Parenting Through Mental Illness

Parenting is a tough gig. Every parent knows that. Even those who aren't parents have some concept of just how difficult it is. Late nights, long nights, early mornings, sleepless hazes, bodily fluids (oh so many!), complete dependence, complete interdependence. There's the knowledge that you always have to look after someone else, no matter how or what you are feeling. It's responsibility, and sometimes, that responsibility weighs heavy. Really heavy.

Parenting with mental illness just adds a whole new level to the challenge. For many sufferers, such as myself, exhaustion and stress only serve to exacerbate the condition/s. What was already a difficult task becomes far more difficult when you have to live in the moment and battle yourself at the same time. When nothing is straightforward and those dark corners in your mind take you to places you don't want to go.

A couple of years before I fell pregnant with my amazing daughter, my mental illness took me to a point of no longer functioning. I literally could not function, as my mind, and my body, were completely overwhelmed by life. I was in a highly stressful job where I worked long hours with little reward. I was studying full time. I was building a house with the love of my life. I wasn't looking after myself because, well, who had the time?! My weight had ballooned and food was the only bright spot in an otherwise dark and empty existence. I would eat at my desk, if I ate at all. When I ate, it was all the wrong things that, at the time, felt so right. I drank far too much coffee. All these things, combined with a difficult past, meant I was falling down the rabbit hole...but I was too busy to see it.

Finally, I learnt the hard way. My body made me stop. It stopped functioning. One day I woke in hospital with my now husband sitting opposite me, pale like he had seen death, and eyes filled with tears. This man does not cry. Ever. Not that he is ashamed of it or embarrassed by others who do, just, well, he doesn't. I knew from one glance at his face that I was staring at a broken man. A man that, through my own selfishness, my own naïveté, my own stubborn pride, I had broken. After a realm of tests, the conclusion was merely that I'd collapsed but the doctors didn't know why. Truth be told, those doctors didn't really care, either. I was sent home with a certificate excusing me from work for the day and was to take it easy under doctor's orders. That was the medical world's great answer. Everything would magically get better.

But it didn't. It got worse. With the harsh words of doctors ringing in my ears, who basically told me I'd made everything up, it wasn't that bad, and to suck it up and move on, I continued to work. I continued to study. Nothing changed. But I felt constantly ill. I didn't want to get out of bed. I found excuses to avoid every possible situation that would mean leaving my bed or the safety of my home. I continued to get sick, frequently collapsing for no APPARENT reason.

My GP sent me for a wealth of tests and when an organic (physical) cause was ruled out, I was referred to a psychiatrist. Here, I learnt the ugly truth. I was suffering from mental illness. Not just one, but many. One of these, a conversion disorder featuring sommatisation, had lead me to continue seeking medical help, even when medical specialists dismissed me. This disorder was the reason I was continually collapsing. My body could no longer cope with the stress so my mind told my body "this is too much, escape!" Queue collapse. And repeat.

One of the hardest parts of this journey had been the stigma associated with mental illness. When people would ask, "have they worked out what's wrong with you yet?", it was difficult to know what to say or where to start trying to explain. To make matters worse, the main mental illness I was suffering from was one the was largely unknown and very misunderstood. While depression and anxiety are words many have heard tossed around and have some (even if minimal and incomplete) concept of. Sommatisation, conversion disorder is not well known, not as common and takes a significant period of time to overcome.

So when, 2 years into this journey, I fell pregnant with my first child, I was mixed with elation and trepidation. I know many expectant parents are filled with mixed emotions, especially if the pregnancy is unexpected. You will personally NEVER hear me say "accident" in relation to pregnancy. God makes no mistakes. Your baby is destined to be created, whether they are part of your plan or not. For me, I always knew I wanted children and I know that there is a relatively small window where conception is possible. But I still wasn't expecting it. My husband and I weren't actively trying to conceive, but instead had the attitude "if it's meant to be it will be". And so it was. Our unexpected blessing was growing within me. With one doctor's visit and one little test, it was confirmed, I was officially a mama.

