I feel like I’m drowning, soaking in every last minuscule drop of neglect. I compartmentalize every grasp of life in order to make everyone else okay. The focus is not me, but everything but me. For the man in my life, it is laundry, dinner, cleaning. For the Children, bottles, diapers, and sleepless nights. If I look out for everyone else, who is looking out for me? Without notice I do so much, is there a consistent thank you? No, I grin and carry on. I feel like I’m drowning in work, favors, keep schedule and dates. But not all of my own, everyone else. I’m suffocating in a pit of lonesomeness. Do people only want me around for favors? Do they want me around to have another body there? Pity? I delve deep in my mind to see if all this play is an illusion. The more I fall the more I become aware of reality. The reality I am a mother. I feel stuck between making a fuss and seeking what I want. Don’t make a scene mothers say, but do they merely say that out of tradition or because they are withholding a scene themselves? Mothers are the watchers, planners, do-ers. Who watches and plans for them? They must combat all the estrogen streaming through theirs veins, anxieties rushing to their heads, and pain lingering in their heart, all while watching everyone else.
This poem is about:
Guide that inspired this poem:
Need to talk?
If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741