Parenting with a Mental Illness

When my kids frustrate me and I lose my temper, I often have thoughts like “I hate you so much right now. I wish you were someone else’s problem.” Some weeks I want as little to do with my kids as possible. I don’t want to look at them. I don’t want to listen to them. I don’t even want to hear about what charming little things they did.

To put it bluntly, I don’t want to be a mom. I admit, some days aren’t so bad. But raising my own kids feels like a punishment rather than an adventure. I feel like Sisyphus – I wake up, do my best, only to make a mistake and watch all my progress roll back down the metaphorical hill, right to where I started.

To be fair, I’ve only really experienced parenthood from depressed and anxious mental state. I hated being pregnant from week 6 onward. I cried whenever the nurses left me alone with my son right after he was born. I have struggled with finding lasting peace and acceptance of this change in my life- and I now have two kids and my son is almost 4. I don’t think any parent would be enchanted by or happy about parenting when the outcome has led to lasting damage.

I had serious postpartum depression after my son was born and I spent a few weeks in the hospital being treated for suicidal ideation, because I couldn’t see a reason to keep living. Right after my daughter was born, for a small fraction of a moment, I kind of understood why people wanted more than one kid. But then my symptoms came back. My premenstrual dysphoric disorder reared its ugly head, and I have to battle this along with being a parent.

 PMDD has no cure. There are band-aids like medication, therapy, and exercise, but none of them stop my brain from feeling suicidal every month.

For all my fellow parents out there- you know the struggle of having to put an energetic child back in bed for the 50^th time. What it’s like to clean up vomit out of the carpet because they missed their bucket. The giant messes. The tantrums. The backtalk. These things alone are draining.  

I’m one of the several thousands of women who get the added bonus of feeling like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde every month. My own mind is working against me and I have to hold it together and be a decent parent. I feel like a concert pianist with my hands tied behind my back and I can only play with my nose, but I’m still expected to play Chopin perfectly.

Crying “life isn’t fair” will get me a Captain Obvious award. But I don’t know what else there is to say. I could go into a whole historical rant where expectations of modern mothers far exceed any expectations of historical mothers when it comes to childrearing. But none of that is going to stop the fact that this is my reality.

My reality is that I’m so frustrated with trying to keep myself together. I’m frustrated that I wake up some mornings with “I should die today” as my constant thought and still have to get out of bed and feed the kids and deal with tantrums like nothing’s wrong. I’m frustrated that toddlers are destructive and full of energy and I like a semblance of order and I have little to no energy. I’m frustrated by people sharing their “look how perfect my baby is. I love them so much. They’re my whole world. There’s nothing better than being a parent.” Not because they’re wrong, but because I have never seen parenthood that way, but feel expected to react that way when talking about my kids. I’m frustrated because my own capabilities are so limited, and so instead of hating myself- I end up hating my kids.

I know myself well enough to know that when I’m sad, I try to be productive through anger. Anger will make me clean up a mess. Sadness will make me stare at it and cry. Anger will make me save a crying child while sadness will make me let them scream. Anger moves me, sadness roots me. I have told myself and even got to a point where I legitimately believed that I hate my children. But the truth is, I hate myself. And that self-loathing has been a constant companion throughout my whole life.  I just projected it onto my kids because they are mine and I taught them to talk like me, act like me- and I hate what I see. But I know it is not them. It’s all me.

My biggest struggle is staying sane every month when it’s easier to yell and scream, and cry, and the only solution I find in this state of mind to fixing this stupid mess of my own self-sabotage is death. Because if I was dead, I wouldn’t be scarring my children for life. My husband wouldn’t have to wonder if today was a safe day to leave me home alone. Because the future looks so bleak, especially when I know that I’m going to deal with this for a vast majority of my adult life. Every month I turn into a monster, and every month I have to rebuild my relationship with my husband and kids and sometimes my extended family and friends. Every month I feel suicidal- sometimes it’s a passing thought, and other days, like today, I just want this torture to end.

