As I prepared for a long weekend getaway, I was blissfully unaware that I was slipping into a depressive episode. The whirlwind of packing and organizing distracted me from monitoring my mood, and I should have caught the signs earlier.
I found myself snapping at my children; nothing they did seemed right. Almost immediately, guilt washed over me, leaving me in tears as I wondered how they would remember these moments. Standing in our kitchen, I took photos of them, all smiles, while I sobbed. My youngest sported a triceratops hoodie, my middle child was dressed in all black, and my eldest held my water bottle, grinning widely. I couldn’t help but weep over those pictures at the airport.
The fact that my kids could wear such genuine smiles while I cried is a testament to how often I experience these emotional storms. They’ve learned that it’s normal for Mama to cry; it’s just part of life with bipolar disorder, formerly known as manic depression.
During my low phases, I might cry from sheer frustration when my youngest is inconsolable or when the day spirals out of control because I burnt lunch. I even cry over seemingly trivial things, like seeing a black girl play Meg in A Wrinkle in Time—a moment I find groundbreaking for my sons.
We often discuss my illness as a family. We talk about why I cry and how my medication doesn’t always fully eliminate the tears. I do my best to shield my children from the darkest moments of my condition, holding it together until my husband returns home. When he arrives, I retreat to our bedroom to let the tears flow freely, while he takes over parenting duties. The kids might end up watching too much TV while I find comfort in his support, often feeling worthless and sobbing for hours until I finally drift off to sleep. On the worst days, I contemplate suicide, but thoughts of my children bring me back to reality.
Then there are the manic episodes.
In those high moments, crafts become our focus. I dive into projects with my kids, who create amazing things like models of the human heart and shimmering gold lamé thunderbolts representing Zeus—all in just two days. Our homeschooling schedule is packed, with outings to parks or friends’ houses in the afternoons.
However, there’s a shadow side to these manic phases. I tend to overspend on unnecessary items, which my kids notice, but the impact is minimal. After our adventurous days, I sometimes leave them to their own devices, claiming it promotes free play. In truth, I often lose myself in sewing. When my husband comes home, he takes charge while I continue sewing until bedtime with only a brief pause for dinner.
During these high-energy periods, I can be the fun mom—bubbly and full of life. I read silly books and engage in their creative projects, ensuring they experience joy, even if our home is a bit chaotic. They don’t see me cry over a paperback book during these times.
I am on medication, with my bathroom cabinet resembling a small pharmacy. It contains treatments for various conditions: medications for depression, anxiety, ADHD, an atypical antipsychotic, and the cornerstone of my bipolar treatment—lithium. This medication has stabilized my life since I began taking it at 33, curbing the cycling between manic highs and prolonged lows. Now, I can recognize the warning signs of an impending down phase and adjust my medications accordingly.
This journey involves numerous doctor visits, which I usually schedule for when my husband can join me. He helps manage the kids during these appointments, and we explain to them that my visits are necessary for my well-being. Our trips to the pharmacy are framed in the same way: “The medicine keeps Mama from getting sick,” he reassures them.
This is how we approach my condition. I am unwell, but not unworthy. Mama isn’t crazy or wrong for feeling emotional. My kids understand that my tears are simply a part of my illness.
Some days, it can be overwhelming, especially when I’m alone with three children and the inner turmoil is intense. I reach out to friends or my husband, or I turn on the TV—often choosing Hamilton for a familiar distraction. But most days, I’m okay. A friend once remarked, “I didn’t know you had bipolar disorder.” This is because my manic episodes often manifest as enthusiasm, while I keep my lows hidden from most people. My children, bless them, see both sides, and although I despise that they’ve had to adapt, I hope it has instilled in them a sense of compassion.
In the end, while this experience has undoubtedly taken some of their innocence, I believe it has also offered them valuable insights into empathy. Perhaps it’s a trade-off, albeit a challenging one.
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Summary
Navigating motherhood with bipolar disorder presents unique challenges and experiences. From moments of joy during manic phases to the struggles of depressive episodes, it’s a complex journey that impacts both the mother and her children. Open communication and understanding play crucial roles in managing the illness while fostering compassion in the family.