This isn’t meant to be a blog full of self-deprecating cliches and ‘passive-victim-of-circumstance’ statements. Quite the opposite actually. Stick with me.

I’ve been a social worker for 25 years, with much of that work protecting children from all forms of abuse and neglect. I’ve done thousands of assessments on parents and caregivers to determine if they and their parenting was ‘good enough’. It either was or it wasn’t. That’s that.

And then I started to question my own parenting.

I’ve been told countless times that I’m a good mother. Heck, I’ve even told others the same thing. The compliment that stuck to me like Velcro when awards were won or achievements were celebrated bounced off and fell to the ground in the middle of a crisis

This journey has left the door wide open to doubt myself as a parent. Am I doing a good job? Am I doing a bad job? Did I do a good or a bad job? The good/bad dichotomy has become my sparring partner; zapping me of any energy I had left. I’ve spent many intended sleeping hours convincing myself I am a good mother or stamping out the inner voices telling me I’m a bad one.

How does a good mother miss an ADHD diagnosis in their little girl? How does a good mother overlook the development of Borderline Personality Disorder stemming from untreated Post Traumatic Stress Disorder after spending years working with women who have the same thing? Does a bad mother refuse to back down, even when standing out of the way is the right thing to do? Is a bad mother oblivious to their adult child’s drug and alcohol problem until it is right under their nose? Isn’t it the good mother who performs life saving measures until help arrives? Is it the bad mother who missed or refused to acknowledge the signs that it was heading that way?

I don’t know the answers. I’ll never know them.

The quest wasn’t lonely. I had a friend named Someone Special. Someone Special convinced me that I was the only one going through this; we were the only parents, the only family staring down the double barrel of mental health and addictions. It’s so hard. Nobody understands. I can’t have a life because of this or because of that. I’m special. This isn’t happening in other peoples lives that we know. Only us. Only me.

Someone Special isolated me. Good/Bad exhausted me. Depression and Hopelessness were at the door with their suitcases ready to move in.

Lately I’ve started to smarten up. Call it coincidence or a melancholy moment. I call it Divine. Memories started showing themselves. Those first few weeks of motherhood; how speechless I was before God that He could ever choose me to steward such a precious gift. How He trusted me with this child; a child He knew first. A child He loved first.

It was then that I realized I’m not a good mother. I’m not a bad mother. I’m neither.

I’m chosen.

I’m chosen. Both of my children were given to me to steward. I’ve dug deep. Everything I have is theirs. There’s been gains and there’s been losses. Sometimes I got it right and sometimes I got it wrong. It never made me bad or good. I was chosen and I’ve not backed away or refused the job.

Someone Special got kicked out when I started talking to other people who were dealing with the same issues. I’m not special. We’re not a special family. Millions of parents and siblings are dealing with the impact of a loved ones mental illness and substance abuse. Someone Special got replaced with Us Too.

It isn’t a quick fix. Someone Special and all her friends still comes knocking every now and then. Hopefully the more I ignore them the less they will come around, at least I think that’s how it works.