I wonder what my son sees when I am depressed.
I remember spending a lot of time with my Grandma when both of my parents worked full time.
The day would start out the same at her house with buttered toast, orange juice and the television turned on to the CBC.
She liked consistency.
I’d watch Mr. Dress-up and Sesame Street while she rocked away in her rocker.
Some days she’d interact with me and we’d play games and paint.
Some days she’d just rock staring into space.
There was always something missing behind those beautiful eyes of hers.
As if she was lost, deep in thought.
She lacked liveliness.
As I got older, the hospital started to frequently call our home late in the night. ”It’s her nerves again,” I could hear my Mom say from the kitchen.
When she came upstairs to change and get ready to go to the hospital, I’d inquire about her.
“Grandma has bad nerves that’s all. She’s fine,” my Mom briefly explained. I took it literally that she had something wrong with the nervous system.
It wasn’t until I was 15, that I finally understood her behaviours during her eulogy.
My Grandma had clinical depression, general anxiety disorder, and agoraphobia.
I had no idea but it made perfect sense.
When my first real major depressive episode hit me last year, I thought of my Grandma a lot.
I thought of her internal struggle.
I thought of her amazing ability to fight through that pain and take care of me on those days.
I thought of her strength.
I thought of the love she could still make us feel even though she had a hard time expressing it.
I thought of how I viewed her in these states.
And you know what?
Honestly, I loved her just the same.
I’ve been spending a lot of time in that robot mode, just going through the motions.
My husband says I look distant, distraught, and as if I’m dragging my body through quicksand.
He says I sit staring off into the yard with a blank look on my face.
He says I isolate myself in my room, scribbling in my notebook.
Chunky will say things like “Are you sick today?” and “Be happy for today Momma.”
And that kills me.
Kills me.
If my husband sees it, Chunky sees it.
But I try to remember my Grandma, and how I loved her no matter what state she was in.
And I can only hope that for my boys.
That they can still see bits of the real me.
That they know that I’m fighting so hard for them.
That they still love me not matter what state of mind I am in.
They do see YOU. They do love YOU. They will always love YOU.
ps. I love you too!
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Of course they love you and see you. Just as I do. xo
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That picture of you and Chunky is adorable. You are surrounded by love.
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I love the new CAMH ads encouraging people not to suffer in silence. It must have been awful for your grandma without the understanding that exists today for mental health issues.
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My own mother had that same vacant look a lot when I was small, and I realized later that she was depressed. But I adored my mother, all through my life, and now that she has passed, I miss her terribly, although I feel her spirit with me. And that’s the key – she had such a beautiful spirit beneath the depression – and I was able to see and experience that spirit as well as the depression – and her gorgeous spirit won out – and that is what will happen with you and your family, with Chunky and Shawn. Chunky has already made it clear to me, through the way he speaks to you, that he truly sees you – that he has the eyes to see the beauty beneath the depression -
xoxox
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girl how could they not love you? your boys are awesome and so are you. big hugs girlfriend. i’m coming back later to link up after i write a post.
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If we see you through your words, they must surely see you with your presence.
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I understand this. Both of my grandmas had undiagnosed mental issues. I’m fairly certain my paternal grandma had bipolar disorder. I grew up not wanting to be like her. Always so negative and just irritable in general. My maternal grandma had an anxiety disorder. What can I say? This shit runs in the family on both sides. Lucky us, huh?
But yes, they were my grandparents and I still loved them. They are both gone now. Resting in peace with no worries or cares or illnesses.
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Of course they love you. We all do. BECAUSE of who you are, not in spite of it. xo
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They (Shawn and Chunky) see a woman who works harder than they’ll ever know to love them.
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They absolutely love you!
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I’ve thought about this before, too. On days when I’m completely overwhelmed and just trying to get through, I’ll look at the girls and wonder how they see me. What are they going to remember about this part of their lives? Are they going to remember me as a woman who worked hard to keep our home happy and stable in the midst of enormous transition? Or are they going to remember me as the frazzled, stressed-out, anxious woman who was barely holding on in a storm of disorganization?
Your boys love you though. It’s obvious they do. And I think, maybe, the people who love us aren’t really judging us so hard. You know?
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I agree with Emily. I think they aren’t judging you so hard. Just like you don’t/didn’t judge your Grandma. You loved her no matter what.
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I think you’re pretty lovable, so I wouldn’t worry about Chunky. Not to mention, children are resiliant and forgiving. All you have to do is let out a great big fart, and they forget that seconds earlier you were crying in a dishrag….not that I fart…or anything…
Just did my mental health rotation. Feel like I have a little better understanding of your illness, and I know in your most hopeless states you may not feel it, but there is hope. Plus your support system is so vaste. Look at us, returning to read you over and over again, hoping to see that smile and those wise-ass remarks. You are loved. I love you.
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I relate to this post so much. The looking into space, feeling distant, hoping I am still loved even though I’m not present.
I worry that I’m not a useful part if the family.
I so get this.
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No disorder or state will ever separate the love a child has for his mother. And who knows? Maybe one day when he asks you to have a happy day, it will be just the magic you need to make it so.
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Absolutely they see you. And absolutely they love you and know you love them with every fiber of your being. I know it, simply from reading your words, that they are your world; I don’t doubt they know it, too.
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–Oooo, my heart, my heart.
I understand.
& I love you, Kim.
I love your strength to move forward in the midst of darkness and the unknown….
You inspire soooooooooooo many. Xxxxxxx
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I understand this and I hope it for you just as I hope it for me. There have been more times than not lately that I am very aware of how “not here” I am and I just keep hoping that this is not the me my kids remember.
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Hugs Kim. They know how much you love them. I am trying so hard to be present myself. I understand this struggle. Sending you so much love.
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Being present is something that I work on every day. Up until my PPMD, I never remember having to “work” at this. It somehow came natural but now many of us have to fight just to be present each day.
They love you for you & I wish you didn’t have to fight so hard.
Sending you love & hugs.
And that picture is really cute. He looks like such a big kid in that picture
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I am sure that they do. No one knows you better.
My gf’s mother suffered terribly with mental illness and I remember growing up and thinking she was the cat’s meow.
Which you totally are. Of course.
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They both love you. They may see your distance but that does NOTHING to lessen the love they feel for you, believe that. Seeing it and taking that as all you are are two different things and I guarantee you neither of them takes you based on those distant stares. Hold on.
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I have no doubt that your boys love you regardless of your emotional state… I just imagine that they want to be there especially when you aren’t feeling your best. That Chunky kills me, too. What a sweet little boy he is.
XOXO
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I also worry about this. A lot. I know D is still super young, but she’s going to pick up on it soon. I wish I could hide it better, but I can’t. But like your love for your grandma, Chunky’s going to love you no matter what. You’re still fighting–for him, for you, for your farting husband…
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You are such an example to them of how to fight through a challenge. They will not only love you, but learn from you.
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I’m here via My Postpartum Voice, and I’ll be spending much more time here. I can relate to so much of what you write. It tears my heart to think of my little guy thinking his mom isn’t there for him. When it seems nothing else will keep me going, that does.
As an aside, I LOVE that you mentioned Mr. Dress-Up! I’m from the US but grew up very near Canada, so we got CBC (which has far better hockey coverage, too). I couldn’t figure out why none of my friends knew about Mr. Dress-Up or Under the Umbrella Tree…and explaining the premise sounds, well, a little creepy.
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