On this day ten years ago, Three Days Grace released what has become, for me, one of the most bittersweet requiems—and landslides—of all the “mother guilt” I’ve carried in the wake of not just my own shattered childhood, but even more so my children’s. And then there was that moment a couple of years ago when I found her college entrance essay buried in my desktop downloads. I wasn’t sure whether to smile or cry as I read it. I ended up doing both, because …

I’ve often wondered if my life is just a bunch of pages in a comic book. It seemed that since the beginning, I was thrown as many adversities as my author could think of so I could become a character just like my in dad’s dusty old comic books that I would flip through under the covers when I was supposed to be asleep. I was born in the middle of a nasty divorce, and my teenage brother took up caring for me since my parents would be too busy fighting to notice either of us. I wanted to make things easier for the people around me, so I learned how to be independent and resourceful, and I was instilled with a personal goal to strive for excellence. The rest of my life has been met with similar misfortunes. Bullying and social ostracization, poor choices of friends and boyfriends, and finally, the abrupt death of my stepfather, who had raised me and despite the lack of shared blood took up the yoke of being my dad for 11 years. In the end, I had no friends, a dead parent, and a list of diagnoses of disorders that reads like a master list.  The last thing I want is pity. That’s not why I say this. The reason I say all of this is because despite the years of bitterness and pain I felt being in my “comic book”, and the many times I wanted to give up completely, I have grown to love everything that has happened to me. Why? Because I know that if it wasn’t for all I had to endure, I wouldn’t be a fraction of the woman I am today. Because throughout everything, I made the decision to make sure my backstory would make me like Batman, not Joker. Every cruel word and deed taught me that the people who are hurting the most can cause the most hurt, and that I needed to be kind and patient – take them with a grain of salt because the last thing they needed was cruelty back. My anxiety forced me to become sure of myself so I could meet my own expectations for myself, and to learn how to move outside my comfort zone to succeed and connect with others the way I want. My ADHD and OCD gave me an incredible love for challenges. Yes, it is more difficult for me than others to do basic things, but in the end, I learned that I could turn the things that hinder me into my superpowers. My ADHD allows me to devote myself completely to my passions and always remain excited and looking for the next thing I can do to improve and gives me this unquenchable thirst to learn more and do more. My OCD gave me the strength to always strive to do my absolute best, while also forcing me to learn how to be gracious with myself when I make mistakes, as mistakes are just lessons that teach me how to improve and do better.  My PTSD made me both gentle and tough. I gained more empathy and became incredibly resilient. It gave me a fierce desire to protect and support those who had no one else to support them, because if I had to suffer so that others might not, then I’m happy to show my scars with a smile. It made me love harder and care more, about others and about myself.  I’m in no way perfect. I have my kryptonite like everyone else. But I am a fighter. I know that I can face whatever comes my way, and I am proud to say that I have grown into my own superhero. I just hope that someday, my “comic book story” will give some kid just like me the hope to keep fighting and become their own superhero, too. 

Ugh. It felt just like that very first “Death Punch” to my soul years ago, when my son sent me the first of many messages to follow—not so cryptic—in the wee hours of the morning to let me know he “remembered … EVERYTHING.”

… and so, with that, to my beautiful battle-born phoenix of a risen angel daughter: Only God knows when you’ll finally begin digging into the entirety of this virtual love letter I’m writing to you, your brother, and all of yours. And though I’ve appreciated you reading the entries I’ve asked you to thus far, I know it’s not quite time for you to sit down with “all of it.”

For now, just know that I’m so beyond proud of you, and there aren’t enough words in my soul to atone for—or account for—the many apologies I owe you for everything I missed while I was physically “there” with you, yet often nowhere in sight. Late at night, I couldn’t hear you crying. I suppose I was too busy crying myself to sleep while all the love around us was dying. How did you stay so strong? How did you hide it all for so long? Why couldn’t I take the pain away? Oh, that’s right. I was too busy free-falling in the dark for my own protection, trying to convince myself I’d be okay. Still, I have so many questions.

That was then.

This is NOW!

Maybe the truth is this:

Sometimes we change because something finally opens our mind. Sometimes we change because something finally breaks our heart. And sometimes, it takes both.

~ The Real Cat Williamson

Daughter, I am here to tell you, your brother, and anyone else who ever reads this that I am doing my very best to change for both those reasons. For now, I’M HERE, baby girl. I “hear” you and I “see” you. I’ll be right beside you if you ever go through hell and back again, no matter how close or far away I may be. And you will never close your eyes and fall alone in the dark. I love you, RISEN angel.

~ Momma 🖤