Parenting
From a young age, I envisioned myself as a mother, crafting detailed plans for my future children, complete with names and nursery themes. However, I never anticipated the challenges that would come my way, including battling multiple mental health issues. It wasn’t until I reached the age of 30 that I fully recognized the struggles I faced.
At that time, I was married with three children and thriving in my dream job as a behavior therapist. Yet, I was blissfully unaware of the turmoil brewing beneath the surface. Then everything changed when I experienced a manic episode in June 2015, resulting in the loss of my career and the abrupt halt of my education.
I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, borderline personality disorder, and generalized anxiety disorder. My life quickly evolved into a cycle of medication trials, therapy sessions, and attempts at self-care. As my mental health issues intensified, I found myself grappling with paranoia, severe depression, anxiety, panic attacks, and emetophobia (a fear of vomiting). I became confined to my bedroom and often found myself in and out of hospitals. My children witnessed my struggles firsthand, asking why I was gone and being told that I was receiving medical care for my brain. They created heartfelt cards and drawings for me, yet they saw the heartbreaking reality of my decline.
Mental health challenges run deep in my family history, with my great-grandmother raising her siblings due to her mother’s severe depression. This pattern of mental illness and familial resentment persisted through generations. Just as my ancestors struggled, I was now facing the same fight, feeling the weight of responsibility for my children while battling my own demons.
About a year ago, my ex-husband reached out with a proposition. Our daughters had expressed interest in attending a private school near his home. After much contemplation, I made the difficult decision to transition from having them 70% of the time to only 30%. This meant they would now stay with me on weekends instead of living with me during the week.
I understood that this choice would mean sacrificing many moments of their childhood—homework sessions, comforting them during illnesses, and being present for significant milestones. I recognized that they had already seen too much: my breakdowns, my trips to crisis centers, and my struggles with anxiety and depression. I wanted more for them than what I could provide.
Throughout my parenting journey, I had earnestly attempted to engage in their lives, even taking on the role of a Girl Scouts troop leader, which ultimately led to my own burnout. I yearned for them to enjoy the stable and fulfilling childhood I had experienced, filled with activities, friendships, and security. Yet I realized that I was unable to offer the stability they needed, and instead, I was exposing them to my own turmoil.
When the opportunity arose to allow them to live with their father, I reflected on their best interests. They were academically capable and would thrive in any environment. Weekend visits would allow for family outings and quality time together. However, my primary concern remained their well-being and my mental health.
As my daughters continue to grow and become more aware, I worry about the impact of my struggles on them. I fear repeating the cycle of neglect seen in my family’s history. I want to break that pattern, but the fear of failing them looms large.
It has been nearly a year since our change in living arrangements. Some days, I feel grateful for the time to focus on therapy and my own mental health, allowing me to be a better parent. Yet, there are nights I find myself crawling into their beds, overwhelmed with sadness and questioning my decision. I aim to attend every important event in their lives, send them pictures, and create a scrapbook of memories, hoping to keep our bond strong even with the distance.
Ultimately, I made this choice for my daughters. I hope they can forgive me one day and understand that I was doing my best, balancing my health and my love for them. In the end, it’s the small moments—baking cakes, sharing couch cuddles, and enjoying pizza nights—that I hope will sustain our relationship.
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Summary
The author reflects on her decision to let her daughters live with their father due to her struggles with mental illness. Despite the emotional toll, she believes it’s in their best interest to provide them with a stable environment. Throughout her journey, she grapples with feelings of guilt and sadness, striving to maintain a meaningful connection with her children.