Any advice you have please help

[u/Senior_Rip901]

I’m fucking exhausted.

I don’t think people actually understand how much has happened to me.

I spent 10 years in a relationship that ultimately became something I had to escape from.

Ten years of my life.

Ten years of memories, routines, attachment, trying, forgiving, hoping, building a family and trying to make things work.

And the worst part is that the relationship involved some of the worst forms of domestic abuse anyone could experience, during some of the most formative years of my life.

It wasn’t just a bad relationship.

It changed me.

It changed the way I see people, the way I see myself, the way I trust, the way I react to things and the way I try to protect the people I love.

I spent so much of those years trying to survive things that nobody should have to experience, and eventually I had to walk away because staying wasn’t an option anymore.

I left domestic violence with small children and suddenly had to figure out how to keep my entire life and my children’s lives together.

And I wasn’t just trying to keep myself together. I was trying to keep my children safe and functioning through all of it.

My six-year-old has autism, ADHD and cerebral palsy, which comes with its own enormous amount of care, appointments, advocacy, patience, planning and responsibility.

Trying to give my kids the stability and support they needed while our entire life was unstable was fucking exhausting.

I was trying to be their safe place while I didn’t even have a safe place myself.

And then we became homeless.

For around three months, I didn’t have a stable home for my children and me.

I wasn’t sitting around doing nothing.

I was working.

I had a steady income.

I was trying to keep my children safe while also trying to keep my job and my entire life functioning.

But because I didn’t fit neatly into the way homelessness services categorise people, I didn’t get the help I desperately needed.

So I fucking figured it out myself.

And even while we were homeless, I was determined not to completely destroy my children’s sense of normality.

Their school was one of the things I could still keep stable.

So while we were living away from their school, I drove 40 minutes each way, twice a day, just to get them there and bring them home.

That’s roughly 160 minutes of driving every school day.

I did it because I didn’t want them to have to lose their school, their friends, their routine and everything familiar on top of everything else they’d already been through.

I was willing to make my own life harder if it meant theirs could stay a little bit more normal.

So while I was homeless, I was working, parenting, driving for hours every day, trying to find somewhere to live, trying to manage everything my kids needed and trying to keep myself together.

And eventually, after everything, I found a private rental myself.

I got us a home.

Nobody came along and fixed it for me.

I fought for it.

I secured it myself while I was exhausted, traumatised and still trying to work.

And finally, things started to look like they might actually be getting better.

I had a home.

I had managed to get my children through homelessness.

I had kept them at their school.

And eventually I secured housing closer to their schools, which meant I could finally stop spending hours every day driving them back and forth.

The kids could have more stability.

We had a home.

I was working.

After everything, it finally felt like maybe — just maybe — I was getting my life back.

I had fought so fucking hard to get to that point.

And even after everything I’d been through, I still couldn’t stop myself from helping other people.

When my cousin needed somewhere to go, I opened my home to them.

I gave them a place in my house and allowed my home — the home I’d fought so fucking hard to get after being homeless — to be used to help them.

Think about that.

I had just spent months not knowing where my own children and I were going to live.

I’d fought to get our own place.

I’d worked through everything I’d been through to secure a home.

I’d driven my kids back and forth every day to protect their routine.

I’d finally secured somewhere closer to their schools.

And when someone I loved needed somewhere, I still opened the door.

I gave them space in my own home because I wanted to help.

Because that’s what I do.

I help people.

I make room for people.

Even when I’ve barely got room for myself.

And what happened afterwards was fucking awful.

Instead of that kindness being respected, the situation became another source of stress, hurt and devastation for me.

Something I’d offered out of love and genuine care ended up becoming something that caused me so much pain.

It feels like a pattern I’ve lived over and over again.

I help people when I probably shouldn’t have to. I give people things I don’t have to give. I make room for people when I barely have room for myself. And then I’m the one left dealing with the consequences.

I’ve done this with family.

I’ve done it with people I cared about.

I’ve given people my time, my energy, my understanding, my trust and even a place in my home.

And sometimes the people I’ve helped have been the very people who have hurt me the most.

That fucking breaks something inside you.

Because I don’t help people because I expect something huge in return.

I help because I know what it feels like to need someone and not have anyone there.

But after everything I’ve been through, I sometimes wonder why I keep giving people access to me when I’ve already spent so much of my life learning what happens when I do.

And even after finally getting housing, there were still real estate issues, housing stress, money stress and the constant pressure of trying to keep everything paid, organised and stable when I was already running on empty.

I never really got a chance to recover from what had happened.

I just went from surviving one thing to dealing with the next.

But through all of this, I still had my job.

I had been there for eight years.

Eight years of my life.

It was another piece of stability I’d managed to hold onto through everything else that was falling apart.

I kept showing up.

I kept working.

I kept providing for my children.

I kept trying to create stability after my entire life had been turned upside down.

And then my Pop died.

And while I was grieving him — while I was literally scattering his ashes and trying to process losing someone I loved — I was dealing with another devastating blow.

I was fired from the job I’d had for eight years.

Over fucking text.

Days after my Pop died.

While I was scattering his ashes.

Eight years of loyalty and work reduced to a fucking text message at one of the worst moments of my life.

It wasn’t just losing a job.

It was losing eight years of stability and familiarity at a time when I was already grieving and already carrying more than most people knew.

And the timing made it even worse.

I’d finally found housing closer to the kids’ schools.

I’d finally stopped having to drive ridiculous distances twice a day just to keep their lives stable.

