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When I was a young mother, I had problems like all young mothers. Sure I had a husband. I was on number 3. Little did I know what was going on behind my back then. I was having personal problems of my own that I was fighting with. I was crying, tired, moody. I didn't care if I got up in the morning. I would be rebellious with my husband. Deliberately choosing friends he did not approve of. I even got my ears pierced because he had said he didn't like it. Then I flaunted my new look in front of him. Of course, he wasn't home much anyway. He had found himself a job in a city two hours from his family. He was only home on the weekends. I felt lost, abandoned.

My mother was in the next town, only a phone call away and able to be at my home in a matter of minutes, but I wanted...needed...to prove to her that I was capable of taking care of my family on my own. The days became so horrible for me. I was pouting more, crying more, not caring what the house looked like. My seven year-old daughter was caring for her eight year-old brother and three year-old sister. She would cook for them, clean up after them. Even made sure that all of them got off to school. I would wake them up. I did at least play alarm clock for them, but then I would just crawl back in bed and stay there, maybe crawling out later to stare at the TV.

My husband usually didn't come home until Saturday sometime, so on Friday nights, I would go to the local tavern (bar, grill whatever you want to call it) and drink with my friends. I thought that I was having fun. During the days, life seemed so bleak, I was living off the government checks for low income families. I couldn't seem to make ends meet. I couldn't give my kids the life they deserved. I couldn't be a mother to them.

I found a rope one day and was playing with it. I told myself I was only fooling around practicing making the hangman's noose. At first I laughed at myself, until I hid the noose behind a book shelf beside the door. We lived in an upstairs apartment with the stairs in a closed-in area leading outside. That's when I decided to seek help.

The first place I went was to the local psychiatric outpatient clinic. It was within walking distance. I remember that man to this day and I probably always will. I gave him a chance to help me. After all he was the one with the degree not me. He got me to get around to my sexual life. As the sessions progressed his questions became more and more extreme and deeply personal. I realized, then and now, that for a good therapist to help, he/she must delve deeply, but this man made me feel dirty and cheap. He came right out asked me why I didn't just sell my self, make money while doing what I liked to do. (His words, not mine.)

Then my husband came home this one weekend and we got into a horrible fight over one of my friends. He accused me of doing drugs all because I had asked a question of the man about the difference between hashish and marijuana. (I don't even remember the answer now.) Anyway, the fight became extremely heated and I finally took off, riding my bike around town. I ended up at the home of my boy-friend. (Yes, I was mixed up, but my husband also had a girlfriend where he lived during the week.) After my 'visit' with my boyfriend I returned back home and back to another fight. I went to my room, crawled on my bed, grabbed a stuffed animal, curled in the foetal position and bawled. In the meantime, my husband called my psychiatrist who said to bring me in immediately. Papers were all ready drawn up and waiting for my husband's signature to place me in the psychiatric center.

That scared me! Enough that I thought maybe this was what I needed. Of course, I suddenly felt better and 'promised' to be a better wife.

It wasn't long after that my problems, the moodiness, the crying, the not caring, returned. I did try and do better with the kids. I did start making their meals, sending them off to school myself instead letting my older daughter do it. I even started working at getting all the clothes cleaned up and cleaned up the house, although my heart wasn't it. My husband didn't come every weekend any more. I never knew when he would be home.

One day when he was home, the kids I were playing around, laughing. I was preparing supper. To this day, I do not recall why I had a plain pan of water boiling on the stove, but when the water reached boiling level, I shut off the burner and took the pan in my hand. I have a weak leg from a birth defect and I swivelled on that leg. Usually if I do it just right, I can move okay. I just have to get my left leg in front of me quickly. My son was on the floor and he had rolled into me, preventing me from getting my left leg in front. I didn't "loose" my balance but I did loose control of the pan of boiling water. It tipped and the entire contents fell in slow motion onto my son. He had 3rd degree on his shoulder, 2nd degree down his back, down his arm, down half his chest and on his neck and face. My, by this time, nine-year old daughter, raced into the living room where my husband sat watching TV. Finally, he called the EMTs (paramedics).