Unfortunately, I was still on my journey to recovery from my conversion disorder, amongst others, and I was on a significant amount of medication. By significant, I mean 5 different medications - and none of them were low doses. I'd been told outright by my psychiatrist not to fall pregnant. To "take precautions" for another few years. But that is not a decision I felt was my psychiatrist's to make. It was mine, my husband's and God's. But it was only when I fell pregnant that I realised how difficult it was going to be. I had to cope with all the normal things that go with being pregnant - crazy hormones, morning sickness, low blood pressure, cravings. My added challenge, however, was initially coming off all my medications cold turkey. As anyone who has weaned off any medication knows, it's not easy. Morning sickness and the sickness brought about by weaning off meds is downright cruel. It could be used as a form of torture. For two months I could barely leave the couch, or the bathroom. I didn't go anywhere. I wanted to die.

Then I was faced with the reality that I had no "crutch". The medication left my body and so, too, did its pleasant effects. I was on my own and stuck in a body teeming with hormones. I was scared. But I had to do what was best for my growing baby. I lasted until 20 weeks before I couldn't take it any more. I made the gut-wrenching decision to resume medication, but this time one with significant research into its affects on the foetus. The possible affects were very, very minimal and the chances of those affects impacting my baby were also minimal. But they were still there. Every day I prayed that my unborn child was safe and healthy. Every day I wondered if I was doing the right thing. Every day I wondered if I was being weak, and if I would be able to cope without the meds. Every doctor's appointment, I waited for the judgement. Every prenatal checkup I waited to be told something had happened to my baby because of my own selfishness.

So when, at a routine prenatal checkup at 30 weeks, the obstetrician couldn't find a heart beat, I was certain that I had killed my baby. Finally, a heartbeat was found, but it was weak. I was whisked away to a special room and hooked up to all sorts of machines that made scary noises. It was the longest hour of my life. Finally, I was told my baby was ok but would need to be monitored. I've never been so relieved to hear those words.

After I gave birth to my little girl, I was so in love. But that love was shadowed by anxiety. It crept into my every thought. What if they found something wrong with her? It would be all my fault. How was I going to care for this beautiful creation if I couldn't care for myself? In the long, lonely hours of the night, the hours seemed like days. As I held this most precious gift, the reality of the responsibility finally dawned on me. How on earth would I ever be able to care for this baby? I clearly wasn't what was best for her. I didn't have a clue what she needed or how best to provide for those needs. I was terrified, and that fear masked my own instincts. Doubt took over.

In those first weeks, I was blessed to have my husband with me. I was still crippled with anxiety, but at least there was someone to talk to if everything went pear shaped - which it inevitably did. The nights were long, the journey was hard. Then came the day my husband returned to work. I spent most of that day in tears. I had a baby that wouldn't stop crying, I was filled with hormones, I hadn't had more than a cat nap since before she was born and I was still struggling with establishing breastfeeding. I had no idea how to meet her needs, and the reality that I was the only person who truly could weighed heavily on me.

It wasn't until later that my fears were validated. My daughter did, in fact, have several health problems. She had wind, and colic, then reflux. She cries, a lot. She is often unsettled. Breastfeeding her is rewarding, but very challenging. She hates to be left alone, or to be anywhere but in my arms. I didn't go to bed for 3 months, until I resigned myself to bed sharing. Nothing met the fantasy I had about being a parent. There were nights when the crying was endless. Seeing my daughter so upset dented my confidence in my ability to care for my baby, and it broke my heart.

Each day presents its own challenges. There is the house that is constantly in disarray. The dishes waiting for me in the sink. The laundry hamper that overflows. The toys and books that are strewn on the floor, left from play time several days before. Most days, it is an achievement to get dressed before noon. Most days, I am overwhelmed by life. But my daughter is fed, and clothed, bathed and immensely loved. She seems, for the most part, abundantly happy, content and filled with all the wonder and innocence of a beautiful baby girl. I still struggle to remind myself that that is enough, that is what truly matters, and everything else can wait. My mind, sadly, usually has other ideas.

Parenting with mental illness presents new challenges, but it certainly doesn't make the journey any less rewarding. Nor does it, even for a moment, impact the love I hold for my daughter. There are good days and bad, highs and lows, but I wouldn't change the journey for anything.