As I prepared for a long weekend getaway, I had no idea I was slipping into a depressive episode. In the midst of the chaos and excitement of packing, I failed to keep track of my emotions. It should have been obvious that something was off.
I found myself snapping at my children, feeling like nothing they did was right. Almost immediately, a wave of guilt washed over me, leaving me in tears: would this be their lasting memory of me? I felt an overwhelming sense of nostalgia for them, even as they stood right in front of me. I still have those photos, taken in our kitchen just before my five-thirty departure to the airport. My youngest, in a bright triceratops hoodie, beams with joy. My middle child, dressed in black, offers a shy smile, while my oldest holds my water bottle, grinning ear to ear. I cried over those pictures in the airport, realizing how they managed to smile while I was falling apart.
The fact that my kids can still muster genuine happiness while I cry is a testament to how often it happens. To them, it’s just “Mom being Mom,” and crying is simply part of the landscape. I’ve managed to convince them of that at least. You see, I live with bipolar disorder, previously referred to as manic depression.
When I’m in the throes of a downward spiral, I might weep in frustration when my youngest wails incessantly. Perhaps I’ll cry if lunch doesn’t go as planned or if I can’t decide what to wear. Sometimes, I find myself shedding tears over a groundbreaking moment, like seeing a black girl play Meg in A Wrinkle in Time at Target. Those moments signal that I’m slipping.
Our family openly discusses my illness. We talk about my tears—how they stem from being unwell—and about the medication I take, which doesn’t always completely help, leading to those tearful moments. We reassure the kids that crying is a normal part of life, and it doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with me.
I shield my children from the darkest sides of my bipolar episodes. I hold it together with sheer determination and a bit of Octonauts until my husband comes home, after which I retreat to our room, sobbing. During this time, the kids may watch more TV than usual while he comforts me, rubbing my back as I voice my feelings of worthlessness. Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and I fall asleep, waking up feeling a bit better. In the depths of despair, thoughts of suicide may creep in, but my children’s faces always pull me back from the edge.
Then Come the Manic Phases
During these times, crafts become our daily ritual. I transform into a Pinterest aficionado, guiding my kids through projects like model hearts and gold lamé thunderbolts representing Zeus—all within a couple of days! Our mornings are filled with homeschooling, while afternoons are packed with outings—parks, stores, friends’ houses—you name it.
However, mania has its shadows. I often find myself overspending online or at stores. This behavior doesn’t directly affect my kids, but it does teach them that sometimes we buy things we don’t need—like random Valentine’s Day decorations or unicorn window clings. Yet, when we return from these adventures, I sometimes leave the kids to fend for themselves under the guise of encouraging free play. In reality, I become consumed with sewing projects, often not resurfacing until bedtime.
In these manic episodes, I can be fun and energetic around my children. I’m bubbly and engaged, reading silly books and enjoying whipped cream antics. Our house may not be tidy, but they’re happy and blissfully unaware of my tears over the latest novel.
I rely heavily on medication. My bathroom is essentially a mini-pharmacy. Along with treatments for physical ailments, I take medications for general depression, anxiety, ADHD, and a small dose of an atypical antipsychotic, plus the classic bipolar treatment—lithium. It wasn’t until I started lithium at 33 that I experienced a sense of stability for the first time. Before that, I was on a constant emotional rollercoaster, often appearing depressed when, in fact, I was cycling through manic episodes.
Maintaining this balance involves frequent doctor visits. I usually schedule them around my husband’s work hours so we can juggle the kids seamlessly. They often grumble about these appointments, but we explain that it’s essential for their mom’s happiness and well-being. The same narrative goes for our trips to the pharmacy: “The medicine keeps Mom from getting sick,” my husband reassures them.
This is how we frame it: I am unwell. I am chronically unwell. I am not crazy or bad, nor am I overly emotional. Sure, I might cry from time to time, but it’s nothing I can control.
Some days are tough, managing three kids while battling the monster in my mind. I reach out to friends, call my husband, or turn on the TV for a little reprieve—we often listen to Hamilton together.
However, most days, I’m okay. A friend recently remarked, “I didn’t know you had bipolar disorder.” This is largely due to how my manic highs often come off as enthusiasm, while I keep my lows hidden from most people. My kids, bless them, see both sides. They’ve learned to cope, which I hate more than anything. I wish they didn’t have to adapt to my emotional landscape, but it has also instilled in them a sense of compassion. While it’s a difficult trade-off, perhaps it’s not entirely in vain.
In summary, being a mother with bipolar disorder is a complex journey filled with highs and lows, challenges and moments of joy. My kids witness both sides, and while I wish they didn’t have to endure this, I hope it ultimately teaches them empathy.
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Keyphrase: bipolar disorder and motherhood
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