Being a parent while feeling like a walking time bomb just sucks. I wonder what I did to deserve this situation. Emotional experience chalks it up to me being a terrible child. I made my parents hate me, so this is what I get. I know logically that doesn’t make sense- but emotionally it feels like the only answer that makes sense. Because bad things happen to bad people right?

But that’s not true. Things happen to people regardless of their “goodness” or “badness”. People get sick. People lose their jobs. Accidents happen. Attributing a punishment/reward mentality to life does nothing but make things more confusing.

Nobody “deserves” a mental illness.

I wanted kids when I talked about marriage with my husband when we were dating. I wanted kids after we were married. But once I had them, my own negative childhood experiences and my physical and mental state have painted parenthood as bleak and soul sucking. It’s nothing against my kids. This is just my burden to bear. I’m sure there are plenty of other parents out there who have felt something similar.

For those parents who too feel inadequate, guilty, or otherwise just plain awful because of what cards were dealt to them, I’ll gladly be the first to tell you it’s okay to not like parenting. It’s okay that your kids aren’t the center of your universe. It’s okay that you don’t feel as in love with being a parent as you “should” be. You don’t need to have an incredible bond with your child in order for you to be a “good” parent.

I admitted to my doctor that I wished that I could have taken motherhood off my plate. He didn’t berate me. He knew that my feelings were a legitimate concern and we had a good talk.  If you have similar feelings- share them with your doctor, therapist, trusted friend, or on a hotline if needed. You aren’t an awful person because of those feelings. Your feelings are a symptom, not a cause.

It’s scary to admit things like this out loud. Some people won’t take it well. Breathe. Keep trying until you find the person who listens, who understands. There may not be a magic cure to make it all go away, but it’s easier to find hope when you have an ally, than when you’re all alone.  

What living with PMDD feels like.

If periods make you queasy, then the TL;DR version is: I feel like Dr. Jekyll half the time and Mr.Hyde the other.

I've talked about Depression, Pregnancy, Social Anxiety, and childhood trauma here on my blog. But I haven't paid much attention to my PMDD.

Pre Menstural Dysphoric Disorder is basically my brain going on the fritz when I'm menstruating. It's not typical PMS. I still get regular period symptoms, like the bleeding,the cramping, the bloating, the irritableness. But on top of that I experience extreme depression, lack of concentration, low motivation, and often deal with thoughts of suicide or homicide.

Now the last bit might sound scary. I'm not going to sugar coat it- it is scary. Because on any given month, one day could have been great and the next morning I wake up to thoughts of "wouldn't things be better if I was dead?"

Night and day. That's what it's like. I go from friendly, invite everyone over for games and food, Daria to think thoughts like "if my children squeal one more time I'm going to smother them." I go from churning out projects like a machine to barely touching anything that isn't junk food or my phone. One moment I'm happy mom eager to sing silly songs to scary mom who shoves the children in their room and let them wrestle eachother to death.

And to be completely honest- it's terrifying. Somedays it's like that Studio C sketch- the "boys brain" and every aspect of the boy's mind is in charge but rational thought.

I like to think of my brain ala inside out, but with only two people in charge- Rational Thought and Emotional Thought. Emotional thought during my mebstural cycle liked to put herself on loudspeaker and shout at the top of her lungs whatever she is feeling in that moment. She has control of the panels and she does whatever feels right. Crying, screaming, hiding, stress eating, scroll through Facebook for hours, etc.

Rational is shoved aside and is the one mumbling in the background about how irrational my behavior is- "of course we don't want to be dead. Death doesn't actually solve any of these problems!"

Or when I yell - "Oh yeah. Great parenting right there. Did you really need to shout? Does it really make you feel that great?"

Or when I curl up in my bed and hide all day - "well, that was a productive day."

I know I'm overreacting to small problems. I know I didn't need to yell, or hide, or get into arguments. But I can't turn my emotions off. So I just ride the waves as best I can. I try to be rational, I really really do.

But my energy level is so low- because it was drained by moping, and fighting to get out of bed and get dressed. Or it was drained by having to deal with a toddler who refuses to stay in bed and finding the means to stay calm in the face of chaos. And this drainage happens. Every. Single. Month.

For half of the month, I'm my normal self. Human, but capable of handling life. The other half I turn into my evil twin.

