Sometimes I catch my reflection in the mirror and notice the way the exhaustion looks on my face. I stand there for a second, almost as if I don’t recognize the woman staring back at me. Who is she? When was the last time she brushed her hair? The fine lines start making their appearance across her face, each one telling a different story. Each one paints a memory in vivid colour, using the brightest and darkest colors. This is the start of a journey through bipolar mom guilt.
I gaze at her more deeply. Her hair is a bit of a mess. Her eyes look like she’s carrying pain far beyond her years, and her smile paints everything to be invisible. The fear, sadness, pain and heartbreak that rest upon her shoulders are part of the burden that she carries. They’re part of the worry of what my children might notice. What they hold onto.
Bipolar Mom Guilt Is So Heavy
Parenting while living with bipolar disorder means that I worry my children will notice some things. Things that I’ve tried desperately to keep sheltered from them. Things I don’t want them to think about or wonder about.
I worry my children will notice the dark circles under my eyes. My bipolar mom guilt level soars. The dark circles become permanent residents when my hypomania (Early Signs of Hypomania in Moms) decides to keep me awake all night. Or the blank expression I have as my body becomes too exhausted to think about expressing anything. I fear they’ll notice when my meds run out. I stupidly forget to refill them with enough time so I don’t have to go without them. I fear they’ll hear my voice and notice it’s laced with sadness more often than not.
I worry that my children will notice the mood shifts and how my energy fluctuates enormously depending on which mood state I am in. I worry that my tone of voice will reveal secrets to them that I wanted to hide from them forever or that they’ll be confused by my crying or irritability. (Thanks to bipolar mom guilt.)
I sink deeper into the low when I realize that my children might notice the scars that paint my arms, souvenirs collected over the decades-old war with my mind but, nonetheless, likely frightening for them. I fear that they’ll ask, and how would I tell them?
Things I Fear With Bipolar Mom Guilt
I worry that if they knew, then they’d think they did something for me to feel that way when that couldn’t be any further from the truth. They are indeed the thing that has kept me here when my mind has begged me to go. “You’ve overstayed your welcome” is the motto it feeds me every day. I’ve constantly gone against it because my kids deserve a mom who fights. But I fear they’d see it differently if they knew.
Or the time that I was in the hospital. I worry that my truth one day will unravel them. Not that they’re not strong, but just the thought of your mom carrying so much every single day while trying to appear normal and happy is heartbreaking. But that’s my reality.
When I wonder does bipolar disorder affect my children, I fear all the times they notice my hair unkempt and in a messy bun at the top of my head yet again. The last time it was washed? I don’t know; don’t ask.
I look a mess because the depression is so thick and heavy and I’m exhausted. So the hair gets wrapped up into a ball at the top of my head and we push through. The dark circles are slowly sinking my face further down and my spirit is digging its own grave because there’s just no life left in me. Will my child remember my depression episodes?
But it’s still “HI! Good morning, buddy! I love your outfit! Here’s your lunch and guess what?! Here’s some money for the canteen today; you can get a treat!” as if that will somehow make up for the emotional wreck of a mother he was born to. (My inner narrative is feeling particularly critical right now it seems.)
Another thing I can’t handle the thought of is that they notice the major difference between who I was before I was medicated and who I am now.
The doctors tell you that the meds won’t change you, but we all know they do. (Read more about this here – Bipolar Medication Stigma)
Because before you’re diagnosed, you fully live with your bipolar disorder. It’s driving your bus essentially. So, I was wild. Carefree. Spontaneous. Do things immediately. Whereas now, I am calm. Quiet. REGULATED. Emotionally balanced. Self-aware.
But different. The mom they knew then isn’t who I am now and I worry that they’ll notice. Maybe when they’re older and they’re taking a trip down memory lane over photos and a joint and laughing.
Someone notices… Hey, wait… Look at this picture of mom. That’s weird, isn’t it? And maybe I will have long passed and won’t be able to cushion their feelings or offer any support and the entire story will spin out of control over their photo album and probably canoed joint.
There are so many days where I spend more time lying on the couch than I’d feel comfortable admitting and I get anxious about the thought that that’s how they’ll remember me. Lazy. Unmotivated. Uninspired. Under everything. What if that’s the version of me that they hold onto?
I get really anxious at the thought that they notice all the times I lacked the energy to change out of my comfies into regular clothing or the times when it looks like the cupboards exploded all over the kitchen counter. Dishes piled up in every possible spot and the garbage bag needed changing yesterday.
I worry about the times I change plans because I don’t have the mental capacity to do anything or the tone of my voice becomes their inner narrative and they adopt my flat, lifeless, dead sound.
It weighs on me to think of all the things I forget and that they’re remembering those things. Now not only am I lazy and unmotivated but I also forget everything. Am I a bad mom because of bipolar disorder?
I worry that this is the mother they’ll remember. All my flaws. All the things that this illness made me do. I worry they’ll notice how much I struggled. How emotional I was.
How I struggled to cope and find stability for the majority of my life. I worry that they’ll remember my mission with stability and how I never achieved it, falling short each and every time I came close.
I worry that they’ll think it was because I didn’t love them enough to keep pushing through. Or even what if they won’t know how much of an anchor they were to me. Always holding me down. Always keeping me tethered.
I worry my children will notice it all. All the small things were masked with fake smiles and excited voices.
All the bad things I attempt to shield them from as best as I can. Just all the things. I worry they’ll notice the cracks—and not the strength it took to hold the house up anyway.
I worry they’ll notice the cracks, and not the strength I had to find to hold the house up anyway all while navigating bipolar mom guilt.
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Please consider taking a peeksy at some of these posts I wrote as well –
- Please Stop Saying “You Seem Fine To Me”
- Is Bipolar Disorder a Superpower?
- Fear of Mania in Bipolar Disorder
Additional Helpful Information To Read Concerning Bipolar Disorder –
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