Mental illness changed my life and the way I look at suffering. It turned me into my absolute worst self, someone I detested. More than that, it was the journey that led me towards that depression.
For years, I struggled, fought, cried, and crawled to make sure my family had a secure future. I stopped caring about my appearance, I stopped caring about our apartment, and I stopped caring about going out. I became more secluded over the years until I had completely locked myself away from everyone. The only thing that kept me going was my kids.
When I started having memory problems during the pandemic, I finally reached out to a therapist for the first time. I told him everything I could think of from the get-go. All I wanted was to get better. Every appointment was over the phone. I would set anywhere from 10-15 alarms, and I would still forget about every appointment.
My therapist told me that if I missed another one, he would cancel our sessions. I begged him to call me instead. I explained how difficult it had been to remember much of anything. He told me, “If you can’t remember, we’ll give the time to someone who cares enough to remember.”
When he finally let me go, it felt as if I would never get better. It became harder to even hold on. The image of my kids wondering why their Mom didn’t love them enough to stay popped into my head. So I kept trying.
One day, I sat down and tried to sort it all out. Why am I this way? When was the last time I was happy? How much of this is from abuse, neglect, or being overworked?
The words started spitting from me, writing out every event happy or sad. Little by little, I began remembering strength I once had and what had covered it up.
I came to realize how horrible the support networks for mental illness are. Not to mention how impatient everyone was for my recovery. As if coming back from anything so horrible could happen in mear days. Or weeks. Or even years.
I’m still trying, even now. Recovery is day by day. Little by little. But I can feel it happening, and I can see it in the eyes of my children.
You talk about how far I’ve gone, I dont clean like I used to, I dont cook like I used to. I don’t even play or love like I used to. But why is how far I’ve fallen all you can see?
Why do you always talk about these things like they just happened overnight? Why do you complain about me as if this weren’t the result of something larger? Is there truly something wrong with me? Do I not deserve the same love and patience?
I’m cleaning more now, see? Why haven’t you noticed? Im playing with the kids, cooking their favorite meals, and shopping. Will it never be enough?
I can feel your families eyes on me, its hard not to notice your sisters rolling their eyes. Was it something I said? Or something you told them?
I can feel the shackles trying to form, fastening themselves out of paranoia and low self-worth. I feel desperate, I want them to like me. I want them to see that I’m improving, so I talk about all the things I got done this week, proudly boasting that I cleaned the living room and about all the fancy dinners. As if it’s anything to brag about at all. The looks on their faces tell me its not.
I hesitate when silence breaks the conversation and smile when my niece giggles. I ask to hold her.
“She’s a little grumpy today,” your sister says and gives her to your Mom a few moments later. Do they think I don’t notice?
“You know, I’m home all the time these days. I could help watch her anytime,” I keep trying.
“Oh, yeah,” she says, but the look on her face says it won’t happen in a million years.
When will it stop being about how far I’ve fallen? How much have you complained about me? Why can’t they see this didn’t just happen, I didn’t just break. I was broken. And still, I’m trying. I AM getting better. Instead of talking about my struggles, why can’t you support me and talk about my triumphs?
I’m sorry, it takes me a while to process these things. I write about this small blip even as it happened months ago. I never knew what it meant to me.
I couldn’t do it all on my own anymore. I had been overworked for nearly nine years, running on the most bare minimum of sleep before rushing to work.
Make the kids breakfast as quickly as possible, hop on the computer for work, try to keep the kids quiet so I didn’t get in trouble again, only fifteen minutes to make lunch for everyone, back to work, get off in time to put the kids down for bed, two hours later they are finally down, still haven’t had dinner but need to clean.
“Erik, could you please help me catch the place up a bit?”
“I already made dinner, and I need to study.”
“Oh, okay, right.” Why can’t anyone just clean up after themselves? When I make lunch, I put everything away, I throw away the trash, I rinse off the dishes. All while I wait for it to finish cooking so it takes no extra time, what was so hard about that?
I glance in on Erik. Rather than studying, I find him playing State of Survival. Frustration surged through me. My entire day was non-stop stress piling up on itself day after day after day, yet I never got help when I asked for it. “His day is stressful too,” I tried pushing the resentment down.
Each day was a copy of the last. Wake up, work, fight with kids to be quiet, clean, and get only a few hours of sleep. “At least you’re keeping up better than before,” I told myself.
Working from home was supposed to help my back pain, no more heavy lifting from my server days. But as it turns out, working in an office chair for hours on end only puts more pressure on your spine.
I thought I was finally doing better. But the pain was coming back, and it was becoming difficult to clean again. Again and again, they promise that things will get better. “When we move to Chicago, you won’t have to work so much. Carrie and Saul will offer more support with the kids than your parents have, working from home will be good for you,” but nothing ever changes. It’s the same pain, the same stress, the same hectic life in a different box.