It's rough. And it's scary. And I HATE it when I try to explain what's going on and it's just laughed off as silly PMS. Like I'm over exaggerating. Like my diagnosis is a no brainer.

I was in the hospital twice for suicidal ideation. A month apart. On my freaking period. I was okay after being released and then my cycle started again and I was not okay. I have evidence to prove that this is not all in my head. I am not faking or pretending things are worse to get attention.

So why tell all of this. Because I'm scared. Because I yell, and scream, and am purposefully mean because my first priority when I feel like this is "make whatever is causing me stress stop"- and my biggest stressors are my kids.

I tell this because I feel so alone. Because I have no idea what I need on bad days. Because I don't feel in control of myself at all. I feel like a monster. I feel unworthy of love and help because of how uncharacteristically cruel and short I can be. And it lasts two weeks and then it's over. I can be myself again for a little bit.

But then the process repeats.

In case you are saying to yourself "But Daria, what about birth controll?"

I am on birth control. It is a hormone. It has helped with my long lasting heavy flows, but it has not stopped the cycle of happy Dasha to Dasha Hyde.

"What about pregnancy?" If you haven't ready any of my blog posts about my pregnancies- pregnancy is a special living hell for me.

"What about medication?" Meds are important. They are. But they don't solve everything. They don't prevent the fight or flight response in cases of stress. They don't make every period cycle a smooth transition. Oh and they make my body hate me for a while- very very unhappy guts.

I feel like two different people. Happy Daria makes plans that Dasha Hyde is incapable of following through. It's like trying to keep a schedule with your worst enemy- you both hate eachother and wish the other would just shut up and do what I want already.

I wish this wasn't the demon I had to face. But here I am. My personal demon is the face I see in the mirror. It is terrifying. It is scary. And I really, really hate this. 

Adventures with a New Therapist

I went to see a new therapist today. It was not a good therapy day. Not because of the paperwork, that’s just a necessary evil. No. Today was difficult because I had to answer questions that even I don’t ask myself anymore.

Trying to explain to a complete stranger why you answered “I feel the dread of impending doom” on a questionnaire is no easy feat. Because trying to take your thoughts and translate them into comprehensible English is hard enough. Add crying to the mix just makes it that much more difficult.

To answer the question- things just…

Bad things happen to everyone. But it often feels like the universe likes to be particularly cruel with its distribution of “sucky-ness” when it comes to me and my family. It’s hard to be excited for the future when you know that getting your hopes up for good things is just asking for heartbreak. Example, getting kicked out of your house not long after Christmas. Finding out your parent has a disease and watching them being hooked up to a machine daily in order to live. Watching another parent go through an already sucky pregnancy and then miscarrying.  Sibling getting injured right after a parent loses a job.

And from the stories from one parent’s childhood- let me just say, that they’ve been dealt a whole load of suck their entire life, and it just only goes down hill from there.

So I find it extremely hard to find things to be excited about in the “future”. If I want to function like a slightly normal person, I don’t allow myself to think that far ahead. Because the future only holds chaos, pain, and day to day suck fests.

I still cling to the immature belief that good things should happen to good people and life proves me wrong every step of the way. I just want things to lighten up. I want the world to just freeze and be okay for five freaking minutes. But life doesn’t work like that.

Everyone has tragedies, crises, failures, and letdowns. Everyone also has good things happen to.

But back to therapy.

I know people mean well when they bring up the good things. Like my little family. But again, this stranger doesn’t know me yet. They don’t know that I originally sought out therapy because I believed that my son “stole the sun”. I believed that my pregnancy with him screwed me up. On the really bad days sometimes I still believe that. But I’m seeking therapy now to try and heal from my miserable, awful childhood.

It was hard answering question after question about why I answered the way I did, only to start crying all over again and have to take five minutes just to be able to speak. Again, crying isn’t weakness- I’m just annoyed because it’s a barrier to explaining my thoughts.

After our session, I wanted to call up my previous therapist. I wanted therapy for going to therapy. Haha.

