Throughout my life, being a mother was a dream I held close to my heart. I envisioned their names, the decor for their nurseries, and even the timeline for starting a family. However, I never anticipated the impact that mental illness would have on my journey. It wasn’t until I turned 30 that I began to understand the depth of my struggles.
At that time, I had three children and was happily married, working as a behavior therapist—my dream job. Yet, beneath the surface, I was oblivious to the turmoil brewing within me. Then came June 2015, a turning point marked by a manic episode that cost me my career and halted my education indefinitely. I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and generalized anxiety disorder. My life turned into a relentless cycle of medication trials, therapy, and coping strategies. As my mental health declined, I battled worsening paranoia, escalating depression, crippling anxiety, and a phobia of vomiting (emetophobia). I found myself frequently hospitalized, isolated in my bedroom, and struggling to function.
During this time, my children watched helplessly. When they inquired about my hospital stays, I explained that I was receiving care for my brain. I described the sadness I felt without reason and how everyday situations could induce fear. They made me cards and drawings, but they also witnessed my gradual disintegration.
Mental illness runs in my family—my great-grandmother had to care for her siblings due to her mother’s severe depression. This pattern of struggle has persisted through generations. As my family members faced similar battles, they often became unable to provide the love and stability their children needed. I didn’t want to repeat this cycle.
About a year ago, my ex-husband reached out. Our daughters hoped to attend a private school near his home, something we had discussed in the past. After much contemplation, I made the difficult decision to transition from having them 70% of the time to just 30%. They would now stay with me on weekends rather than during the week.
I recognized this meant sacrificing a significant portion of their childhood. I would miss out on homework help and everyday moments that shape their lives. However, I also understood the toll my illness had taken on them. They had seen me at my lowest, had witnessed my struggles, and I was concerned about the impact of my episodes on their development.
Despite my determination to be an involved parent, my mental health made it increasingly challenging. I tried to engage in activities like Girl Scouts, but my struggles led to burnout and neglect of my responsibilities. I wanted my children to enjoy the upbringing I had, filled with security, friends, and stability. Sadly, I realized I was unable to provide that.
When the opportunity arose for their schooling, I prioritized their needs over my own feelings of loss. They were good students, adaptable, and I knew they would thrive in a supportive environment. Attending school near their father would allow for family excursions and create a more relaxed atmosphere during the weekends.
As they grow, I worry about the lasting impressions my struggles will leave on them. I often feel like I am repeating the patterns of my ancestors, with my daughters potentially facing similar challenges. I fear that one day they might have to take care of each other in ways that echo my family history.
It has been nearly a year since we altered our schedule. On good days, I’m grateful for the time to focus on my own well-being through therapy and support groups. However, there are also nights when I crawl into their empty beds and cry, questioning my choices and wondering if I am doing enough for them.
I strive to attend their events and remain connected through shared memories, sending them pictures and creating scrapbooks for them to cherish. I hope that the love I can offer, even if limited to phone calls and shared moments, will be enough.
Ultimately, I made this decision for their sake—to provide them with a better chance at a happy and stable childhood.
Summary
In this reflective piece, a mother shares her journey of navigating mental illness while raising her daughters. After experiencing a significant decline in her mental health, she ultimately decides to let her children live with their father to provide them with a more stable environment. This decision, though heart-wrenching, is rooted in her desire for their well-being and happiness, showcasing the complexities of parenting when faced with personal challenges.
Keyphrase: Why I Let My Daughters Live with Their Dad
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