I decided to eat something before cleaning this time, I didn’t have time to make lunch for both myself and the kids. I sit there, staring at another disgusting mess, knowing I’ll do this all again the next day. And the day after. And the days, weeks, years after that. And a weight decends upon me and those all too familiar thoughts of suicide awaken again.
“Erik, do you think you could help me with the cleaning tonight? I’m just…so tired.”
“I’m sorry, love, I have a quiz in two days. I need to study more.” He turns off the game on his tablet and carries it into our bedroom.
Maybe just one day off would be okay, I tell myself. I sit down and relax for the first time in a few weeks, watching anime.
But the next day, it’s even harder to motivate myself. The mess is larger, and Erik still can’t help. I do my best, but the pressure is still building. The feeling that things will never change starts to hook its claws in me.
That night, I stared at the mess. All I wanted to do was sleep, but the mess was there, forcing its guilt on me. I don’t want to do it. What I want to do doesn’t matter. You have to take care of the kids. Things will get better eventually. No, they won’t. You’ve been telling yourself that for nine years now. Has it ever gotten better? You’ll be doing this for the rest of your life. You could ask for help. No one will ever help you, you know that. You will be ignored.
Tears begin flooding down my cheeks, dripping down onto my T-shirt. Hearing my sobbing, Erik turned away from his tablet to look at me. “What’s wrong?!” he asked earnestly, getting up from his chair to sit beside me.
“I can’t do this anymore. Nothing ever changes. We never go anywhere or do anything. All I do is work, clean, and fight with the kids. I never have any fun, I never do what I want. And worst of all, I’m failing at all of it. I know I’ve complained about my Mom before, but she at least gave me a clean home to live in. She made sure I was fed, that I went outside to play. I can’t do any of those things. I can’t even bring myself to clean this stupid kitchen anymore,” it all exploded from me in a flurry of words. I was uniquely aware of snot dripping down over my lips, making me feel even more disgusting.
Erik pulled me into his chest and held me close. “I know,” he whispered, “just try to remember I only have one year left. It won’t be this way for you for much longer. The next chapter of our lives will be all about you.”
Rage exploded from me, “That’s a lie! I’ll have as little choice in what I do then as I do now! Every step of the way you tell me, ‘it will be easier when…’ But that never comes! It didn’t get easier when we moved to Chicago. Instead, I lost all of my friends, all of my family, and I became completely secluded. It didn’t get easier when I stepped down from management to be a server. Just look at me, Erik! I can’t even stand for more than five minutes at a time anymore without being in pain! I look like I’ve been aged thirty years, not ten! Even now, I’m struggling just as much as I always have. And what’s supposed to be different after you graduate? I can do what I want? How? Who is going to take care of the kids while you’re at work? Are you going to call out sick when the kids are ill so I can go to school like I had to all these years? Are you going to keep up on the cleaning so I can study? Or when I say go to college, do you assume it’s just to learn something neat? Not for a careet like you? Do you honestly think that you could do what I’ve been doing this whole time? I didn’t think so!” My eyes widened with shock as I finished, I hadn’t realized how much resentment had piled up within me.
“I know this has been hard. All I can do is promise that what comes next will be about you. And that things will get easier. You won’t have to do anything you dont want to,” Erik said gently.
Hysterical laughter burst from so deep down I barely recognized it was coming from me. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to. You dont have to do anything you don’t want to. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.
I fell silent. I was vaguely aware that Erik was saying something. Those words, those awful, wonderful words kept circulating as if I had never even heard of such a marvelous concept. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.
Erik shook me gently. He was saying something. But I could no longer hear him. Because if I didn’t have to do anything I didn’t want to then… I could do what I wanted to do for so very long.
We were as poor as it gets. Our survival depended largely on government assistance and anything I could muster up in tips as a waitress. Erik had school during the week, so I had to be there to take care of the kids. So, instead, I worked longer shifts on the weekends.
Move faster, I need to take bigger sections. Make them laugh. If they laugh, they will give you a bigger tip. Not fast enough, you can’t make your customers wait. Volunteer to stay later, as late as you can. Even if it means working twenty hours straight, give it your all.
This is all you’re worth, all you can give, all you can do. So do better. The kids need clothes. They need school supplies. They deserve the world at their feet, so make it happen. Even if it breaks you.
I climbed three stories to our apartment late at night. I snuck in, peering into the twins’ bedroom. Evan laid on the top bunk, snoaring loudly. Kaylee slept quietly, her bottom lifted above her head. I sighed with relief and silently closed the door. I collapsed in bed next to Erik, not even bothering to take off my apron. “I made eight hundred dollars today,” I smiled meekly.
“Wow, that’s great. Maybe we can actually pay off some of these past due bills,” Erik said, rolling over to hold me.
“Maybe we can afford to do something fun next week? I feel like all I do is work lately.”
“I’m sorry, love, but even with everything you made, we are still completely broke.”
Harder, I need to work harder. This can’t be my kids’ lives.
“If anyone wants me to do their sidework, I’ll do it for twenty dollars!”
