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Dear Kids,
I strive to be the best mom I can for you. I’ve memorized your all-time favorite stories, the ones we read countless times. I proudly display your masterpieces on the fridge, and yes, I even let you indulge in glitter. We bake delicious cupcakes together, and I let you crack the eggs—knowing I’ll be fishing out bits of shell later. We race Hot Wheels, and I do my best to wear a smile for you.
But, my sweet little ones, sometimes I just can’t.
You see, there’s a bit of a hiccup in my brain. Imagine if there were magical potions that made people feel happy. Most people have a steady supply of these potions, allowing them to laugh, dance, and play. Unfortunately, my potions have run dry. This is called depression. When someone is depressed, it’s like trying to dance with two left feet—everything feels heavy, and the joy is hard to find. I want to laugh and play with you, but sometimes, I just can’t muster the energy. I cry—not because of you, but because my special potion is missing.
This means that sometimes, even when I want to be patient, I struggle. I get overwhelmed by stress, and that can lead to yelling, more than I’d like to admit. I know when I raise my voice, it can feel harsh, and I’m truly sorry. When you innocently ask for a glass of water and I snap, “Fine!” in a less-than-kind tone, it’s not because I don’t love you. I wish I could manage my feelings better, but depression makes it complicated. You might feel unwanted, and I feel guilty for making you feel that way. It’s a tangled web of sadness.
There are moments when I get overly upset about things that shouldn’t bother me at all. You’re kids—you play and make messes. Messes are no big deal as long as they get cleaned up! But when depression is in charge, even small things feel monumental. I end up yelling at you to clean up, threatening to take away toys, and it creates a storm of anger between us. It’s exhausting for both of us, and I hate that.
You may also catch me crying—something I try to shield you from. I often let tears flow in the shower, but there are times when I can’t hide them. Like that day when you were fighting with your siblings about cleaning up, and emotions ran high. I was overwhelmed, and my tears spilled over. You left, unsure of what to do, but then returned with a hug, trying to comfort me. Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have to bear that weight. My depression shouldn’t spill into your lives.
Some days are particularly tough, where the darkness lingers longer than usual. On those days, I might serve you PB&J for dinner and let you watch way too much TV. I might let you build forts out of laundry baskets because, frankly, I just don’t have the energy to say no. Depression can zap the fun out of everything.
But hold on—depression doesn’t mean we can’t have fun! We can still make cupcakes together, splash in puddles, enjoy watermelon for breakfast, and I’ll pitch baseballs for you. However, it does make those joyful moments harder to reach sometimes, filling me with frustration and sadness. It can feel like I’m lost in a cloud.
I’m genuinely sorry for how my depression may affect you. We’re working hard to treat it—there’s hope! This won’t last forever, and one day, I’ll feel lighter.
But through it all, there’s one thing depression can never take away: my love for you. I love each of you to the moon and back, and I promise that one day, I’ll be better.
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Summary
This heartfelt letter addresses the author’s struggle with depression and how it affects her parenting. She expresses love for her children while explaining the challenges of managing emotions and energy levels due to her condition. The letter emphasizes a commitment to treatment and the hope for brighter days ahead.