By Written by Anonymous.
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My mom was a minivan mom. She had five kids back-to-back. Imagine: a dirty minivan, with crumbs and Hot Cheetos bags scattered everywhere. Packing five lunches, dropping off five kids, making breakfast, lunch, dinner, doing dishes, laundry, getting groceries and driving a minivan. Of course, taking a shower, eating and resting were things that she had to squeeze in after she took care of her chores.
Her minivan wasn’t filthy on the inside, but it could use some cleaning, although she never had the time—the only time she could clean up anything was when she stopped for gas. She would stop to pump gas once a week, clean the outside windows and gather all of our trash from the inside of her car.
My mom was a reflection of her car. She was scattered on the inside. She wasn’t a bad person, but she simply never made time for herself. She would only refuel and clean up herself when she was empty.
Her routine stayed the same for years, and so did her car. As we got older, the minivan started to slowly break down. When the brakes would screech, my dad would replace the brake pads; when the tires would go flat, my mom would put air in the tires; whenever a part broke, my parents would replace it. Even after all the maintenance, my mom gradually failed to see value in the car, and eventually stopped cleaning it. The fabric ceiling on the inside was peeling, some paint on the outside was rusting and there was always a film of dust on the windows.
Every time my mom could no longer handle her difficult responsibilities she would break down, then put a band aid on it as a temporary fix.
One day, the engine went out. Although it was fixable, and after all the money and time my parents had already spent on the car, it was time to let go. The minivan was no longer reliable.
Every time my mom could no longer handle her difficult responsibilities, she would break down, then put a band aid on it as a temporary fix. My dad would bring home flowers and make her day. If she was broken inside, she would wait until that moment to fix herself.
Finally when we grew up, my mom turned into a different person. She wasn’t the same mom I had when I was a young kid. My mom’s emptiness turned into resentment, which lead to emotional abuse. I was emotionally abused as an early adult because my mom developed chronic depression due to her inability to take of herself when I was a child.
She is gone. When she looks at me, she does so with regret because she gave everything to me and my siblings and nothing to herself.
I remember my mom as a poise, beautiful cook who always had dinner at the table. She always hugged me when I was in early grade school. It seemed like the more kids my mom had the more I was slowly losing her. And I finally lost her when I was an adult.
She is gone. When she looks at me, she does so with regret because she gave everything to me and my siblings and nothing to herself.
If anyone can take anything away from this story, it would be take time for yourself. If you’re a parent, never forget the value of self-care. Everything you do, do it for God.
Read a beautiful tribute to Prophet Mohammad (pbuh), to stir your soul.
https://gum.co/kiSzD
Chills.. This story is nearly identical to mines.
It crazy how all of these years I felt as if I was the only one.
i can relate to this…
My mother emotionally, physically, and mentally abuses me. I am almost 16 years old and I feel the mental health of my family is on my back, although I am basically the pariah of my own family. My mother beats me when she can’t cope with herself and her life and how I’m turning out, and then on top of that tells me to go ahead and cut and hang myself and take a bottle of pills when i tell her I’m depressed or that its just too much. I stopped coming to her with problems because all she does is throw them back at me, telling me that no one likes me, that she and my family resent me. That i should starve myself, that I should look, act, and sound like a lady than a beast and an ogre. She calls me fioana (the ogre from shrek), pig, cow, monster, waste of space/time/energy, useless, garbage, shit, bitch, whore, cunt, prostitute, witch, the list goes on. Once, my little brother even called me a whore (he was 8 at the time), because he just heard my mom call me it so much. My dad is almost never in the picture(my parents are not divorced or separated, its just that he would rather spend time out with friends or out working than be at home), and when he is home, he just tells me that I’m a whore and a slut and “girl of the streets” (loose arabic translation which ultimately means prostitute). My older brother is allowed to hit me as well and has actually given me some bruises before.
My life is horrible, and on top of it all, my younger siblings add on to it. I defend them when she starts to call them names or berate them (whether in from of them or behind their backs), yet they would rather continue to pick on me and call me the problem of the family than be nice.
It’s just hard sometimes…