Have you ever contemplated how your children will reflect on you as they grow older? When the seemingly endless days of refereeing sibling disputes and denying yet another snack fade into the past? When the fleeting hours of solitude between their bedtime and yours stretch out without the urgency of needing to cherish them?
I often do. I envision my two sons as adults, reminiscing about their childhood with their own unique perspectives, much like the way my siblings and I do. I imagine them as grown men, still chuckling over petty arguments from years ago, able to laugh at situations where there was no clear “winner.” They won’t be stomping off to their rooms, which they shared out of necessity, as a single mother, I could only afford two bedrooms instead of three.
But during particularly challenging days, weeks, or even months, I sometimes find myself questioning—will they remember me as a sad mother?
Throughout my life, I’ve battled depression. The moment I discovered I was pregnant eight years ago, my mental health struggles intensified, inflating like a balloon that no pin could deflate. I recall times when I felt suffocated, and the thought of experiencing that again quickens my heart and leaves my mind racing with anxiety. I dread the possibility that the next time could be the moment I question whether it’s worth getting back up.
Some weeks are brighter than others, and I strive to cherish those moments, just as I do now. I’ve reached out to family and friends, as we’re advised to do, but I often find myself frustrated by their lack of understanding. After six days of persistent messages from my mom asking if I was okay and my insistent replies of “I’m fine,” I finally confessed, “No, I’m not okay. I’m sitting in my car, crying because it’s been three weeks and I can’t remember the last time I felt normal.”
While my mother’s intentions were good, she struggled to grasp the reality of clinical depression. She suggested coming over or asked how she could help, not realizing that the struggle doesn’t just vanish like a bad day. When the darkness lifts, it often comes with the weight of all the mistakes made during those bleak times, creating an overwhelming burden to rise again.
Yet, knowing that someone cares, even if they don’t fully understand, is comforting. When I explained that overcoming this is not simply a matter of willpower, she began to comprehend.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed, don’t hesitate to voice your feelings. I was once the person who masked my struggles with humor, making light of how my children drove me “crazy,” and joking that I needed wine or a live-in nanny. What I truly required was the bravery to express my true feelings and the intensity of my struggles.
I fear that my battle with depression has left a negative mark on my children. Did I ever have control over their memories? Probably not. I worry that my eight-year-old may connect the dots as he matures, realizing that the naps I took were often a retreat from reality rather than a result of being overworked. I’m concerned he might remember the worry on my face during challenging times, such as when I faced a tough move alone and my depression manifested as anger.
As mothers, what do we do when we feel too broken to seek help yet are on the verge of shattering? Scared to become the parent our kids need? Don’t wait until you’re at the point of wishing to be asleep rather than awake. Talk to someone about your feelings; they will likely encourage self-care, which can feel impossible at times. But allow them the chance to listen, and give yourself the opportunity to share and heal.
If I could turn back time, I would temper my negative outlook and my facade of strength and instead share my true feelings of exhaustion, frustration, and isolation. If you still have the chance, seize it—talk to someone, visit a doctor, join a support group, or explore a passion that reconnects you to your former self while embracing the new identity as a mother.
Despite my struggles with depression these past eight years, I hope I concealed it well from my children. I believe they will cherish the joyful memories we created and the traditions we established. They will learn about depression not just through its definition, but through my experiences, as I spoke openly about it. I hope that my courage to confront the darkness painted a more beautiful picture of me in their eyes as they grow. My motivation and reason have always been them. I hope they see me as more than just a sad mom; I hope they see a happy mom.
For more insights on navigating motherhood and mental health, consider exploring our related posts, including this link about understanding your journey.
Summary:
This article reflects on the author’s concerns about how her children will remember her amid her struggles with depression. It emphasizes the importance of expressing feelings, seeking help, and the impact of mental health on family dynamics. The author hopes to be remembered for the joyful moments rather than her struggles and encourages others to reach out for support.