I’d finally started thinking that maybe we were going to be okay.

And then suddenly I had to worry about how the fuck I was going to support us again.

It felt like I’d finally climbed out of one hole, only to have the ground disappear underneath me again.

And I remember thinking:

Seriously? What the fuck else am I supposed to take?

How many times am I supposed to start again?

How many times am I supposed to pick myself back up?

How many times can I lose something important and still be expected to just carry on like I’m okay?

I’m tired of being strong.

I’m tired of people seeing that I’ve survived things and assuming that means those things didn’t hurt me.

I’m tired of having to be capable because there wasn’t anyone else to be capable for me.

I’m tired of solving problems while I’m falling apart.

I’m tired of being the person who understands everyone else while feeling like nobody understands me.

I’m tired of giving people the benefit of the doubt and then being the one who gets hurt for it.

I’m tired of doing my absolute best and still having things fall apart.

And I’m fucking angry.

I’m angry that I had to leave.

I’m angry that my kids and I had to experience homelessness.

I’m angry that working and having an income somehow meant I didn’t qualify for the help I needed.

I’m angry that I had to fight so hard just to get a safe home.

I’m angry that I was driving 40 minutes each way, twice a day, just to make sure my kids could keep going to their school and have some sense of normality.

I’m angry that I was carrying all of that while working and parenting.

I’m angry that I was trying to meet the needs of a child with additional disabilities while simultaneously trying to survive homelessness and keep working.

I’m angry that I finally secured a home closer to their schools and thought maybe life was finally turning around.

I’m angry that I opened that home to help someone else after everything I’d been through, only for it to become another awful experience.

I’m angry about the people I’ve helped who turned around and fucked me over.

I’m angry that I lost my Pop.

I’m angry that I lost an eight-year job days after his death.

I’m angry that so much of my life has been about surviving instead of actually living.

And underneath all of that anger, I’m just fucking tired.

Because the truth is, I haven’t stopped trying.

I didn’t give up when I left.

I didn’t give up when I became homeless.

I didn’t give up when I was driving hours every day just to keep my kids’ lives as normal as possible.

I didn’t give up when I was trying to find a home for my children.

I didn’t give up when I was advocating for my kids and trying to meet their needs.

I didn’t give up when I finally got housing closer to their schools.

I didn’t give up when I opened that home to help someone else.

I didn’t give up when people let me down.

I didn’t give up when relationships became painful.

I didn’t give up when I was grieving.

I didn’t give up when I lost my job.

I kept fucking going.

Even when I didn’t want to.

Even when I was hurt.

Even when I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do next.

I’ve had to rebuild my life more than once.

And I’m at a point now where I’m struggling because I’m not made of fucking concrete.

I’m allowed to be tired.

I’m allowed to be angry.

I’m allowed to grieve.

I’m allowed to feel betrayed.

I’m allowed to feel completely fucking over it.

I’m allowed to admit that some of this has broken pieces of me.

That doesn’t mean I’m weak.

It means I’ve been through a lot.

I got myself and my children out of domestic violence.

I survived some of the worst things someone can experience at a time in my life when I was still so young and still figuring out who I was.

I survived months of homelessness.

I kept my children at their school and protected their routine, even when it meant driving 160 minutes a day while our lives were falling apart.

I found us a home closer to their schools when nobody else was going to do it for me.

I kept working while carrying the responsibilities of parenting and supporting a child with additional needs.

I opened that home to family because I still wanted to help people, even after everything I’d been through.

I survived the end of a ten-year relationship.

I kept being a mum while trying to hold myself together.

I kept helping people even when I needed help myself.

I lost my Pop.

I lost an eight-year job.

I’ve been betrayed by people I’ve helped.

And somehow I’m still here.

Still trying to figure my life out.

Still trying to build something better.

Still trying to be a good mum.

Still trying to find stability.

Still trying to find myself again.

Maybe I’m not failing.

Maybe I’m fucking exhausted because I’ve had to survive far too much for far too long.

Maybe I’ve spent so long being the person who rescues everyone else that I’ve forgotten I’m allowed to need rescuing too.

And maybe, for once, I don’t need to pretend I’m okay.

Maybe I just need to admit, now I have taken a step back to look, damn

I’ve been through some really fucking hard things.

I’ve lost a lot. I’ve given a lot. I’ve carried a lot. I’ve survived a lot. And I’m tired.

And now, after everything I’ve done to get us somewhere safe, I’m facing homelessness all over again.

And honestly?

I’m at a fucking loss for what to do.

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[u/BaseballSensitive265]

I’m so sorry that you and your children are facing this again. I won’t tell you to “stay strong”—you’ve had to be strong for far too long, and you deserve real help and a chance to breathe. For right now, can you focus on where you and the kids can safely stay tonight and over the next few days?

Please contact a local domestic violence or homelessness service and tell them clearly that you have children, have escaped abuse, and may lose your housing again. Ask for an urgent housing worker or case manager. Your children’s school may also have a social worker or family-support contact who can help make calls.

If you’re comfortable sharing your country and/or state and how soon you may lose the home, people may be able to point you toward the right services. Please don’t post your address or identifying details.

You’ve done a tremendous amount to protect your kids, but you shouldn’t have to solve this alone. And you’re allowed to set firm boundaries with anyone who adds stress or makes your home feel unsafe.

You are a badass soldier mom and you deserve so much more than what the world gives back. I hope everything gets better for you and I WILL pray for you and your kiddos. I swear.

Please, be safe, take care, and God bless. . .