Through the stress of the hospital, my son's burns, my own personal problems that I still had no idea what they were, my husband's lack of interest in the family, me or our marriage and the local child protective agency being called in, I was a worse mess than ever. So after my son's recovery and return, I again sought psychiatric help. This time it was a woman. After two visits, her advice to me was, "Just go home and do precisely what your husband tells you and everything will turn out fine." Yeah, some help she was! I still needed help, but there was no one who was trying to help me. I had to do it on my own.

I was still going out and drinking, still finding 'friends' that weren't friends. I had a household this one night, a school night. I don't even know who were all there nor how they came to be there. I was sleeping. I woke up to sounds of laughter and a possible fight. I came out of the bedroom and started cleaning house. Ha! Yeah, no one paid attention to me. I even heard one ask who I was. I couldn't take it anymore. I went to the kitchen, pulled out the drawer where the knives were and started playing around with it, laying it against my wrist as though I was trying to figure out the best placement of the blade. My boyfriend came in the kitchen and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop me, got severely frightened and ran off along with everyone else in the apartment. I met my 4th husband on this night. He stayed behind when everyone else left. This young man stayed by me, worked me through my suicide thoughts and brought me out of them. I will always love him for that.

Weeks past and my new boyfriend and I were getting along wonderfully and my love for him grew albeit slowly. Then on Valentine's Day, my husband appeared. He found me in bed with my boyfriend. A horrible fight took place, the police were called. I asked my husband to leave. I thought this is fantastic! My problems are now over. I have a new love in my life and the man who was causing all my problems has been told to get out! I was free and happy, my family was going to be alright. I was wrong.

I still felt like something was not fulfilled, I still had the awful feeling of wanting to cry, I was tired, I just didn't really care. I tried, I tried so hard. I even tried fooling myself into believing that I was ok. If only I could leave the state I lived in. That was the problem. The state wasn't allowing me to get ahead. As long as I was on the state welfare roll, I would never make my family nor myself happy. I had to get out. My boyfriend offered me a chance. He asked me to go to another state with him. He was going anyway and he wanted me to go to. The opportunities there were new, were fresh. With his help, I could give my kids the life I wanted them to have.

I went to the welfare agency and asked for someone to talk with me about putting my kids in temporary foster care until I was able to provide for them in this other state. During all this, I visited yet one more psychiatrist, just to make sure that I was ok. I told this man, that I felt I had to leave and I didn't dare take my kids, because I had no idea how I was going to live in the beginning and that I had to get away because I was afraid that if I did commit suicide that the impression it would put on the kids would be more devastating than me leaving temporarily to prepare a better life for them. This psychiatrist contacted the welfare agency telling them that I had said I was afraid I would hurt my children. I was not allowed to leave the state! I did anyway.

I placed the kids with my third husband, their stepfather, asking him to please watch the kids while I sought a better life for them. He agreed. After arriving in the other state, I called my mother to tell her we had arrived, that things weren't going as planned, etc. She informed me that she had the kids, that they were going to court against my husband (the kids' stepfather - the man I entrusted them to) for child molestation. He was sentenced to seven years. I was devastated, I couldn't think, I was stuck. Our transportation had broken down, I had no job, he had no job. There was no way for me to get home. I continued with my boyfriend, ended up in yet another state where we lived for four years, got married there, and ended up separating eventually divorcing. I came home but it was too late to have the family I longed for. My older daughter grew up in my parents home where they spoiled her horribly. My son, who also was raised by my parents, always felt abandoned and forgotten by everyone not just me, causing him to have a rough dispassionate life. My younger daughter was taken by her biological father and always felt separated from the family and had a rough life.

Years later, long after my children grew to adults, long after all the problems that sent me flying off to places unknown, I discovered the reason behind the problems. It was so simple to diagnose, not so simple to treat. I suffered chronic depression. It was not until after I found God and His power, was I able to combat the tears, the loneliness. It was too late to save my family, though. Except for one. My younger daughter, after hearing this story, has forgiven me, fully and completely. She takes care of me, provides me with food, shelter, and the most important - gives me her love and friendship.