13. It’s A Good Night For A Meltdown

by Chelsea Donahue

My life is great, honestly. I have a wonderful husband, smart daughter, beautiful home, pets that I love and I really have nothing to complain about. I get homesick for Maine and I can book a flight back for the weekend. I don’t worry about my car breaking down or the bills not getting paid. I don’t have a job I hate or a big deep seeded secret eating me alive. 

But I am constantly bringing myself down and pushing myself towards toil. I try very hard to be as close to perfect as possible, with a few exceptions. The worst thing I can imagine is that someone would see some ridiculous flaw and label me a huge mistake as a wife or parent. Mostly as a parent, if I’m going to be honest here. I can’t be that person that got pregnant young, can’t handle anything and has made a total mess of her life.

It’s probably because my mother was such a train wreck. She had no moral compass and was drunk or high at almost every school event I had. She cried in front of my friend’s parents. She dressed awful and her hair was always more orange than blonde. She looked like she crawled out of a trailer park sewage drain. So I spent almost all of my childhood covering for her and having to be ten times more presentable just to offset how bad she behaved and looked. We don’t speak now, we hardly spoke then, we just fought. My daughter will never know her.

So here I am, trying so hard to be my best and dealing with personal issues that make me want to push my life into disaster just because I don’t think I deserve it enough. I do, I know that, but try to tell me that tomorrow and I bet I will tell you that you’re crazy.

I don’t even know why I’m talking about this. To get it off my chest? I wish I could see all the rewards I have in my life for trying so hard to be a good mom and a good wife. Instead I just see everything else. Everything I haven’t achieved and all the mistakes I have made. One day, maybe, I’ll outgrow it. Maybe I’ll wake up tomorrow and appreciate myself better. Maybe I’m just having a hard time accepting the fact that Monday I’ll be 23. Maybe not.

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