I have a couple days to catch up on and will write those in the morning. But in the meantime, this is on my brain.
We’ve landed in Maryland. At my aunt and uncle’s home.
It’s a gorgeous home. Three floors. Beautiful and comfortable. Each of us has a room to ourselves. We have the entire house to ourselves for the next three days.
I’m overwhelmed with gratitude for the alone time. But tonight, for some reason, I cannot stop crying.
It’s the comparison: My family’s home is parked on the street. Everything we own is in it.
But, to look at my extended family, one would presume that this is not what I am capable of. Most of my family is incredibly achieving. They work hard. They have degrees.
I feel and overwhelming incredible shame. I know I’ve worked incredibly hard. I went to school for nine years. But I have no degree. I have no job. I have no home. I am unable to provide for my children with any kind of security.
Instead I have this label: Felon.
I feel like that uncle who gets the cake with the bird illustrated on it, flying the coop.
I know that’s not who I am and that I’ve worked very hard, just for things that can’t be seen. But today, as my aunt said, “I think God just wanted you to leave Los Angeles…” I find myself agreeing with her and relieved I have.
But I also am choking on the sadness that I couldn’t make it work. That so many years were wasted with nothing to show for it. That I have to be a burden on others as I try desperately to climb up what seems to be a ladder that is impossible to scale.
That my options are midwifery or starvation. That I have to move across a continent to attempt to not starve and am not even guaranteed it’ll work.
And I just want someone to rescue me from it all and lay my head on their shoulder and tell me they will help me pay the rent and buy the food and pay for the lights to turn on until I know I have work coming in.
And it’s obvious that while I have been fighting this battle there were other people living life and building life. And I feel like I did nothing but try to gasp for breath over and over and over.
The PTSD of it all hits at the worst moments.
Like the warrior returning from a lost battle. He knows he is loved and is grateful for the care and comfort. But there is a sorrow that knows no words and a horror that cannot be shared. There is a wisdom that comes from an incredible loss.
Midwives should not have to go through this to simply help families.