I Chose to be a Mother…

Now I choose to continue to be a mother, even though my children are tougher than I ever imagined. Even though I didn’t choose to have them victimized, nor did I choose to have them be born with disabilities. I choose to be their mother, and continue to nurture them as much as is humanly possible. I do not choose to do this because I’m afraid of going to hell if I don’t (indeed, there are days I can’t imagine hell being much worse than what I’m currently in), nor because it is my duty, not because I worry that no one else will want them, not because society tells me to, or even because I feel guilt and regret that their abuse occurred under my own roof. I choose to be my children’s mother, because I love them. I have choices. I refuse to be a victim. I choose them.

The following is a quote from the article, “Setting Personal Boundaries” “We always have a choice. The choices may seem to be awful – but in reality, allowing ourselves to buy into the illusion that we are trapped will have worse consequences in the long run. It may seem ridiculous to suggest that a parent can abandon or give a child up for adoption – but owning our choices no matter how outrageous is a step in owning responsibility for being co-creators in our life. If we are blaming and being the victim we will never be happy.”



I just read this article on child abuse by my church.  http://newsroom.lds.org/official-statement/child-abuse I wonder if my Bishop has read it–somehow I doubt it.

It’s an excellent article. It’s hard not to be cynical.

Every day I pray that my anger will dissipate, that I won’t feel like such a victim. But every day, I wake up to my four severely emotionally disturbed children; to my husband who has lost his job and is himself suffering severely from the trauma to our family; to Fred, and that thing bleeding in his brain that has no treatment, yet causes gradual neurological damage. I wake up and the fears continue. Is Fairbanks watching? Will he sneak through the window and rape me this time? Is this the day Bo will shoot himself in the head because of the continual unresolved stresses at home? What more horrific news will I learn today? Is this the day that my house will finally just burn down taking all of us with it? There are days I wish it would. There are days that death seems so much simpler than my life–our lives.

Fairbanks robbed me of so much. One of the things I’ve been keenly aware of having been taken from me is my trust. I trust no mortal. I hate sex. I am suspicious of ALL men. I cannot look at a man, ANY man and not wonder what he does when no one is looking. It sickens me. The fact that I am mother to four boys has not escaped my awareness, and it condemn’s me. Yet, no matter how guilty I feel for this mistrust–I cannot bring myself to trust. I dont’ even want to trust–especially not spiritual leaders who have been so hurtful–whether he means it or not.

So once again, tomorrow I will attend church with dread and utter fear in my heart and tears in my eyes, simply because I believe. Not because it feels good, not because I or my family will be nurtured or feel welcome.Certainly not because I trust anyone there . Just because I believe. I believe in God, that Jesus in the Promised Messiah, that He loves me and has a plan for my family. That somehow, someway, He will make us stronger and better and happier if we endure just a little longer. That His way, is the only way to overcome this horrid world–this fire that we must walk through. So ironic that both Heave and @#!*% are right here on Earth. There are days I can almost touch Heaven. When Skippy smiles, or Tory laughs. When I can actually connect to Bo. When the fog lifts and I can paint uninterrupted. When I watch Bill enjoying his chicken. When Fred plays nicely with his brothers. But most days, it’s @#!*% . And I’m bracing myself.