I feel raw. I feel drained. I feel all the emotions of digging up the past- anger, pain, vulnerable, protective. I am again emotionally paralyzed and I can’t do anything remotely productive when it comes to work. My hands and my brain aren’t responding. Because all I want to do is curl up in my bed and listen to lives other than my own- be they on the internet or in an audiobook until I don’t feel anymore. 

When Suicide Makes Sense

Where is that light at the end of the tunnel that everyone talks about?

I don’t believe it exists.

Every day I wake up wondering why I’m even here. 

I know people love me. I know people care.

 But the fact is that I don’t care.

I don’t see a hope in the years or even months to come- what is there?  I mean people ask what they can do to help. But what does helping do, really? It just prolongs the torture of living another day, just filling it with distractions- but they don’t turn off the thoughts in my head. I can’t sleep unless I stare at a screen until I can’t keep my eyes open anymore.

So I ask- why is it at all worth it?

….

I wrote that on November 28th, in an attempt to write a blog post all about when suicide makes sense to someone with a mental illness. However, I found that writing these words were too scary for me to share with the world. I didn’t want to be a burden. I didn’t want to try because I felt overwhelmed, isolated, and I couldn’t see any light or any hope of a future where there wasn’t anything but unbearable pain.

I told Richard this. I cried when I told him I had started looking up ways to end my life. I told him about how tempting it was to jump off the nearest bridge or step in front of a speeding bus. Anything that would be quick and fast, and, hopefully, painless because I was already drowning in indescribable mental pain.

I was sleeping during the day. I would go to bed at 4 am and woke up around 4 pm only to sit and play the same four phone games over and over again, distracting myself from feeling anything. If I did something like made dinner, or bake, it was a rare and mostly out of obligation because I said I would. I hardly interacted with my son and for a while I didn’t want him to feel the pain I did and felt that taking him out of this miserable existence that’s called life would be far kinder than letting him live with a broken mother.

This, my friends, is all emotional logic. When someone is in this state, they really are a danger to themselves, and in my case, a danger to others. I was too tired of trying and yet I was spending all of what little energy I had to find a way end my life. No, suicide isn’t rationally logical. It appears selfish, cruel, throwing all the love and support that our friends and family give us back in their face. 

 Because we are so stuck in our own heads and hurt so much that all we can see is the shadows of pain.

I did talk to my psychiatrist and I did agree that the best thing for me was to go to the emergency room.

So the next morning I went. I didn’t actually make it to the behavioral health unit until late afternoon, but I was there. The first group therapy meeting was all about optimism. And oh my gosh was that hard. Everything he was saying about staying optimistic, just letting things slide off you, find the happy. And it all just sounded so stupid. I didn’t want to listen, and yet a part of me really wanted to believe that what he was saying was true. I knew I was sitting on the emotional fence of do I give into the depression, or do I fight it. I admit it, I cried. Full on sobs, trying not to look at anyone in the eyes as I balled my eyes out. Of course I made the therapist in charge of the group think that he offended me in some way. He didn’t of course, it was just the conversation in my head of admitting whether or not I wanted to be stuck in a place where my hair matched the teal hospital scrubs they gave me.

I was anxious and scared and it was hard to fall asleep. I did sleep, for a little bit, maybe an hour or so, before I was wide awake all over again.

As I sat there, I realized I had no phone to distract me from the pain and the feelings I usually shove away and hide until they overwhelm me. I didn’t have a computer or a television or ipad to offer me an alternate universe where I could just hide. So I stared wide awake at my dim lights on my hospital ceiling and thought about why I was even there.

And then I felt it. Just a small tiny flicker of hope. Hope that I could get better. Hope that I wasn’t completely forgotten by my Heavenly Father, or what others may call the force of the universe. And I felt overwhelmed, but this time it was overwhelming gratitude. Gratitude that there was a safe place for me to go. Gratitude that I live in a time where mental illness is treated with understanding and respect by doctors, and not like an act of demonic possession. I was grateful for my husband and his understanding, support, and strength as he held my hand and brought me books to read while I worked on the icky that has been plaguing me for so long.

