The downside of happiness 

On December 1st, our eleventh anniversary, my husband and I finally got married, surrounded by friends and family. The day was everything we wanted, and was a beautiful recognition and celebration of how far we have come together. 

In the months leading up to the wedding I was in peak condition. Big Daddy was sailing, and I was planning. I made a lot of things myself, including decorations, the bridal party’s shoes, the cake, the ring box. I worked alongside the caterer to create the perfect menu, helped the commisioner create a ceremony that best reflected our personalities, booked hair and makeup appointments, made all of the wedding favours. I felt a sense of purpose that I don’t feel very often. I was creating something, and it felt good to be the driving force behind something that meant so much to me. 

 The day was a huge success, and it meant so much to us that so many people put in the effort to be with us. 

   
 My bouquet 
   
 Our cake
  Mashed potato bar!!

  One of the favours 

  Ring box

   
  
  Happiness 

———————————

With all of the excitement over and all of our guests gone, I am at a loss for what to do with myself. I was so busy with wedding prep that I couldn’t feel the sting of my depression in the background. It never left me, but waited patiently in the shadows for the perfect time to re-envelop me once again in its cold cloak. I wasn’t expecting it for once. I was legitimately very happy, and proud of what I was accomplishing. The weight of depression has crushed me. I can’t stay awake, I’m cold, my head hurts. I have so much to do in my every day life, but lack the energy and the focus to complete anything. I have gained 10 pounds from irregular eating and poor food choices. I’ve picked my face and arms raw. My brain and my body are no longer lining up, like a poorly dubbed kung fu movie. I watch my life happening around me, but cannot participate. I can see that I am no longer thriving, and the judgement from my mind increases, and the cycle repeats. I don’t want to be an illness, but if not that, what am I? 

I literally cannot focus enough to finish this post. 

Advertisements

The Maker Makes

I have three daughters, aged 7, 4, and 10 months. As my beautiful ladies grow older and develop their own interests and personalities, I find that I’m discovering parts of myself in them. My biggest fear for them is that I will pass my poisons onto them, and not recognise that I’ve done it. 

When I was a child and even a teenager, not many people subscribed to the idea of childhood depression. Many people, my mother and father included, believed that the brain wasn’t capable of mental illness until after the age of 18, and also that “teenage angst” was a choice – not a symptom of mental stress. 

After discussing my youth in-depth with my psychiatrist and councillor, we mutually determined that I have been suffering from anxiety since childhood, major depressive disorder since my mid to late teens, and bipolar disorder stemming from around the same time. Looking back at those times in my life I can quite clearly see the signs and symptoms, which of course, seem obvious in retrospect. 

Now, as a mother in this new mental illness enlightened age, I worry for my girls- my eldest especially. Certified gifted, I was told that I may experience behavioural problems with her, and was giving a few books about “coping” with the gifted child. My amazing, hilarious, friendly, little L has trouble getting out of bed, especially if her dad is sailing. Prone to fits of rage, sometimes physically attacking me, sometimes not being able to eat. Happiness countered immediately with sadness, coupled with anger and obsession. 

It’s hard to deal with. 

I have my own emotional shitstorm to battle with every day, sometimes trying to deal with her is too much for me. I check out, lock myself in my head, and hope that the kids will engage autopilot before I crash the plane. But they deserve better. L needs my compassion, my understanding, my experience, but most days I’m just too tired to give it to her. We do battle on a daily basis. It’s hard on all of us. No matter what, I always try to validate her feelings. She is entitled to feel. Whether I agree with her or not, she gets to tell/yell her thoughts to me. I don’t know if it helps or hurts, but at this point I feel like she’s constantly on the cusp of exploding, but it seems like the yelling and stomping keeps her from diving over the edge  

I’ve read the books, the blogs, the listicles, the forums, and the truth is: I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing when it comes to my girls’ mental health. I have no clue. I barely have a grip on my own mental health, how am I supposed to be responsible for that of these precious beings? I’m terrified daily that I’m causing permanent emotional damage, or passing on my mental instabilities (or both). On the other hand, I don’t want to see symptoms in them that aren’t there. We all know what tricks the mind can play to spike our anxiety and send us spiralling. For now I’ll keep reading, keep fighting, keep cuddling, keep trying, keep failing. I owe them my best, even if some days my best is merely existing through the day. 

I need so desperately to protect them, but I can’t save them from themselves. Or, maybe I can. I wish someone had tried to save me.