Present day. My mind has been all over the place lately, and today is just one of those bad days that feel like they’re never going to end. I’m 7 months postpartum now, and every day is a mixture of good and bad, but today… today is a tough one. I’m tired of the bad days. If you asked my family, they’d probably say I love having them because, to them, it seems like I’m always having one. But that couldn’t be further from the truth.
Last night, things were actually going well. Everything seemed calm, manageable even. That was until my partner told me that his kids would be spending the weekend with us. And just like that, my mood plummeted. I hate when they come over. Not because of who they are, but because of who my partner becomes when they’re around. He changes. He becomes someone I barely recognize, someone I resent.
Their presence brings chaos, but not the kind that children naturally bring—this is different. There’s no discipline. No structure. It feels like they run wild, and he does nothing to stop it. And their mother? Dealing with her is just another layer of stress I don’t need. There isn’t a single thing I enjoy about those weekends. I know children should come first, but where is the line? Where is the boundary that says, “You don’t get to treat me like this”?
The lack of discipline causes huge problems between us. I freeze under the pressure of the chaos, while he grows angrier, eventually lashing out at me. He says cruel things—things that cut deep. “I hate you.” “You’ve ruined my life.” “No wonder you were single for so long.” And he says these things in front of the kids. Then I cry. I can’t help it; it’s a natural reaction. But crying? That only makes things worse. He gets angrier, accusing me of making the kids uncomfortable with my tears.
Why do I stay? Why do I stay with someone who clearly hates me, or at least acts like he does in these moments?
And then things get physical.
So far, he’s broken two doors by pushing me into them. He’s thrown my dresser across the room, breaking it in the process. There’s a growing list of things he’s destroyed in his fits of rage, and I’m starting to feel like I’m next.
I wish I was strong enough to walk away. But I’m not. Not right now. I’ve burned every bridge. My mental health has taken a toll on all my relationships, and I don’t have the money or resources to do this on my own. So here I am. Stuck. Stuck in this hell, just a little while longer.
There’s this flicker of hope, though—a small part of me that knows I can’t live like this forever. I’ll figure it out, somehow. Maybe it’s just going to take time. Maybe I’ll get stronger. Maybe the next bad day will be the last one.
But for now, I’m just surviving. One bad day at a time.
The Fourth Trimester 