Updated: Sept. 28, 2020
Originally Published: Dec. 28, 2017
What I wished for this Christmas was simple: I just wanted my son to be okay.
In years past, when my husband and kids would ask what I wanted for the holidays, my responses were lighthearted: “a day without sibling squabbles” or maybe just “nothing at all.” Occasionally, I’d mention running low on lotion if I felt generous enough to give them a shopping list. We’ve typically had what we needed—though life has had its ups and downs, we’ve never been wealthy, but we’ve managed to be alright. I can’t recall ever having specific desires.
This year, however, my focus has shifted entirely. My deepest wish is for my oldest son to be okay. While happy and healthy would be wonderful, I’d settle for just okay. Anything that spares him from pain, sadness, or depression.
For the past year, I’ve navigated the challenging journey of being a mother to a teenager struggling with depression. It’s a profoundly isolating and frightening experience that I wouldn’t wish on anyone. My worries for my son consume me. The strain has pushed my husband and me further apart, and as we grapple with the need for constant vigilance to prevent self-harm, I find myself spending less time with friends. With added scrutiny from my mother, I’ve isolated myself from every potential support system during this terrifying chapter of my life.
This overwhelming solitude has motivated me to share my story, hoping to connect with other mothers who might be feeling the same way. A decade ago, I experienced a miscarriage, a topic that was seldom discussed at the time. Mentioning it was often frowned upon unless you were past the dreaded 13-week mark. I lacked the support that is now becoming more prevalent, where society is beginning to embrace and comfort those who have lost unborn children. I believe that love could have helped me in my time of grief, and I want to extend that love to another group of mothers who are in pain.
To all the mothers out there whose children are battling mental illness, I want you to know that I see you. I feel your anguish and wish I could ease your burden. You are not alone in this fight. I was there with you, crying on the commute to work when the adrenaline faded after focusing on keeping your child alive.
I stood with you when you examined your child’s arms, which looked more like a lattice than skin. I was right there as you stashed away over-the-counter medications and household scissors, and when you declined invitations from friends just to keep a closer watch at home. I understand how it feels to transform into the overprotective parent you never intended to be.
I shared the distress of having strangers return your child home late at night after they wandered off for a walk without a phone or coat, knocking on doors for help.
In the past year, I’ve shed more tears over my son’s depression than I thought possible. I’d do anything to change his situation. We’ve seen therapists, started medication, adjusted sleep patterns, and I’ve advocated with his teachers, all while trying to keep communication open. Yet at times, it feels like we’re worse off than a year ago.
But amidst all the chaos, I got my wish this Christmas. My son was okay. We shared laughter while watching TV on Christmas Eve, and he engaged with family during the holiday gatherings. We even went to see a movie together, and he found joy in it. When we reminisced about favorite holiday memories, he had one to share.
Although we’re still not “happy and healthy,” and I’ve cried while writing this, my son is doing better—at least for now. He is with me, and that is enough.
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In summary, navigating the struggles of a child’s mental health can be a lonely road, but sharing our stories can foster connection and support.
Keyphrase: “support for mothers of children with depression”
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