I’m a bad mom.
I’ve called myself bad things before: spoiled daughter, mean sister, inconsiderate friend, shitty girlfriend. And I’ve believed them all. They’ve all been true, more than once, at some time or another.
But the worst thing I’ve called myself: bad mom.
Because what kind of mom gives her alcoholic husband so many chances? A BAD MOM.
“But what about the promises I made to him when we were married? Doesn’t that mean I have to try to help, to stay? To support?” NO. BAD MOM.
“But what about the fact that he’s trying, fighting, battling every day, to be better?” BAD MOM.
“But what about the love he has for her, for our family, for me, that is so unconditional, so undeniable, so obvious to everyone?” BAD MOM.
“But if I give up on him, he’ll give up on himself. He’ll die.” BAD MOM.
“But she deserves a wonderful father like him, even if he’s not perfect.” BAD MOM.
“But I need to give us a chance to be a family, because I know we could be so happy.” BAD MOM.
It’s the worst thing I’ve called myself. The most hurtful, the most painful.
But I can’t stop.
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