Did I Fail?

My daughter said something to me today that simultaneously felt like a punch to the gut while also tearing my heart out. We were speaking about her and her siblings, and she casually said that she and her brother - the two older kids - had very rough lives, nothing like what the two younger ones have. She clarified it by adding "What my brother and I went through the younger ones didn't. And what they get now we didn't get."

I've been processing this for a few hours now, and I'm still working on it. First, she's not wrong. She's not. All the abuse I was subjected to, all the fights that happened from the abuse and as a result of my finally starting to fight back against it ... that was during her childhood. And the wolf worming her way into my life pretending to be my friend, assessing just how badly damaged and PTSD-riddled I was as an abused woman, and then using that to achieve maximum damage on my family - that was during her early teenage years. I broke free when she was 15, but even then I was reeling from what I'd been through and picking up the pieces. I'm sure I failed in 1000 different ways.

But as a mother? Am I a failure?

I didn't protect them from the fights. I didn't protect them from watching their mother be verbally and emotionally abused. (I'm fairly certain the few physical times were secret from them. I hope.) I didn't protect them from my emotionally unraveling as years of endless trauma finally took their toll on me: I fought back but not in any productive ways. I was easy prey for the wolf, who used her power and position and cunning to destroy everything. I didn't protect them from any of that. 

I'm working hard on affirming to myself that I'm not to blame for being abused. I'm not at fault for reacting from a place of trauma and PTSD and just pure visceral brokenness. For many years I carried guilt, and even well-meaning people in my life have told me I did wrong but should forgive myself. But I'm trying hard to re-frame this for myself: I was the victim. I didn't do wrong, even though my choices were pitiful at best. I was put through treatment that many people wouldn't come through alive or mentally whole. And I'm here. I'm whole. I am not to blame.

Yet, I'm second guessing all of that, hearing the pain in my daughter's voice and realizing that the only thing that matters to me in my entire life, my children, may be my biggest failure. I should have somehow been stronger. I'm a victim but that's not enough. I'm a mother and my two oldest kids had to deal with all of that upheaval. Thank God the two youngest ones don't really remember, and have gotten the best version of me: free of my abusers, away from the heavy burden of constant fight or flight and PTSD-soaked trauma. 

I think back to her childhood, and there's so many amazing memories and things we did. I spent every day with them, playing and laughing and singing. There were Barbies, board games, movies, books, dancing to silly music, dress-up ... Her childhood was the color of those years. My ex was at work a lot so until he got home it was just us, and eventually her brother (and eventually two more); every moment was precious and special. 

I wonder if she even remembers any of that, or just the bad things? I wonder how to tell her why I was a broken shell in so many ways, without telling her negative things about her father ... That would cause her more damage and pain. I can't do that, even to possibly temper her opinion of me. I suppose it's possible she doesn't even think badly of me, and was just stating a fact of her and her brother's lives: they went through trauma that the younger ones didn't. 

But I just don't know. 

All I do know is, I would give anything in my power to change that for her. I would do anything so that she would see how precious she and her siblings are and have always been to me. They are my heart, beating outside my chest. They are the air I breathe. They are the only success I need in this world. 

I hope she knows. 

I hope she knows.