The Staying Out

There are many changes that come with starting a new chapter. There are many obstacles. There is trepidation for the unknown stability of your future and the future of your children.

Leaving the abuse, is such a massive step on its own. It takes so much bravery to face the fear and risk. You make the decision to take your children and leave. You face the debt and the loss of what is left behind. There will be battles to come, but it will be worth it for the safety in the long run, right?

You fight for years. You and your child are re-victimized. You struggle to find hope and to find yourself. You stay strong for your children. But most don’t have the full support system necessary to ensure healthy coping and healing.

Therapist say it takes years to heal. Some wounds can easily be ripped back open. They can be triggered by the smallest detail. Your children can be forever changed.

It can feel impossible not to blame yourself. Impossible to find yourself. You are taking care of your children and trying to keep yourself afloat. You work through trauma and the traumatizing court system. How can you find peace? Will there ever be such a thing?

The truth is, I don’t know. I have what I fought for. I have custody of my daughter. She has a therapist and a support network. We are loved, and have a family. However, we still have trauma to unpack. She struggles. I struggle. Day to day life is hard, even after removing the abuser, there are triggers everywhere. In words and actions, we always assume the worst case scenario.

Someone is staring at me. They are judging me. They are talking about me. They think I am worthless, stupid, ugly, not a good friend. It was malicious, it was not an accident.

I want to connect with my daughter, I want her to know I am here, always. My love is infinite, she is loved, valued and secure. But I know what it feels like to be told these things, and not know how to understand the feeling.

I am a woman in my thirties, yet where is my group? I have no friends. I lack a safety net of close friends to catch me. No one is there to hold me when the weight is too heavy. I have a spouse who is juggling a world of their own, with its own orbit of stressors. As a mother, I can bear the weight of my child and all of her burdens. Somehow, we will stay above water. Even if I am barely treading.

Some would argue I have done it to myself. The only new stressors are also self-inflicted. Working mothers manage more tasks without complaints. Women are made to handle parenting, extracurricular, housework, physical health, a social life, and emotional stability. Get it together.

It is a lonely bridge to walk. Your partner can’t see the fog you’re in. You can’t see the fog their in. Even if you communicate, there remains a murky gray area. You will never fully understand what they do in front of them. The world only sees the mother who ‘got out.’ But the ‘getting out’ was only the beginning. The staying out, the healing, and the rebuilding? That is the real work. Loving the mothers and children who get out, is so hard.

We deserve love. Our children deserve unconditional supportive love. They need more understanding, soft words, and long hugs.

There is a lot of lashing out from the survivors. There is so much pain and raw suffering. We don’t know how to overcome this alone.

Some days I sit here. I speak up about all we have endured. I am proud of what we have overcome and who we are. I want to help others, I want to help children so they no longer have to suffer.

But on other days, like today, I feel immense shame, guilt and sadness.

I feel so alone. I want to go out in the middle of nowhere and scream, until I’m exhausted.

Days like today, everything is overwhelming. I can’t even place a trigger. I feel like they are everywhere, all at once.

It makes it worse when my husband doesn’t understand what I am saying, what I am explaining.

Then the ugly thoughts creep in,

The reminders that I am not enough can be overwhelming. That I am broken, difficult, demanding, unkind and defensive. That I can love relentlessly, but also be relentlessly bitter. Sometimes, I think maybe I don’t deserve love after all. My daughter is my only gift in life.

I must protect her at all cost.

But I failed where it counted.

Those nightmares never leave me. I am reminded daily. The scars on her soul are still there. I can’t erase them. I can take her to therapy, I can check in with her, snuggle her and hold her tight. But I can’t erase the pain. I can keep begging, praying and searching for answers, help, and support. But I can’t force it.

How does one get up and say, “You can do it! And you will be so much happier, healthier and safer.” When so much of the future is spent fighting, fighting to get away, fighting for justice, peace, and hope. Even once you find it in yourself and your children, you still have to fight to truly heal.

You can leave, but there will be lifelong scars.

You can change your location, your career, your appearance, but not your soul.

You will do your best to guide your children, give them support and love and empathy.

Maybe it is just me, maybe it isn’t. My daughter is my life and my husband’s life. I still struggle to be the best version of myself.

It is exhausting to see social media portray perfect mothers, families and children in every glance down at your phone.

So, I will put down the phone. I will stop looking at the curated lives of strangers. Instead, I will look at my beautiful little girl in front of me. We are not a picture perfect family. We are the masterpiece of survival. We are held together by love that refuses to quit.

I don’t have all the answers, and I don’t have the ‘group’ or the safety net I was promised. But I have my voice. If you are reading this and you are also exhausted, I see you. If you are treading water, I see you. If you are feeling the weight of scars you didn’t ask for, know that I see you. We are the mothers in the trenches. We hold our children out of the mud. We fight battles that never make it to a social media feed.

Tomorrow might bring more triggers, more shame, or more reminders of what we’ve lost in normalcy. But tonight, I will hold her close. I will breathe in the scent of her hair. I will remember that even when I am just treading water, I am still keeping us afloat. We are broken, yes, but we are also the strongest people I know. We are still here. We are still fighting. And we are not as alone as the darkness makes us feel.