As I prepared for a long weekend getaway, I was unaware that I was slipping into a depressive episode. Amid the chaos and excitement of packing, I neglected to check in on my mood. It wasn’t until I found myself snapping at my children that I recognized the signs. Almost immediately, regret washed over me; tears filled my eyes as I wondered, would this be how they remember me? I felt a wave of nostalgia for my children even as they stood right in front of me. I still have those photos I took in our kitchen before my five-thirty drive to the airport. My youngest, in a triceratops hoodie, beams at the camera while my middle child, dressed in black, holds back a smile. My oldest proudly grips my water bottle, a goofy grin plastered across his face. I couldn’t help but cry as I looked at those pictures at the airport.
That my kids could still smile amidst my tears speaks volumes about my emotional state. They’ve come to accept that sometimes, Mama just cries— it’s part of life with bipolar disorder, previously known as manic depression.
During my downward spirals, the smallest things can trigger tears. It could be the relentless cries of my youngest, a burnt lunch, or even the pressure of choosing an outfit. I might sob when I spot a representation of a black girl in A Wrinkle in Time at Target, feeling a mix of pride and sadness that my boys will only know her as a black character. These are all indicators that I am descending into a low phase.
We discuss my mental health frequently in our family. My children understand that when I cry, it’s because I’m unwell, and that my medications don’t always completely alleviate my struggles. They’ve learned that tears are normal and not something to fear.
I keep the more severe aspects of my mood swings hidden from them. I put on a brave face, engaging them with Octonauts until my husband arrives home. Then, I retreat to the bedroom for a good cry while he takes over parenting duties. The kids may get more screen time during these moments, but my husband is there to reassure them, while I lament my feelings of worthlessness. Eventually, exhaustion takes over, and I drift off to sleep, only to wake up feeling slightly better. When things get especially tough, thoughts of self-harm creep in, but my children’s faces always bring me back.
Then there are the manic phases.
During these times, creativity flows. We dive into numerous crafts; I transform into a Pinterest mom, guiding my kids in building models of the human heart, and crafting gold lamé thunderbolts for our Zeus project—all in just a couple of days. Our days are packed with structured homeschooling in the mornings, followed by outings to the park, Target, or a friend’s home in the afternoons.
However, mania has its darker side. I often indulge in impulsive shopping—splurging on unnecessary items like Valentine’s Day table runners or unicorn window clings. While this doesn’t directly impact my kids, it does show them that I often buy things we don’t need. Once we return home from our adventures, I might leave them to their own devices, using the guise of encouraging free play. I find myself absorbed in sewing projects instead. My husband steps into the parenting role as I become consumed by the fabric and thread, only breaking for dinner before returning to my craft until bedtime.
In these manic highs, I can be incredibly fun and engaged with my children. I read silly books, squirt whipped cream into their mouths, and encourage their explorations. Our home may not be spotless, but they laugh and play without witnessing their mother’s tears over a paperback.
I rely on a cocktail of medications to manage my condition. My bathroom cabinet resembles a small pharmacy, stocked with treatments for various ailments. I take medication for general depression, anxiety, ADHD, and a crucial dose of lithium, which has been a game-changer since I began taking it at 33. This has helped stabilize my life, allowing me to recognize warning signs of an impending low and adjust my medications as needed.
This ongoing process involves many doctor visits. I often schedule them around my husband’s work hours, ensuring he can assist with the kids while I attend. They sometimes grumble about these appointments, but we explain that they’re necessary for my well-being. “The medicine keeps Mama well,” my husband reassures them.
I frame my condition as chronic illness rather than weakness. I’m not “crazy” or “bad”—I’m just someone who experiences emotional turmoil, and sometimes tears are inevitable.
Some days are challenging, especially when I’m alone with three kids and the inner turmoil feels overwhelming. I reach out to friends, connect with my husband, or turn on the TV to find solace in the familiar tunes of Hamilton.
Yet, most days, I manage to keep my balance. A friend recently remarked, “I didn’t realize you had bipolar disorder.” This is often because my manic phases can simply appear as enthusiasm, while my lows are mostly hidden from the outside world. My children, however, see both sides, and I fear they’ve had to adapt too much. Yet, I hope this experience instills a sense of compassion in them. If nothing else, it’s been a trade—a difficult bargain, but maybe one that benefits them in the long run.
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Summary:
This article delves into the challenges and complexities of being a mother with bipolar disorder. The author shares personal experiences of navigating both low and manic phases while parenting, highlighting the importance of medication, communication with her children about her mental health, and the hope that these experiences will foster compassion in them.