Here is the honest truth of this moment. I am drowning.

Here is the honest truth of this moment. I am drowning. I am drowning under the weight of my kids’ neediness. I am drowning under the weight of my messy house. I am drowning under the weight of a husband who doesn’t always help much. I am drowning under the weight of a relationship I am not doing much to keep alive.

Mostly I am drowning under the weight of my son’s uncontrollable behavior. Drowning under the weight of my own inadequacy and the what ifs. What if I am a bad mom, what if I did something to cause all this, what if I should have just kept working. What if I’m really not meant to do the one thing I always thought I was born for — be a mother.

I can tell you all the rational reasons for my son’s behaviors, we quit daycare, he’s starting school in August, we’ve finally (mostly) mastered potty training, his dance class moved to a new studio, we’re coming up on a 2 week vacation without daddy and lastly, 21 months ago my daughter was born. My son is not friends with change. It distresses him.

I could also tell you all of my lay opinions that go along with his inability to adapt. Since nearly his birth I’ve been I’ve wondered if he’s some where on the spectrum, he has OCD tendencies, he probably suffers from some anxiety and to top it all off, he’s ridiculously smart.

But in the end none of those suppositions or rationals matter because I’m the one here when he goes “feral”. I’m the one getting hit, kicked and otherwise abused. I’m the one who can’t stop it. I’m the one who is failing. I’m the one sitting up at night thinking “what did I do wrong today”. I’m the one allowing my daughter to get lost in this shuffle, to miss yet another trip to the park because her brother just couldn’t hold it together. I’m the one who is failing, failing myself, failing him and failing Cassie. Along with all the other things I’m failing at like cleaning, pet tending, and my marriage. I’m the one failing.

What I really came to write is that even this form of drowning is silent and it is lonely. The water rushes over your head and you try to call out, you really do try, but the water fills your mouth and there is darkness and other than the echo of your own thoughts it is silent. And it’s so lonely.

Unless someone sees the silent tears as I prepare another meal that will go uneaten or hears the sobs from the late night showers. Or catches a glimpse of the tears on my face as I read Cassie a book after having to physically carry Elliott to his room, again, in hopes that he will find some calm. Unless any of those things happen, everyone will assume that I am treading water, that I am surviving. But I’m not I’m out here failing, I’m out here drowning.

*** Shortly after I wrote this I made an appointment for my son with a behaviorist, we can all use a little bit of help sometimes and he and I could definitely use some.***