Being a mother is no small feat. From early mornings and preparing meals for picky eaters to maintaining my composure when Play-Doh makes yet another appearance on the carpet, motherhood is filled with challenges. However, when I embarked on this parenting journey, I never anticipated that I would also have to contend with post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). And let me tell you, navigating motherhood while managing PTSD is a whole new level of difficulty.
Growing up, my childhood was marked by traumatic experiences, compounded by parents who struggled to provide the necessary support. At just 10 years old, I first contemplated suicide, and by the time I was nearing my 12th birthday, I began self-harming. I didn’t fully grasp the permanence of suicide; I simply felt a pain so overwhelming that life seemed unbearable. As a child, I felt trapped.
Help was elusive. Throughout my teenage years, I was haunted by the recurring memories of my past traumas, and more distressing events continued to accumulate well into my early twenties. By the time I had my second child, I made the difficult choice to undergo a tubal ligation, believing that my spiraling mental health was solely attributed to postpartum depression and anxiety rather than something more profound.
The two years following the birth of my youngest were a battle. Doctors insisted I was “just” dealing with depression, a trivialization of my struggle that only intensified my feelings of isolation. My husband, overwhelmed by the demands of caring for our two young daughters while juggling a physically demanding job, began to distance himself. My behavior became increasingly erratic, culminating on December 22, 2012, when a co-worker discovered my plan to end my life. An ambulance took me to the hospital, and in a moment of desperation, I called my husband, only to hear him say, “I can’t do this anymore. You’re on your own.” The call ended abruptly, leaving me feeling abandoned.
That night, I didn’t end up in a facility. After hours of waiting, the hospital staff conducted a brief evaluation and determined I wasn’t a threat, releasing me back to my mother’s care. I returned home on Christmas Eve, but the deep sorrow from that day still lingers. PTSD doesn’t simply bring flashbacks; it instills a pervasive fear of life itself and can even dull your capacity to remember joy.
I love my daughters immensely, yet I often struggle to connect with them. Even now, five years later, I find myself occasionally recoiling from their hugs and withdrawing in moments of affection. My mind knows they are my children, and I yearn for their love, but my subconscious reminds me of past experiences filled with pain and abuse.
I wish I could simply turn off these feelings, but so far, I’ve yet to find that switch. What I have discovered is that even when my mind struggles to comprehend love or accept affection, my heart still knows I deserve it. Some days, I can fully embrace the happiness that family and marriage bring; on others, I feel like a ship lost at sea, cracked and adrift.
I don’t expect my battle with PTSD to ever fully resolve, but I remain cautiously optimistic. I envision my children graduating, my husband gaining confidence, and the joyful moments that lie ahead. I see the potential for grandchildren, thriving daughters, and the warmth of shared memories. Today may be tough, but I hold on to the belief that tomorrow can be brighter.
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In summary, parenting with PTSD brings a unique set of challenges, but it is also filled with moments of hope and love. While the journey may be fraught with difficulties, the potential for joy and connection remains ever-present.