I now dub it my 3 AM epiphany. It was that moment in time where it felt like the weight of the world finally slipped off my shoulders and I could breathe light again. I could see that even though I was a mom who struggled with blaming my son for my mental condition (logically untrue, but still felt totally emotionally true), even though I tried to spend as little time as possible with him, he still smiled. He still made eye contact and crawled and pulls himself up and explores. He is a healthy and happy child despite my lack of being a “good” mother.

The phrase, “make your own definition of success” came to my mind and I thought about how the definition of perfect is always changing. But as a linguist and history major in training I remembered that in Hebrew the word perfect means complete. A complete person doesn’t have to look or talk, walk, dress, think, or act like another person. A complete person does the best they can, the best way they know how, and when they make mistakes they learn from them. That night I took the teeny tiny pencils they allowed us to have and wrote in big capital letters- FAIL and made this small sign that was proudly displayed in my room for the rest of my stay.

Fresh

Attempt

In

Learning

It was then I could finally go back to sleep. For the rest of the days I was in there we talked about the hard things, I made friends with everyone in the unit- nurses, techs, therapists, psychiatrists, and most of all my fellow patients. I just wanted to hug them all and tell them that they were loved and important- but it was hard to tell that and accept that myself.

To be honest, I filled most of my time with coloring, reading, therapy, and making paper cranes. I gave them to everyone reminding them that the crane was a symbol of good luck and made the analogy that sometimes we feel like a beat up piece of paper. We get folded and bent into awkward shapes, and sometimes pressed really hard, but then we find out that all those folds and presses were what made us into a beautiful crane.

I pray for those lovely people every day. I wish that I could heal the scars on their arms, still their anxious bodies so they can sleep, help them see the strength and power that they have to pull themselves out of their horrible living conditions. But I don’t have the mental health wand, sadly. So instead I told jokes, complimented them, and asked them to tell me stories- especially when I knew it brought out their brightest smiles.

Like one of the therapists said, “It’s kind of ironic for a person like me to be in there.”  But it’s not. Sometimes the people who are really good at making others feel good, don’t feel like they have a person like themselves that will help carry their burdens, help make them laugh, help them when they don’t believe that there is even a light in this stupid dark tunnel. So I got to read “The Gift of Imperfection” by Brene Brown.

So I happily did all my paperwork, ate my meals, socialized, went to all the group therapy sessions, and took my meds and four days later I came home.

But that’s not where the story ends.

See, day one of being back, I was good. I got a lot done. I made lunch and dinner. I took care of Corbin. I went and talked about my experience at the BHU and told him all about my 3 AM epiphany. I told him all of the things I was going to do to help keep me out of the rut I got stuck in.

But it’s now been a week since I’ve got home. Things have not gone according to plan. I still try 

every day, I find a whole lot more joy in things than I did two weeks ago, but oh man it is hard admitting that I’m still human.

I wanted to be fixed. I wanted to go back to my pre marriage life where I was in perfect condition for finishing school and going on to doing important things like teaching students, as well as being a good mom and wife. Yet as the week went on I found that though I have hope, I don’t know what I have hope in.

I didn’t answer these questions: “How will I feel like a successful person (not just a mom)?” “What am I supposed to do when I’m home alone with my son while Richard finds a job and finishes school?” “What is it exactly that I look forward to when I wake up every morning?”

In the BHU it’s easy to answer those questions because I saw it as a personal vacation to really reflect and recharge. So how will I feel like a success? My psychiatrist will tell me when it’s time to go home. What am I going to do when I get home? Love my son and husband. What do I look forward to every morning? Seeing my husband during visiting hours.

See? Easy.

But now that I am home and dealing with the reality that I felt way too overconfident in my capabilities of calling someone every day, doing chores around the house, taking care of my son, or address the icky yucky feelings and anxiety that weren’t really resolved.

So I sit. And I write. And I try to think through how I’m feeling and working on allowing myself to feel the icky without it needing to stick to me forever because other icky things might come by and be even ickier.

I would apologize that I didn’t have a happier note to end on. I wish that I could say that because of my 3 AM epiphany I finally was able to feel healed and move on. But that’s not how things work, at least not for me. It’s still taking life one day at a time, and some moments one hour at a time.