My oldest 3 children are 36f, 34m, 32f. I don't post much of anything here because this gaping maw of pain in my memories just sucks my soul from me when I sit and acknowledge it. I carry a massive burden of shame, guilt, remorse. I wasn't a better mom than mine was. I did different things, tried to be wise and patient and kind. Intention doesn't mean diddly in hindsight.

I remarried, badly, when the big kids were 6f, 4m, 2f. I stayed in that marriage a decade. He was a needle using meth addict. I was a staunch backwoods homegrown religious fundamentalist. It took a lot of work and a lot of isolation before I figured out how to end that. Both the marriage and the religious garbage.

When the meth man was actively using, I'd get him into a treatment place, and onward christian soldier, I'd keep those home fires burning and pray harder. When he wasn't actively using, he was pretty angry and not a decent father person. In that damnable decade, he was gone in treatment or lord knows where for at least half the years.

But I always painted a picture of him "sick" and "working on getting well" to the kids. I was doing what I thought was age appropriate in letting the kids in on the circumstances with the meth man. I made a decent home, and was masterful at keeping the crazy out of sight.

Today, I heard via one of the younger kids, now 26m, that the 32f daughter has vivid recollection of meth man beating her for not calling him "dad". 

It never happened like she is recalling. Ever. Not even close.

Her dad was hit or miss on visitation, and during the spells he was too busy for children, they would slip into referencing the meth man as dad, same as the little boys to whom he was always that word. When the big kids would reconnect, it would sort itself out. Their dad would regain "dad" status. Methman would be called his given name for awhile, but he generally wasn't around, so it was done in my hearing only.

The body that took blows during that marriage was mine. There was a big showy paddle that meth man threatened them with, but I was the blocker, and I did my damn job. No one got beat. I do have accurate memories of my childhood's broken bones and my beatings, and that is the one thing I am 100% sure my children did not experience.

I don't plan to pursue setting my 32 year old straight on this. She has taken on a narrative from her dad, her stepmom, and her older sister. I am All Evil. I am the scapegoat, and anything I say just reinforces her rejection of me. I try to not take it personally, leave room in my heart for a real and meaningful reconciliation someday long from now. At the very least, I acknowledge the pain my kids carry, the ways I know I failed, and I try to make the amends they can tell me they are needing. 

I feel like a lousy punching bag for my adult children and their revisionist history. It's utterly unfair. I just would like to crawl under a rock today and cease. I won't. But its hard to breathe today.

You can leave comments if you'd like. I'm going to go for a long walk at the river and avoid screens a bit.  I'll check in and respond if I need to tomorrow. Today is enough as is.