I was far from ready for it all and the struggle to keep my head on straight has become far too real. I desperately need a timeout from motherhood. From the snot, poop, vomit, farts, and spit. I want to sleep one whole night without smelling stale piss emanating from my mattress. Or being pissed on. For the love of all things holy and sacred – I just want a whole damn night’s sleep without those bratty hoodlums hijacking even the little voice of control freak level paranoia worries in the back of my head. Deciphering crashes at random while I keep one eye open for uncoordinated sleepwalkers cannot possibly be considered a good night’s sleep, in the first place. Even if my bed remains dry. I cannot escape my children, no matter how badly I need to. They are always on my heels, crawling up my ass, attached to my hip, and in my face with their milk breath (which was no longer so sweet-smelling after their first birthdays came and went).
I created the greatest Catch-22 of all time with the choices I made and I cannot help but be resentful for it. Having kids before I was fully grown and matured forced my hand to play along with the expectations of society – becoming another nuclear family stereotype in order to rectify my societal disgrace. In my depraved naivety at twenty-one, I wholeheartedly believed the fantasy happily ever after with The Right Guy would go just as I had daydreamed it to be. I have to stop and laugh at myself, now, for once thinking such girlish delusions. The Right Guy is not perfect, by any means; his own flaws will be so disenchanting at times, life can seem even harder than it needs to be. He certainly was not responsible for controlling what life handed me… and the decisions I made thereafter, either. What one brings into a marriage and supply the family dynamic with, is exactly what one will get out of it. I had to learn that fact the hard way. My struggle to grow up overnight has created the storm threatening to sink this ship that is motherhood and marriage rolled into one. My husband is already stretching himself too thin in order to allow me the luxury of being a stay-at-home-mom. It is not his duty to get a grip on my reality for me.
Don’t get me wrong. I love my children more than life, itself. They amaze me with their continuously blossoming personalities, playful antics, and kind-hearted compassion for others. I am just so Goddamned sick of the ear-piercing whines, the sibling rivalry, the unnecessary defiance over the smallest of tasks, and the never-ending demands for everything under the sun when my hands are full and my back is breaking. Disgusted by the dirty faces, sticky hands, shitty pants, and broken record tattle-tales over petty nonsense. Motherhood has pushed every nerve I have left. OKAY!- the only nerve I have left. There is no time allotted for my self-preservation, whatsoever. I cannot even take a shit or shower alone. This mom is fresh out of fucks to give and needs an escape. STAT. Reinforcements never showed up to give her the slightest reprieve to catch her breath.
So, if you happen to see some strange woman with her dirty, disheveled hair in her fists, screeching something along the lines of “They’re coming! They found me! Hide me! Better yet, just shoot me and put me outta my misery…pretty please with a cherry on top,” don’t be alarmed. It’s just me. In the throes of a nervous breakdown, trying to save myself from those relentless children of mine who have flipped turned upside down the life I had dreamt of for myself. At least I have enough maturity and wisdom under my belt, now, to know I won’t feel this way forever. The resentment will pass, as with everything else life throws at me. Even my children.
One day, when they’ve all flown the coop and can no longer torture my sanity with pulsing migraines and bad attitudes galore, I will look back on this and resent ever feeling such resentment – for deep down under the grit of the daily grind, I know I painstakingly built this tiring, but ever-so fulfilling life out of the unconditional love and adoring affections I could never live without now. Even if it makes a lovely, albeit temporary, daydream.