In the midst of preparing for a long weekend getaway, I failed to recognize the signs that I was slipping into a depressive phase. Caught up in the excitement, I neglected to monitor my emotional state. I was irritable with my children, finding fault in their every action. Almost instantly, guilt washed over me, leaving me teary-eyed as I questioned how they might remember me. I felt a bittersweet longing as I recalled moments with them, even as we stood together. Photos taken in our kitchen, where they beamed at me before my five-thirty departure, captured my tears: my three-year-old, dressed in a dinosaur hoodie, grinning broadly; my five-year-old barely smiling in a black outfit; and my seven-year-old holding my water bottle, grinning widely. Those images brought me to tears again at the airport.
The fact that my kids could still smile while I was overwhelmed with emotion highlights just how frequently I cry. They have come to understand that this is simply a part of who “Mama” is; sometimes, I cry a lot. It’s an accepted aspect of our lives, shaped by my diagnosis of bipolar disorder, previously known as manic depression.
During low phases, I might find myself in tears over the smallest frustrations, like my youngest crying non-stop or a meal gone awry. I might cry while choosing an outfit or when I experience a moment of nostalgia, such as seeing a black actress play Meg in A Wrinkle in Time, which is groundbreaking for my boys.
Our family openly discusses my illness. We talk about why I cry—because I’m unwell—and how I rely on medication that doesn’t always completely alleviate my symptoms. I emphasize to my kids that tears are normal and harmless.
I try to shield my children from the depths of my depressive episodes. I manage to hold it together while they are awake, often resorting to children’s shows until my partner returns home. Then, I retreat to our room, where I can sob openly, feeling worthless as my husband comforts me. They may watch more TV than usual during these times, but it’s a necessary compromise for my mental health. Eventually, I find rest, and when I wake, things often feel more manageable. However, during the darkest moments, thoughts of self-harm can surface, but my children always bring me back to reality.
Conversely, my manic episodes are filled with energy and creativity. I become an enthusiastic Pinterest mom, engaging in numerous crafts with my kids. In just a couple of days, we create models of the human heart and gold thunderbolts to represent Zeus. Our schedule is filled with homeschooling in the mornings and outings in the afternoons, whether it’s at the park, shopping, or visiting friends.
Yet, mania has its own lurking dangers. I tend to overspend during these phases, bringing home unnecessary items that don’t impact the children directly but do show them that I can make impulsive choices. Upon returning from our adventures, I often disengage from my kids to focus on sewing projects, leaving them to entertain themselves. My husband takes on more parenting duties while I sew through the evening, often until bedtime.
During these high-energy periods, I’m very present with my children, full of joy and laughter. I read silly books, play games, and engage in their creative projects. While our home may be messy, their happiness remains my priority, and they don’t witness the tears that sometimes accompany my lows.
I rely heavily on medication to stabilize my mood. My bathroom cabinet resembles a mini-pharmacy, stocked with medications for various physical and mental health conditions. After beginning lithium treatment at 33, my life finally evened out. Before that, I cycled rapidly between short manic episodes and prolonged depressive lows. Now, my family knows how to recognize the signs of a downturn and can adjust my medications accordingly.
Managing my mental health requires numerous doctor’s appointments, which I often coordinate around my husband’s schedule. He typically meets me at the doctor’s office to help manage the kids while I attend appointments. They may not enjoy these outings, but we frame them positively: “Mama needs the doctor to feel good and happy.” We explain that “the medicine keeps Mama from getting sick,” emphasizing the importance of treatment.
We normalize my condition within our family. I am unwell, but I am not crazy or flawed; I just experience emotions differently. I may cry, but it’s a part of my journey that I can’t always control.
Some days, managing three kids while battling a mental health storm can be overwhelming. I reach out to friends, call my husband, or turn on the TV for a bit of relief. We often listen to music together, like the Hamilton soundtrack.
Most days, however, I feel stable. A friend recently remarked, “I didn’t know you had bipolar disorder.” This is largely due to my manic highs being perceived as enthusiasm and my lows being hidden from view. My children see the real me, and while I wish they didn’t have to adapt to my condition, I hope they learn compassion from this experience. It may have stripped away some of their innocence, but it has also imparted valuable lessons about empathy. This trade-off isn’t ideal, but perhaps it has its merits.
This article was originally published on Jan. 20, 2018.
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Summary:
The journey of motherhood can be particularly challenging for those with bipolar disorder. Balancing emotional highs and lows while raising children requires open communication and support. By discussing the illness with family and normalizing the experience, mothers can foster understanding and compassion in their children. The importance of medication and consistent mental health care is crucial in maintaining stability. Ultimately, while the journey is fraught with challenges, it also offers opportunities for profound connection and growth.