Why Being a Single Mom Has Turned Me Into a Complete B*TCH

We're excited to share this post written by Eden Strong from our friends at YourTango.

I feel like a b*tch today.

I feel like the mom who's struggling to not only raise two young kids, but two kids with a very rare genetic illness — alone. I feel like the single mom who's working 3 jobs, 18 hours a day, in an effort to get above poverty level, a goal that seems to become further away each day.

I'm the exhausted human being who hasn't slept more than 5 hours a night in three years, and the mom trying to help her children grieve the loss of their father.

I worry constantly about how much I'm probably failing my kids.

I'm the mom who spends every single second of her day doing everything on her own: parenting, working, cleaning, cooking, shopping, planning, doctoring, changing, adapting, worrying, and stressing.

I'm also the mom who feels like a complete b*tch because I know exactly how hard my life is and because of that, I've lost all compassion for anything and everything you'd like to complain about.

It's not that I don't think other people don't have it harder than me; it's just that I've lost a level of compassion that I used to have for most trivial complaints.

I don't care that your husband had to work late and your kids were getting on your nerves — because help will eventually come.

I don't care that your child's home sick and you had to miss your yoga class — because when my child's home sick, I miss a paycheck.

I don't care that you had to work all weekend — because I've been working weekdays, evenings, and weekends for three years straight.

I don't care that you feel like you really need a vacation — because I'm just hoping that I can afford to buy groceries.

I don't care that your mother meddles in your business — because I'd give almost anything to have parents who were able to help me out.

I don't care that your kid didn't get on the baseball team this year — because my kid is grieving the absence of a parent.

I don't care that Starbucks was out of soy milk, the zoo was too crowded, your nail tech was running late, or any other of your first world problems. I work with women who have been abused, raped, and had their entire lives shattered. Women who are now desperately trying to navigate their own single mother world. We have real problems; you do not.

So your complaints? They're invalid to me. I don't f*cking care.

I realize that my lack of compassion for your daily annoyances is probably my own issue, but that's all I can think about right now.

So unless you're actually stuck in a ravine, don't complain about it to me. Don't call me for help just step over the pebble that's in your path; keep moving because I don't have time for this sh*t.

I'm too busy trying to climb out of the damn ravine to care.

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