This is a record of a day when I am beyond tired—tired in body, in mind, and in spirit. And if, someday, someone I love finds their way to these words, I hope they may offer me some grace. Compassion.
Many days, I find myself fantasizing about not being here. And when I imagine being gone, I realize—there’s not much I would miss.
The world I live in doesn’t resemble anything I would choose. My family would insist it’s the exact result of my choices and reflection of my lovability and unworthiness.
I won’t miss vacations with my children or with friends—because those didn’t happen. I won’t miss meals out with them, or nights out with a partner. I won’t miss shared chores, shared meals, or figuring things out as a team. I won’t miss fun snacks and treats and meals from our favorite take out. I wont miss shopping sprees or spending casually or splurging. Those aren’t things I’ll miss, because they never got to be mine.
I won’t miss waiting on surgery approvals that may or may not come, for relief that may or may not arrive. I won’t miss medical appointments as the only planned interactions in my week.
I won’t miss sitting in my recliner, passing hours until work or bedtime because those are the only guarantees in my day. I won’t miss cleaning up, making food, cleaning up again—only to do it all tomorrow. I won’t miss the tension in my home, the arguments, the unending hope for peace in a family (my sons and me) under siege, with my ex-husband and sister having worked in quiet, calculated ways years ago to lauch the erosion of my ability to live freely and love my children without fear of interference. I won’t miss the judgment by all who do.
There’s very little I would miss.
I’m sad for my older dog—gentle, loyal—who won’t understand my absence and may miss out on the love he deserves in his final stretch. And for my other dog, who is anxious and misunderstood, and might be punished for needing too much.
I won’t miss the absence of companionship. I won’t miss having no one expecting me, counting on me, or making space for me. I won’t miss being limited in every way—financially, emotionally, physically, mentally.
I won’t miss wishing my yard were pretty. I won’t miss eating only toast and apples as foods I can afford and tolerate. I won’t miss dragging myself through days, hoping for less pain and more connection. I won’t miss becoming less able to care for myself, knowing no one is waiting in the wings. There is no rescue.
And here’s what I need to say—maybe the most important truth beneath everything else:
I love my children with everything I had, even when I had nothing left.
I was in survival mode from the start— as their father dedicated himself to providing only constant emotional and financial instability. His unpredictability, the withheld support, the psychological games, the control and antagonism—left me bracing for impact every single day.
Joy was hard to access. Peace was hard to keep. And still, I gave. I gave all that I had. If I did not provide or offer something, it wasn’t because I didn’t care or withheld—it was because I didn’t have the means.
Sometimes I think my sons view generosity as something that comes from abundance. But what I want them to acknowledge is that generosity is giving when it means sacrifice. I gave everything I could, every single day.
I ache for the future that was stolen from me and my children. But I won’t miss it. Missing requires presence, and I imagine peace as a place where pain no longer echoes.
I won’t miss doctors who seem burdened by my unresolvable pain, and my unmasked anguish. I won’t miss battling customer service and billing errors until I’m drained and overwhelmed. I won’t miss the fear of what I’ll lose next. I won’t miss beautiful days wasted by isolation. I won’t miss surviving instead of living. I won’t miss the medications that keep me going but do not make me well. I won’t miss calculating every cost, every hour, every need—knowing I cannot meet any of it.
I will not miss the idea of more years like this.
I won’t miss sleeping in a recliner because the bed hurts too much. I won’t miss the shame that whispers I deserved every bad thing that’s happened. I won’t miss not being able to find clothes that fit, that I can afford, that make me feel even remotely okay. I won’t miss the truth that I’ve never worn an outfit that made me feel beautiful.
I won’t miss the neighbor who parks antagonistically in front of my house for months to make a point.
I won’t miss the man who was both the best and worst thing that ever happened to me.
I won’t miss the pain of having an older sister who molested and terrorized me—and then worked like a master, campaigning, relentlessly and insidiously, to discredit and invalidate me. Ensuring that sure everyone attributed my behavior and mental health to my badness—and not the result of abuse, confusion and in panic. I’ll never understand how that strategy worked out so well.
And finally:
Having not been raised in love, or with love, or even around love—it’s a miracle that I managed to do something as great as love my sons fiercely and fully. That I didn’t abuse them, abandon them, or diminish them. That I stayed transparent—always for them, never against them. That I never played a part in any plan that would harm them or divide them from each other. And yet, it was essential—for my sister and their father—to righteously compromise that, erasing and degrading me at every turn.
I am erased. It’s tragic that they can’t concern themselves with the damage done to my children’s spirits—to have a mom who couldn’t climb out of despair before more was heaped on. A mom who was degraded, diminished, and declined into someone they couldn’t feel good about knowing, loving, or relating to. At least I have this space to exist—unsilenced, unbridled—and know that my boys may one day read and remember the truth of my words and my intentions.
