Mothers And Daughters And Sons

Like a lot of kids, I grew up promising myself that I’d do things differently than my parents. And like a lot of kids I grew up hearing that I would understand their choices when I became a parent. Both of those are true. I understand my parents so much better now and I’m doing things differently.

But this particular story doesn’t begin in my own childhood. It starts when I became a mother. I’ve talked before about how traumatic my birth experience was and the PTSD, postpartum depression, and postpartum anxiety that very nearly killed me. Throughout the experience, I felt a deep desire to understand why this was happening to me. I also really needed to tell my story - even as I was living it. I needed to talk about it and to hear others talk about it.

These needs, coupled with an inability to leave my house (thanks anxiety!), led me to the world of online support groups. And those groups led me to a wealth of information that I shared with my family regularly. Blog posts about the 5 things to never say to someone with PPD, links to resources for family members, and eventually even my own writing.

My mother read little to none of the things I shared.

At first, it was just a suspicion. She was trying to be supportive, but she had a habit of making every conversation about her, how hard her journey had been, and how grateful I should be. She said literally every single one of the things on those Top Five Things Not To Say lists. She did the opposite of every piece of advice in the articles. I was baffled. I was hurt. Eventually, I was angry.

When my son was a toddler and I had come through the worst of it I asked her whether she’d ever read anything that I’d sent her. She said she hadn’t because she was terrified that one of the links would say this was her fault.

Something broke in our relationship that day that has never been repaired.

Yes, there is a history of mental illness on my mother’s side of the family. There is also a history of mental illness on my father’s side. Of the ten most widely accepted risk factors for maternal mental illness, I HAVE SEVEN. The odds were against me from the second I got pregnant.

But because she hadn’t done her own healing work she was unable to see past her own trauma. I promised myself right then that I would never do that to my kids. I swore to myself that I would take care of my own healing so that if and when they ever needed my help with theirs I could support them.

And now it’s happened.

We don’t have a formal diagnosis yet, but it has become clear that my son is dealing with some serious anxiety. He’s suffering. He’s six years old and in the first grade and this is so deeply wrong and unfair that it fills my entire self with rage, terror, and tears.

His teacher, his school administration, our friends, and our families all have our back. But this is a journey that will largely be walked by our little immediate family. And of the four of us, I’m the one with the most experience of mental illness and therapy. I can help him - but only as much as I’ve helped me.

I won’t lie to any of you and say that I wasn’t up all night last night crying and blaming myself for this. If I hadn’t pushed for a natural birth for so long when we found out I had pre-eclampsia then I wouldn’t have had the Pitocin that went wrong and triggered the emergency c-section that led to the PTSD. If I had gotten help sooner maybe I could have breastfed. Maybe I wouldn’t have spent so many nights sobbing as I held him. Part of me is convinced that his anxiety now stems from the time I screamed at him when he was four months old and I was having a panic attack.

Whether or not any of that is true or carries any weight at all is completely immaterial. My guilt won’t help him through this. My blame and shame will do nothing to bring joy and comfort back into his experience of childhood. Only my healing can help him heal.

So I’m taking the time to cry. I’m letting myself fall apart at night. I’m leaning on Adam and on our amazing circle of friends. And I’ve emailed my therapist to see when I can get back on her schedule regularly again. Because I can’t just find support for my son, I need to be support for my son. And there is no way I can do that alone.