I write this post with a knot in my throat. My heart shattered in a 1000 pieces. A mind full of memories reminding me of past happiness. Not through sympathy but in hope to provide just an ounce of comfort to someone, somewhere to know that behind the lens that portrays a collected mother raising her three children alone, amongst the country walks and funny posts but a life that has the begins of an unveiling life that is both painful yet rewarding.

The process of picking up the pieces of a broken home comes with a grieving process. A process that you cannot control. A process that you cannot predict the length of its duration or of its irrationality. Whether you build a hard cold solid wall emotionally straight away. Or whether you cry a thousand tears for days on end. There’s no right or wrong way on how you intend to grieve the loss of a family life you couldn’t even imagine could be possible.

I’ve always been closed off towards my emotions, I’ve never really felt my heart ache in a way I should. I have lost dear family members as I have lost valued friendships. I have been in relationships but never felt too attached to suffer a heart break that’s portrayed in songs and films.

But to experience the heart ache through my babies, boy did this hit me hard. As if Luka-James smacked me in the face with a cold hard shovel of reality.

A man who saved me from myself, my baby daddy, a man who guided me through some of my darkest of days when the light wasn’t visible for me but he could always find the way. He is now gone. It’s taken a while to swallow the pill of, no more ‘us’. The type of pill that slips down your throat side ways and painfully slowly scratches your throat.

Our relationship was no magical fairytale, I was no princess, as was he no Prince Charming. We met eachother at our lowest. We was fighting our own demons on a whole other ends of the spectrum. But through his gentle kindness, persistence and consistence. A seed of love was planted and it blossomed into having our first son, following on two more beauties. We pissed each other off as much as we supported each others dreams. During our lowest of times, when money was a distant memory and struggled to make ends meet doing a weekly food shop of just £20 a week. The love we had far out weighed the poverty we faced many moons ago. How we got through those times and didn’t hang the white flag of surrender I do not know.

Love conquers all.

Life together was occasionally complicated. I came from an abused childhood, he had a generally nice childhood with lovely memories. I have never opened wounds to allow them to heal and move on. And this always proved trouble in our relationship. I believe my irrational, protective defences from my childhood storms and he also didn’t understand my thinking and played on these. Perhaps without knowing the true extent. We laughed lots, experienced a lot, changed a lot and taught each other many a lessons. But just like that, were over.

Being a mum is very isolating, self healing a broken heart is isolating. Combine both into a single mum is an incredible daunting lonesome experience. The longing for someone to hold you tightly and squeeze all your broken pieces together is unreal. But day by day, we slowly collect the pieces and the puzzle soon gets put together again.

Amongst the physical, mental and emotional pain we all feel with heart ache, the type of pain that is consistently burning away inside like unwanted acid sitting in your chest cavity as a daily reminder. And when we think we can’t physically hurt anymore…

We then look into our babies eyes which are flooded with tears and confusion, when they ask ‘where daddy?’, ‘daddy come home?’. Their voice feels heavy as if a ton of bricks is weighing down their little voice. You can almost feel their chests tightening. It hits you hard all over again and you find this vicious circle is on repeat for days that turn to weeks. Having just solely my own arms to comfort and hold all three of my babies has been incredibly emotionally draining. I ache for the man I’ve lost. A man who shares half of these beautiful little loves. A man whom I’m reminded off the moment I open my eyes everyday.

The change of atmosphere and routines hit our children harder than we will ever be aware of, the start of attachment issues occur and they start piling into mummy’s bed…

One by one.

By 3am I am faced with 3 babies in bed. With one body part of each child placed upon me. The drop offs at nursery become an emotional rollercoaster and stick to you like blood thirsty leech, fighting for that last drop of blood. They feel our tension, sadness and need reassurances and this comes in many forms. And then we are overwhelmed with excruciating mum guilt and feel the need to agree to buy that £7 magazine with the shitty little plastic figures and stickers… it will make them happy… for 5 minutes and we find it shoved under the couch by 7pm.

Soon we learn to experience all feelings imaginable the denial. Anger. Betrayal. Sadness. Relief.

You’ve hit the ultimate low and you begin to accept it, you start to befriend the hits of the cycle for what feels like the 100th time today you’ve belly sobbed hot salty tears, which burn down your face. We realise we’ve got to put this hurt on hold until bed time. And when the days fall into nights 24 hours are pretty close to feeling 2400 hours long. You find yourself slumming back into the sofa with the company of galaxy and the only two men you can truly undeniably trust… Ben and Jerry, how the fluck did I just make it through without losing a child. Burning the house down. Or flooding the place. Autopilot parenting is a wonderful strength I’m beginning to find.

I didn’t set out to do this journey alone, nobody imagines their life becoming broken and undone. A life where you was hanging by a thread, slipping of the edge wondering if the fall would take you back to another time.

And with each day i make it alone, each day provides strength to see me through the next.


Published by Mothering Silence

A late twenty-something mother of two boys and a profoundly deaf diva of almighty sass. In between splitting spontaneous sibling wars, curiatimg pillow forts and channeling inner superheroes. Mothering Silence documents a brutally honest truth of the trials and tribulations of motherhood. (The toughest hood.) Here you'll find the weekly ramblings of the rollercoaster life of my journey in motherhood. *Please note my style of writing is tongue in cheek.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: