Yesterday was Brandon's 22nd birthday. I cannot believe he's 22 already! I know every parent says the same thing when their child gets older: "where has time gone, time's flown, how can they be this age ALREADY" and I fall into those ranks readily. I truly cannot believe he's the age I was when I had my last baby. His birth, 6 days before my 19th birthday, changed my life in every single way. His presence in my life saved me on so many occasions. I'm pretty sure without my sons I wouldn't still be here, as horrible as some may think that sounds. There were multiple times in the past that I lived my life for them because I didn't think it was worth living for me.
I had a miscarriage at 16 but it was Bran's birth and his arrival that made me a "real" mom. He taught me the meaning of loving someone unconditionally, what it was like for your heart to live outside of your chest. It was all so messy because I battled postpartum depression horribly and while I loved him desperately, I was drowning in my own demons as well.
Not long removed from the chaos of my family and graduation, still newly married and with a baby at not yet 19. His dad worked third shift so the primary brunt of care fell into my hands and while I was used to caring for kidlets having raised my little brother and babysat to earn money, it was a transition made difficult by the crazy hormones twisting me up in knots. I can't say I was always the best mother. His dad and I began to fight a lot, I was seriously isolated and depressed, with no support system and a husband who thought I was being a baby. Dishes didn't get done, except Bran's bottles. I hated cleaning. I became a shell of what I was. I loved this little baby with every ounce of my being but I hated myself and felt like I was disappearing. Everything imploded, husband and I split, I moved out with nothing but my son and my clothes. We settled into a visitation schedule of two weeks and two weeks which shredded me. I may not have been the best mother at that time but I loved my son and to go two weeks at a time without seeing him crippled me.
That said, I'm pretty sure if I hadn't had my two weeks on with him, I would have ended things and can say I kinda tried. Our custody situation turned brutal and there was a period of 6 months where I didn't see Bran at all, not once. It was one of the darkest times of my life. I took A LOT of Vivarin one night mixed with Tylenol. I threw up until I couldn't anymore and I'm surprised I didn't have any long lasting impact from that, lucky I didn't burn up my damned liver or stomach.
I look back at that time now, having weathered it and am so grateful for my sons. I'm so thankful I made it through the seemingly insurmountable days to come out into sunshine again.
I haven't always been the best mom, have made more than my fair share of mistakes but I've never taken for granted how lucky and blessed I am to have been chosen for them.
Twenty two years a mom and so very proud of the man he's become. Maybe I didn't screw it all up as much as I feared I might. And maybe I'm just a really lucky woman to have been given the ones I was.
I had a miscarriage at 16 but it was Bran's birth and his arrival that made me a "real" mom. He taught me the meaning of loving someone unconditionally, what it was like for your heart to live outside of your chest. It was all so messy because I battled postpartum depression horribly and while I loved him desperately, I was drowning in my own demons as well.
Not long removed from the chaos of my family and graduation, still newly married and with a baby at not yet 19. His dad worked third shift so the primary brunt of care fell into my hands and while I was used to caring for kidlets having raised my little brother and babysat to earn money, it was a transition made difficult by the crazy hormones twisting me up in knots. I can't say I was always the best mother. His dad and I began to fight a lot, I was seriously isolated and depressed, with no support system and a husband who thought I was being a baby. Dishes didn't get done, except Bran's bottles. I hated cleaning. I became a shell of what I was. I loved this little baby with every ounce of my being but I hated myself and felt like I was disappearing. Everything imploded, husband and I split, I moved out with nothing but my son and my clothes. We settled into a visitation schedule of two weeks and two weeks which shredded me. I may not have been the best mother at that time but I loved my son and to go two weeks at a time without seeing him crippled me.
That said, I'm pretty sure if I hadn't had my two weeks on with him, I would have ended things and can say I kinda tried. Our custody situation turned brutal and there was a period of 6 months where I didn't see Bran at all, not once. It was one of the darkest times of my life. I took A LOT of Vivarin one night mixed with Tylenol. I threw up until I couldn't anymore and I'm surprised I didn't have any long lasting impact from that, lucky I didn't burn up my damned liver or stomach.
I look back at that time now, having weathered it and am so grateful for my sons. I'm so thankful I made it through the seemingly insurmountable days to come out into sunshine again.
I haven't always been the best mom, have made more than my fair share of mistakes but I've never taken for granted how lucky and blessed I am to have been chosen for them.
Twenty two years a mom and so very proud of the man he's become. Maybe I didn't screw it all up as much as I feared I might. And maybe I'm just a really lucky woman to have been given the ones I was.
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