By: Sarah Thompson
Updated: Jan. 4, 2021
Originally Published: Jan. 20, 2018
As I prepared for a long weekend trip, I remained unaware that I was descending into a depressive episode. Caught up in the excitement of packing, I neglected to monitor my emotional state. It became evident when I found myself snapping at my children, feeling frustration over their every action. Moments later, waves of guilt washed over me as I questioned how they would remember these moments. I felt a bittersweet nostalgia for their innocence, even as they stood right in front of me. I still have the photos from that day—pictures of my kids smiling in the kitchen while I sobbed, preparing for my five-thirty drive to the airport. My youngest, dressed in a triceratops hoodie, beams brightly, while my six-year-old stands quietly in black, and my eight-year-old holds my water bottle, grinning widely. I couldn’t help but cry over those images at the airport.
The fact that my kids could still smile during my emotional turmoil speaks volumes about the frequency of my tears. This is simply what being a mother means for me; sometimes, I cry a lot, and I’ve managed to normalize it for them. I live with bipolar disorder, previously known as manic depression.
During depressive phases, I might break down in tears out of frustration when my youngest won’t stop crying. I might weep when the day goes off course—like when I burn lunch and can’t figure out what to feed my family—or even when faced with the trivial challenge of choosing an outfit. I might cry upon seeing a familiar book like A Wrinkle in Time at Target, reflecting on the significance of a Black girl portraying Meg, a groundbreaking moment for my sons.
Our family has open discussions about my illness. We talk about why I cry—because I’m sick—and how medication helps, although it doesn’t always eliminate the tears. We reassure them that crying is acceptable and harmless.
To shield my children from my most severe depressive episodes, I maintain a facade of normalcy until my husband returns home. Once he arrives, I retreat to the bedroom, overwhelmed with sobs while they engage with too much television. My husband takes care of them, soothing me while I express feelings of worthlessness. Eventually, I drift off to sleep and often awaken feeling better. However, during particularly dark times, thoughts of suicide may creep in, but my children anchor me back to reality.
Then there are the manic episodes.
During these phases, I’m a whirlwind of creativity. We embark on numerous craft projects, fueled by my enthusiasm. My children create models of the human heart and elaborate gold lamé thunderbolts. We follow our homeschooling plans diligently in the mornings and venture out in the afternoons—to parks, Target, or friends’ homes.
Yet, there’s a shadow lurking behind the mania. I often indulge in excessive shopping, purchasing items that aren’t necessary, like random Valentine’s Day table runners and unicorn window clings. While this doesn’t directly affect my children, it sets an example of spending beyond need. Once we return from our outings, I may leave them to entertain themselves under the guise of encouraging independent play. I find myself consumed by sewing projects, often ignoring their needs as I sew late into the night, only stopping for dinner.
In these manic periods, I am exuberant around my children. I engage them in playful activities, reading silly books and sharing whipped cream straight from the can. Though our home may not be tidy, they are filled with joy and spared from witnessing me cry over the simplest things.
I rely on a complex array of medications to manage my condition. My bathroom cabinet resembles a small pharmacy, stocked with treatments for various ailments, including general depression, anxiety, ADHD, and my lifeline—lithium. Starting lithium at 33 was transformative, stabilizing my emotional rollercoaster after years of fluctuating between brief manic phases and prolonged depressive ones. Now, I recognize the signs of a downturn and adjust my medications accordingly.
Regular doctor visits are essential. I typically arrange these appointments for when my husband is available, allowing us to switch cars and kids seamlessly. My children often voice their dissatisfaction, but we explain that my health requires these visits. They understand that “the medicine keeps Mama from getting sick,” as my husband reassures them.
We frame it this way: I am sick, chronically so. I am not crazy or bad; I am simply navigating my emotions. My tears are part of my journey, and while I wish my children didn’t have to adjust, they have learned resilience and compassion.
Some days, it can be overwhelming to manage three kids while wrestling with inner turmoil. I reach out to friends, call my husband, or turn on the television, opting for a little Hamilton to ease the tension. However, most days, I am fine. A friend once remarked, “I didn’t know you had bipolar disorder,” unaware that my manic highs often appear as enthusiasm while I conceal my lows from most people. My children, however, witness both sides of me, and while it pains me that they have to adapt, I hope it fosters empathy within them.
Ultimately, this journey may not feel fair, but if it results in a deeper understanding of compassion, perhaps there is a silver lining to this experience.
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Summary:
Being a mother with bipolar disorder presents unique challenges, blending moments of joy with episodes of deep emotional struggle. Open communication with my children about my mental health fosters understanding, even as I strive to shield them from the worst of my emotional battles. Through medication and support, I navigate the complexities of motherhood, aiming to cultivate compassion and resilience in my children.