It’s been a rough few weeks at home. I am back working full time, my husband was working overtime seven days a week, and our two little munchkins needed the same amount of attention. Navigating my return to work with two kids, and having to do so at a time when my husband was unavailable to support me (not his choice), has been hard on me. I did not expect it to be this challenging and now, a few weeks later, I feel like am running on empty. I am tired. I am stressed and I am anxious. I am irritable. And I am vulnerable.
Depression has moved back in with me; in my chest, where I feel the weight of it all crushing me, forcing me to take shallow breaths. In my head, where it shelters thoughts of inadequacy and failure. And in my heart, where it breeds a hybrid venom of anger, resentment and sadness.
Yet, I feel rebellious; even in those moments where I feel worthless, fatigued by it all. Even through the tears, I can hear a voice within me, rising, louder each time: I am fucking done with your shit, depression. I have less and less patience for your agonizing torment. For your house of mirrors with warped reflections of who I am.
I feel a revolution brewing inside of me. It is feeble, but it’s there. I am not falling for depression’s tricks as easily anymore. It’s like a baby, taking its very first steps: tentative, ungraceful, bound to fall flat on my face now and again. Not knowing when it will all come together to form some sort of coordinated sequence of movements.
But it’s happening. What I thought never would. Depression losing its grip on me. It still has its clutches around my neck and it will take more time to break free and shake it off, maybe never completely. Yet, I feel lighter already. My throat has enough wiggle room to, at the very least, whisper my truth, and not what depression would have me see as reality. I find myself in a bizarre, awkward yet empowering space, where I am both strong and drained, aware and confused.
I am a phenomenal mother.
I am a flawed mother.
I don’t know if this is the beginning of the end of my depression. I don’t know if it will ever be truly gone. Vanquished, like the dragons of old. I have no idea how this will all work out for me. But I know that I will be here.
A phenomenal mother through it all.
Maybe I need to say this more for my benefit than to prove anything to others. I am still here, day in and day out, doing my absolute best and my complete everything to raise my children. Some days (most days), my best is far from picture-perfect. But I am the best mother my kids could ever ask for. I am good at it, even on my worst days.
I’m great at it.
In spite of my depression. In the face of every ounce of self-doubt I have ever experienced.
I am a phenomenal mother.
I am drained. I am overwhelmed.
I am strong. I am resilient.
I feel weak. I feel dejected.
I am reborn; I am rising.
These can and do coexist in the same space. I can be grateful for my beautiful babies, and feel anxiety at being alone with them at home without another set of hands to help. I can appreciate the precious moments where my baby girl cuddles up to me and feel like the next time I drive past the airport I might just hop on a plane to Fiji with a one-way ticket.
Somehow we have fallen into this trap of absolutes: you are either depressed and therefore somehow incapable of feeling gratitude for your privileges and good fortune. Or, your mental health is peachy and you are smiling from ear to ear through motherhood.
Living with mental illness is not an absolute condition. While my brain might be going through some shit and sending me warped messaging because of it, it is not broken. I am not broken. I have broken days. Moments. And sometimes they line up together to form an excessively long sequence.
But I am still here. And I can finally see my depression in its true form: a slave driver to my state of mind. To my needs and wants, cracking its whip at my self-esteem.
I am in a state of transition these days, which I suspect is part of the reason why I feel out of sorts. Change is good. Rising from my own ashes is great. But it is not yet a complete process.
I am just barely, tentatively liberated. There is a renewed sense of power flowing through me. And I am slowly, steadily learning to embrace it and let it lead the way.
I can’t get the image of a child learning to take their first steps and it is ironic that my daughter is at precisely that moment in her young life. I see myself in her stumbles and tumbles, though I get the sense she will figure out her path much quicker than I will.
But I am tingling with excitement to work through it.
