Motherhood

***Potential Trigger Warning: This post discusses personal struggles I have faced as a mother. Although the content is not what may typically fall under triggering material, I wanted to advise everyone before reading that this isn’t categorizing all Bipolar mother’s and if you have struggled with infertility this may not be the blog post for you. Please remember to be kind, as it took extreme amounts of vulnerability to even share.***

This piece isn’t a creatively constructed view of my mental illness. It isn’t going to have that visual I have created in the past of what it feels like in my head at times when I struggle with imposter syndrome, anxiety, panic attacks, mania, or depression.

This is raw, and it’s the post I never thought I would make. I type with trembling fingers because it’s still something I fear will get me judgment and hate. I know though, it needs to be written as it’s something I have spent days, weeks, months, agonizing over. Fighting an internal dialogue and offering myself reassurances. It’s time to just write it out and let the feelings flow forth with it.

I’m a mother. But I shouldn’t be.

The intense amount of pressure I place on myself to get through the day to day with my two young children is detrimental to my well-being. The amount of strength it takes me to refrain from yelling, to not shut down, or have an anxiety attack over simple things like spilled milk or scattered Legos often exceeds my capabilities. I quite often fail.

I have to walk away. I cry to myself in the bathroom because my kids don’t deserve my anger or my indifference. That is the line I find myself riding. When I am all in, it often results in maddening frustration. If I take a step back, I find myself completely absorbed in something else. The balance I seek out is like finding that needle in a haystack. It’s this tiny sliver I perch on and hope I don’t tumble to defeat.

I wanted to be a mother though. Or I thought I did…

My mom, my two grandmothers, my aunts, they are all these amazing women and were great idols. I looked up to them, and I wanted to emulate them. Especially my grandmothers. Between the two of them they had nine children. My Grammy was the sweetest lady you could ever meet, that typical grandma. She offered an abundance of love, support, and wise words. There was always something cooking in her kitchen, and even if there wasn’t she would make a meal at any time of the day. The family saying is “Grammy’s kitchen is never closed.”

My “Little Grandma” as I called her, she was a little rougher around the edges. She had a quick wit and sharp tongue. She was truly one of my favorite people. She also would have a full breakfast made for all of her kids before school. Beds made, house clean, and dinner ready when they got home. I’d sit with her in her tiny kitchen, with yellowed papered walls, and she’d listen to me. For hours. She always made you feel like everything you had to say was worth hearing.

Why wouldn’t I want to be like them?

I used to want five kids. I wanted that big family, and all of the things.

At twenty-two, I went through a change, we know now it was most likely a manic episode. I challenged myself on the things I wanted in life, I looked deep inside and I was faced with that stark realization… I don’t think I want children. There were many reasons why. But the conclusion was the same, I might just not be cut out to be a mother.

But my husband, he was meant to be a father. He is truly everything you would want in a parent. He is loving, doting, and fun. He is often out of the house for 10-12 hours of the day busting his ass for our family. And yet he never fails to chase the kids around the house, bust out the Beast Wars action figures, or create some fun game like dinosaur monsters, that I still don’t understand the rules to.

He's the reason I have my children. I didn’t do it for him. That isn’t what I’m saying. After my period of mania subsided, and my now husband and I found our way back to one another, well that voice of doubt faded away, and was replaced by the voice that reminded me of all the reasons I wanted children. I would watch my husband dance at Christmas with my cousin’s kids, I watched his face light up around babies, and I just knew, he was meant to be a father and we would have children.

I have two beautiful, healthy kids. I was high-risk. The anti-bodies I have that cause my Lupus can cause heart block and neo-natal Lupus in the fetus. I had to do weekly ultrasounds. I had to monitor with extreme care. With my son, I began to have extreme pain in my SI joints. My pregnancy with him led to my diagnosis of Ankylosing Spondylitis. My SI joints already have visible erosion, and it’s something that I will deal with the rest of my life.

With each of them I struggled with almost twelve months of Post-Partum Depression. I can’t recall the names of all the medications we tried that never worked. I didn’t sleep, I had psychosis. The intrusive thoughts were absolutely unbearable. I lived in constant fear that my kids were going to die, or I would, and then who would take care of them and my husband. It’s a terrifying experience.

And yet still, I wasn’t ready to say I was done.

Until I had another awakening. Until my Bipolar Disorder manifested once more, and this time, it couldn’t be ignored. It couldn’t be passed off as just a twenty-two year old living a wild and thrilling life. I woke up one day and just knew I was done having children.

I came to this decision after I started writing again. It was once I started to find my former self, the one that I had been missing for so many years. I found my creativity; I found a drive. A passion for life that had dimmed over the years. Many might read this and think, is that just the mania, is it the Bipolar Disorder making you feel this way?

No. Not really. Or maybe. Unless you have lived with the thoughts, unless you have really researched the illness, it’s hard to explain, but I’ll try my best. No, I am not my disease, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t a part of me. It doesn’t mean it doesn’t effect my brain on a chemical level, and entangle itself into my personality, weaving intricately into my being. It does make up a part of me. The gray matter of my brain is different. I’m okay with this.

I have a plan. I am on a medication that is working for me. I have become stable. I still don’t want more kids. And I am still faced with the realization that if I had not married my husband I wouldn’t have had them. He and I had a very serious discussion earlier this year and I told him that. He said he disagreed. He’s wrong. I know I wouldn’t have. The only argument I could say against it, is if I somehow found someone exactly like him, then maybe, maybe I would have considered it.

If I had ended up with anyone else, no. I could only have my kids because of the amazing support my husband offers me, and because of how much he does for our children. Otherwise I would crack far more often than I already do. I still have those slips where I yell, or breakdown. I’m working on it. I have learned to let certain things go, and to just breath through those moments when I absolutely lose my shit. I always have to remind myself that we have good days too. Where I play with them for hours, I build fort after fort, I work with them on their letters and numbers. I’m far from perfect (which I don’t strive to be) but we are getting closer to that fine line of balance.

I love my kids. I love them with every part of my being. I sit here in tears, as I have cried through most of this post. I am truly blessed and I know this. I know so many women struggle to have children of their own. So many deal with hurdle after hurdle to adopt. Hitting road blocks or red tape. Many will think I am selfish for feeling the way I do. But it’s my truth.

I’m coping with it. I’m writing it down. I’m letting some of it go. I may get to a place one day where I no longer feel this way. I wasn't meant to be a mom, but I am one. I am one trying her fucking hardest to give her kids a good life. I will fight to be better. I will always be there for them. I know I’m not a bad mom, just a different one. At the end of the day, I still show up. I always will and I think that counts for something.

Reposted from December 7th, 2023

~ Accompanying photo by Pixabay found on Pexels ~