From a young age, I envisioned myself as a mother. I had it all mapped out: names, nursery designs, and even a timeline for when I wanted to welcome my children into the world. However, I never anticipated the challenges that would arise from struggling with multiple mental health issues. It took me until I was 30 to realize that there was a significant problem.
At that time, I was a mother of three, happily married, and working as a behavior therapist—my dream job. Yet, despite this seemingly perfect life, I was entirely oblivious to the turmoil brewing around me. Then, in June 2015, a manic episode turned my life upside down; I lost my job and my educational pursuits were halted indefinitely.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and generalized anxiety disorder. My life spiraled into a cycle of medication trials, therapy sessions, self-care attempts, and grappling with my symptoms. As I struggled with the resurfacing chaos of my mental illness, my paranoia intensified, and my depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and even my phobia of vomiting (emetophobia) became overwhelming. My hospital visits became frequent, and I often found myself confined to my bedroom, feeling like a shadow of my former self.
My daughters witnessed my decline. When they inquired about my hospital stays, I told them I was being looked after by doctors and that I had a problem with my brain. I tried to explain the deep sadness that sometimes had no clear cause, and the fears that would overwhelm me. They created handmade cards and colorful drawings for me, but they also saw my struggles; they watched me fall apart and lose my desire to live.
Mental illness runs in my family. My great-grandmother had to raise her siblings due to her mother’s severe depression, which often left her bedridden. This pattern of mental illness created a cycle of resentment and anger within the family. The oldest child often took on the role of caregiver, which led to complicated and strained relationships over the years. My grandmother’s memories of her mother are clouded by stories of depression and anorexia.
About a year ago, my ex-husband reached out with a request. Our daughters were hesitant to ask, but they expressed interest in a private school in his town—a topic we had discussed before. After some reflection and nine months of deliberation, I made the difficult decision to allow them to move in with him. This meant I would go from having them 70% of the time to just 30%. Previously, they lived with me Monday through Friday; now, I would see them only on weekends.
I understood that this decision would mean sacrificing a significant portion of their childhood. I would miss out on countless everyday moments, like helping with homework on Tuesday nights or being there for their first period. I was aware of the many milestones I would not witness.
Yet, I also recognized the toll my mental illness had taken on them. They’d seen me break down, struggle with panic attacks, and visit crisis centers too often. They watched me grapple with my own emotions, and I didn’t want them to repeat the cycle of neglect my family had experienced. I wanted my daughters to have the safe, nurturing childhood I had, filled with activities, friends, and the presence of a stable parent. Unfortunately, I had become someone who could barely get out of bed.
When the offer for them to switch schools came, I focused on what was best for my daughters. They wanted to attend this school, and I knew they were bright enough to thrive anywhere. Having them on the weekends would allow us more leisure time together, and I could still be present for holidays. But my primary concern was their well-being, along with my mental health.
As they grow older and become more perceptive, I realize they will notice the nuances of my struggles. I worried that they would see me falter and suffer, repeating the patterns of my ancestors. The fear that one day they might have to care for each other in the way I once did for my siblings weighed heavily on me.
Now, nearly a year into this new arrangement, I have mixed feelings. Some days, I appreciate the time I have to focus on my mental health, attend therapy, and engage in support groups. This time allows me to work on becoming a better parent. Yet, there are also nights when I crawl into their beds, sobbing until my eyes hurt, questioning my choices. I find myself caught in a cycle of wanting to shield them from my struggles while also striving to maintain a loving relationship.
Though my anxiety sometimes keeps me at home, I make it a point to attend their events and celebrate their achievements. We share pictures and I’m compiling a scrapbook of our memories to keep at their father’s house.
I may never fully reconcile my decision, and I will always carry a sense of turmoil regarding my daughters and the choices I made. I hope that as they grow, they can forgive me and remember our moments together, including baking cakes and cozying up for movie nights.
Ultimately, I made this choice for them.
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Summary:
In this heartfelt piece, Emily Carter shares her journey of motherhood intertwined with her struggles with mental illness. After recognizing that her condition affected her daughters’ well-being, she made the difficult choice to allow them to live with their father and attend a new school. This decision, while painful, was made with their best interests in mind, as she sought to provide them with the stability they deserved. Throughout her narrative, Emily reflects on the complexities of motherhood, mental health, and the hope for forgiveness and understanding from her daughters as they grow.