More, it still isn’t enough. Work the overnight shifts and carry more on every tray. You’re strong. Use that to your advantage.
“Lovey, I made twelve hundred today! Maybe we could all go out and do something next week as a family?”
“I’m sorry, love, but we are three months behind on our power bill and two on the internet. We won’t have anything left once I pay those off with rent.”
Why can’t you just do this for them? Why can’t you provide for them in the way they deserve? You need to do better. You can’t let their lives be this mundane.
My feet begin to hurt, and my back begins to crumple. Ignore it. It’s only been a year of this. You can keep going. You can give them a better life.
I stumble into our apartment, trash has steadily begun to build up along the floors, and dishes surround the sink. This is pathetic. You’re failing them.
Two years pass, and I can no longer make it up the stairs on my own. When I walk, I walk on the very sides of my feet, wading through garbage.
You’re so pathetic, it would be better if the state just took the kids. Maybethen… they would have a good life.
No, I can’t give up. I have to keep going.
“Mama, can we go to the park?” Kaylee asks.
“I’m so sorry, sweetheart. Mommy can’t walk today, and Daddy has the car.”
“Hey,” Erik says when he comes home, “Im going out for sushi with a couple of my classmates on Friday, so I’ll be out late.”
“Oh, that sounds fun! Can we come with you?” I ask.
“Sorry, it’s not really the kind of thing I would want to bring the kids to.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Well, I hope you have lots of fun,” I try to make my smile look genuine.
Three years pass, I can no longer stand up straight without immense pain and begin to walk with a hunch below my neck. The apartment only gets messier and messier. The doctors tell me that if this continues, I’ll find myself in a wheelchair.
I can’t just stop working. My family would have nothing. If I died right now, Erik’s family would step in. They wouldn’t let him live like this. They would all be better off if I just disappeared. But…if I did…would the kids blame themselves?
I get frustrated and clean the entire apartment in one night. After all, sleepless nights were something I was more than used to. Besides, it wasn’t the first time I’d spent all night cleaning. I couldn’t just let the kids grow up in that dump.
When I’m finally done, I’m kneeling at the sink finishing the last couple of dishes. Unable to walk any further, my legs and knees became bruised and battered as I crawled my way through the apartment. My legs couldn’t take it anymore, so I decided to leave the last few dishes for later.
I ran into Erik on my way to bed, “Erik, can you just help with the dishes? It’s the only thing I couldn’t finish. I just…can’t.”
“Yeah, okay, I’ll do it later,” he says.
“Right… okay,” it wasn’t the first time I’d heard that.
When I wake up for work three hours later, I notice the dishes are still piled up. Panic rises into my throat. I had no time to do them. I had to get to work. And when I got home there would be even more. And Erik would have trash all around his chair. And the kids will have made a mess that went completely ignored. And I’ll barely be able to move, but everyone will blame me if it’s not done. They’ll treat me like a child, like I’m the reason Erik is failing his classes. Like I’m…useless.
I can’t breath. Tears stream down my face. I rush out the door, hiding myself from Erik. Calm down, he said he would help this time.
When I get home, I crawl my way up the stairs. With every step, I was positive my feet would finally break. I slowly opened the door, carefully peering around the corner. Everything is as I predicted. The trash had gotten full, so no one took it out. Instead, there was trash all around it, on the floor and boxes of opened packages and mail surrounded Erik’s desk. Someone had spilled cereal, and it remained, dripping from the counter onto the floor. Clothes had been taken out of the laundry basket and thrown down the entire stretch of the hallway. In addition to the dishes from last night, there were now more. Some were still full of food and thrown in the sink.
My body trembled, the aches and pains from the long night of cleaning and the following ten hours running at work raged throughout me. It would take hours to clean this all up. Perhaps another all-nighter.
I noticed the knife block to the side of the sink. Inside, I imagine the glimmering sharp blades. It would be so easy to take one. No one had even noticed I was home.
I imagined the blade running down the length of my wrist, the pleasurable sting of pain distracting me from the aches that far exceeded it. I imagined my body growing cold as I became more and more sleepy. For years, all I wanted was sleep. Now, I would never have to wake up again. It would feel like a sweet release. I pictured it so vividly I could almost feel it.
“Mommy, why are you crying?” Kaylee was looking at me from the living room, and I quickly realized tears were streaming down my cheeks.
“Oh, Mommy just had a long day,” I tell her. I pick her up and hold her close, and all together, I begin to sob. I could never feel that release. I could never hurt my kids that way. Not like my Dad had hurt me. I would remain trapped, so they would never have to wonder why I didn’t love them enough to stay.
“What’s wrong?” Erik asks, a small frown curling his lips.
Does he really not know? “Nothing, just hurting a lot today,” I sob, shaking. I was far too tired to start an argument.
Erik sat down next to me to hold me close, “How about we go out and do something fun next week? Don’t worry about the money. What kinds of things would you like to do?”
The Ugly Boudoir 