I’ve spent a long time trying to identify why the *Jessica* thing has been so damned hard.

And this weekend I think I’ve cracked it.

Part of it is that it’s just so awful watching someone else play Mum to my children. Watching her step into the Me shaped hole in my family, and carry on, with so many of my ex-friends and ex-family barely batting an eyelid. Going to the same places. Doing the same things. In my place. Instead of me.

It hurts.

And I know intellectually she’s not their Mum and never will be etc etc, and that it’s great she’s nice to them. I KNOW. And it genuinely does make me happy that she makes them happy. But it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt.

Part of it is also watching him play the Dad he never was at home, for me. I begged him. Literally. To get off his phone, to join in, to put us first. And now he is. He’s a new man. Re-moulded. For her.

And that hurts too. Why couldn’t he do that for me? What’s wrong with me?

Part of it is that the kids don’t hold him to the same standards as they hold me. They love him unconditionally. I’m the boring everyday one. I put someone on the naughty step and get all the ‘I hate you’ ‘You’re the worst mummy ever’ ‘I don’t want to be part of this family’ stuff.

And I understand that it’s because I’m their safe space, that they can act out with me without consequences, that this is actually love in motion.

But it still hurts.

Part of it is the speed with which I was replaced (or crossover), the lack of consideration with which it was done (on Facebook), and lack of respect for the 20 years which had gone before. Like none of it mattered. Like my whole life meant nothing to him, or to her.

That hurts too. That waste. Of me.

Part of it, of course, is also that she was the age the Big Small is now when Dadonthenetheredge and I met. Her breasts are in the right place and I’m pretty sure she can trampoline without a pantyliner. 😉

Being replaced by a younger fully-functioning model has hurt women since caveman times.

But most of it, I realise, is actually about me.

And my fear that when it comes down to it, MY CHILDREN WILL LIKE HER BETTER THAN THEY LIKE ME.

There. I said it.

And it hurts.

Intellectually, again, I know this insecurity comes from years of being told that I’m not enough. Or too much. Both at the same time.

Not ambitious enough, too intense, too lazy, too controlling, not good enough, not stable, not coping, too emotional, too stupid, not able to understand. And more. So much more I still can’t think about it too hard too often.

And I got so stuck in the middle of that, second guessing myself, losing my instincts, my sense of self, of right and wrong. And I’m still struggling to put that right now I’m out of that situation.

The dark voice in my head is still not my own. It’s his. Even now.

The fear is still here. Right in my gut. That he’s right. That I’m not enough. That I am too much. That I always will be.

But every day I am better. I am surer. I am more connected to myself. And I am more connected to my children as a result.

Everyday, I hurt slightly less.

I am enough.

I am enough.

I am enough.

And so are you.