This morning, I failed. I failed so hard.
It took me back to the scary years. The years when I was constantly plagued with anxiety, depression, and overwhelm. The outworking of the chaos of my interior would often come out in the saddest of ways; cycles of numbing out, freaking out, and then slipping into a tidal wave of despair.
When I say freaking out, let me be very clear: Yelling, even screaming, and behaving in a way that is damaging to the hearts and souls of my kids. My worst parenting moments have always come from some deep root of panic that I’ve lost all control and in an attempt to regain control, I’ve resorted to the very limited bundle of tools I have in my toolbox in times like those.
Over the years, these episodes of yelling and acting like the Hulk have decreased in frequency, but this morning it all came roaring back. The fighting, the disrespectful talk, the feeling that somehow the idealized roles of parental authority & submissive kids have been completely turned on their head in a way that makes me feel “Oh no. It’s too late. They are ruined. I’ve failed”
Lack of Boundaries, Co-Dependency, emotional dysregulation, mental health struggles, all have taken turns manifesting in ways that have shown up in inconsistent patterns of relating in our family.
To be sure, there has been progress.
These mama freak-outs don’t happen nearly as often as they used to, but still, something has been amiss inside of me recently that has brought me back to this dark place of using my voice, my authority to harm rather than heal.
After acting like a full-fledged lunatic this morning and sending my kids off to school to try to tackle their day with hearts that were surely battered and bruised, everything inside of me wanted to retreat into a cave of despair, sure that I have ruined them forever.
Fortunately I went against everything in me, to keep a meeting this morning where I knew I’d be face to face with two other moms who would at least provide a window of time where I couldn’t fall entirely off the cliff. They were a safe place to land, because they too, are no strangers to the sheer insanity that can overtake a mom who is at her end with the kids who have been entrusted to our care.
Before I left for that meeting, I wrote each of the kids a note telling them how much I love them, that my crazy reactions are not their fault, and that they deserve better because they are GOOD. I also emailed a new therapist because, despite my persistence in working on healing up my own stuff, I’m realizing that I’ve hit a wall and I need someone to help me right now.
Why am I sharing all of this with the world? I don’t relish in drama, and I certainly don’t enjoy airing my dirty laundry.
I’m writing this because I know I’m not the only one.
I’m writing this because I don’t want anyone reading this to believe the lie that it’s too late; that you’re too bad; that your family can’t heal and learn and chart a new path towards health, rather than continuing cycles of (sometimes generational) wounding and trauma.
There is forgiveness and grace available.
Sometimes I have the hardest time believing this. I read the Bible and read of forgiveness and somehow create a loophole for MY sin that requires extra penance; extra punishment and ostracization from the love and mercy of God.
But that’s such a lie. In my own self-flagellation, I create a category of sinner that is somehow outside the bounds of God’s ability to forgive, heal and redeem, and that’s just not true.
Sure, it grieves me to my core that I may have “caused one of these little ones to stumble” and I am begging God to somehow repair what I have broken.
But continuing in the line of self-flagellation only sends me deeper into despair and emotional unhealth, which then makes me an even less loving and capable parent. So although when I see my own sin and grapple with the gravity of breaking the trust I’ve worked so hard to establish with my kids, it’s a further disservice to them for me to stay stuck there.
So, what now?
Well, accountability for starters. Confessing to those two friends this morning, and seeking out a therapist are a good start. Choosing to hold more loosely to my own priorities and ideals of what “should” be in order to practice gentleness and being slow to anger with my kids, are things I’m realizing I need to freshly commit to.
Aside from that, I’m reminded again that no parents are perfect, there is grace for times of failure, and I need to trust God in the in-between; those in-between times when we are trying our best and the kids don’t seem to be following the arc toward maturity, kindness, self-control, and self-giving love. If I can’t be this way 100% of the time, how fair is it of me to expect that they can?
In our world that demands that we push, push, push, and hold to extraordinary standards of excellence, I’m proposing that we be gentle. Gentle with others, and gentle with ourselves. It is the kindness of God that leads to repentance.
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