Skip to main content

A mother's watch

**The Dark Journey Begins**


It’s quiet in the house—a calm so profound it makes my nerves tremble. There’s no laughter or giggles from the kids, an unusual feeling that has crept in. A pair of small shoes sits by the door; the house once felt lively, but now it’s filled with a thousand unsaid words pressing against my chest, words I’ve chosen not to voice. I should be resting, recovering from the physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion. But instead, I’m writing—not for attention, but to release some of the weight of the shock I’m facing.

My husband is battling drug addiction. The first time I confronted this, I was in denial. Accepting the truth scared me, because I knew we were not facing a normal challenge, but an Everest of obstacles. This battle has become the darkest part of my duty as a mother. Countless nights filled with fighting and crying have begun.

We’re separated for now, not out of anger, but out of necessity. I’m protecting our children and myself. Yet, somewhere deep inside, I still wonder: Can I protect him too? Or is that no longer my role?

I’ve experienced a whirlwind of emotions, some familiar, some not. In the process, I feel like I’ve lost myself.

I consulted with the police and faced unthinkable questions: Should I press charges? Should I file a restraining order? Or should I wait—just one more day, one more month—hoping he’ll awaken and choose us over the drugs?

People advise me to be logical and strong, to think of the children. And I do—every single day. But logic doesn’t quiet the ache in my chest, nor does it ease the guilt or the flicker of hope that refuses to die.


I didn't start this blog to instruct others on what to do. I began it because being a mother doesn’t come with a manual for situations like this. When you love someone who’s breaking everything—including you—what does duty look like? After you’ve given all your patience, your prayers, your tears… what’s left?

This blog is where I’ll attempt to find the answers. It's for mothers fighting silent battles, for those who love people they cannot fix, and for those learning that protecting your family sometimes means standing in front of someone… and sometimes means walking away.

If you’re reading this and feel the same pull between compassion and survival, I see you. I will keep on fighting. And maybe that’s enough for today.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

“The Day I Let the Darkness Speak”

I got home early from work. I stepped into a house that felt like a cave. I sat on the edge of the bed, placed my things on the floor, and stared at an empty wall. I thought, I’m alone now — I can finally embrace the sadness I tried so hard to conceal for hours at work. A tear fell, though I didn’t intend to cry. I stared at the wall, my eyes hanging there as if they were watching images of myself — crying on my knees countless times, begging for everything to stop. One image after another played in my mind. There was an episode of me screaming, my hands over my ears, gasping for air. The images repeated like a Microsoft PowerPoint slideshow… until they stopped. My trauma whispered: “Never again — never put yourself in that situation again.” It drained me. I lost all my energy. I lost all the positivity. I functioned every day spiritless, doomed, and grey. I kept praying for light. The cave was so deep, so dark. No matter how hard I tried to think logically — to act as if I wasn’t...
Post a Comment
Read more

"Little light"

 Have you ever felt stuck in an endless loop of hard situations that constantly confuse your mind? I haven't even fully healed or completely gotten out of one problem before another one shows up. I began questioning everything — my life’s purpose, my worth. Why won’t these problems give me a break? Did God forget about me because I am not worthy? I even lost my faith. I died in 2025. With that question lingering in my heart, I nearly gave up. I found myself on the edge, thinking of unthinkable things. But even then, I chose — forcibly — to fight myself. To not lose everything. No matter how dark the days became, I still chose to wake up. I dragged myself to work. I cried in silence. And I bore the weight of everything alone. People used to say, “You have to keep fighting… you have kids.” But the grief inside me was so real, so deep, that even looking at my children didn’t give me strength. I realized — even the so-called magical strength of a mother can vanish like ...
Post a Comment
Read more