"Goodnight girl," I laugh as I tuck her into bed, kissing the top of her head and trying to avoid the inevitable grab that she gives me, holding my arm, my leg, or any part of my body close to her. Joking around and laughing about how I can't leave her and how I have to stay, to sleep in her bed with her. Prying her arms from around my neck, I drop them to her bed and back away, laughing some more and talking about the outfit that she has laid out on the floor for the next day, hoping that it distracts her before bed. I feel the guilt eating me inside, but I refuse to give in to her playful, passive resistance, knowing that she will be fine and knowing that she will have to learn to trust me again. But still I give her one more kiss, one more hug goodnight.
I have gone through many episodes in the last 5-8 years to do with my mental health. Throughout my episodes, the one thing that remains consistent is that I never wanted to hurt my kids, and during my decision making process, somewhere along the lines I have often decided that they were better off without me. It is one of the biggest lies of mental illness... the one that warps the truth and forces you to see the burden that you have become, the way that you will hinder or hurt your kids if you remain in their lives, or simply if you remain alive at all.
I began to learn about the fear that they experienced - the unknown, the whispers that they put together. Eyes and ears are everywhere when you have kids, and while my husband and I have tried to keep them informed to the appropriate level they are at, there are some things that they still find out... that they piece together... that they share between them. When your front lawn is covered in police cars while they search for their mother, it is impossible to hide. When they eventually come to visit you in a place filled with people from all walks of life, experiencing all kinds of mental illness, it is impossible to hide. When memories and fights assault the adults, when tears begin and don't stop, when words are muttered and heard by little ears... they figure it out. They know. They understand. But they can't understand it all.
I know that when my head starts to shift, that if I don't catch myself, that I might fall again, take a hundred steps back in my recovery - and as a result, theirs. I know it's possible, and I know it's impossible to understand... even those closest to me having a hard time piecing together how I can shift so rapidly, so completely in my thinking. But I know, that I can make a difference now. I can work on myself. I can do whatever is necessary.
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Just a week ago, I pushed her trust to the limit when my husband and I went out late at night to try and catch the Northern lights on camera, leaving the kids at home with the oldest to put to bed. When I came in after midnight I went to her room and made sure she was tucked in, however I didn't wake her up as I knew that she preferred for me to do. Instead I slipped into bed and fell quickly asleep... until an hour or so later when I heard my bedroom door open and felt her presence slip just inside the door for a minute while she monitored the room to ensure that I was there, breathing quietly and leaving as quickly as she came, moving back to her bed and turning on her little television and VHS player - popping a favourite Disney movie in to help her sleep.
"Trust me." I tell her regularly.
"Are you alright?" She asks the second that I seem out of sorts - the tears, the quiet, the headaches, the naps... anything out of routine, and she is aware, checking my status, ensuring that I'm not leaving her.
"I love you." I tell her (and all of my children) daily, sometimes hourly, sometimes more.
"It's just a cold" I say as I sniffle and wipe my nose, her face etched in worry as she watches me closely and cuddles a little more throughout the day.
"I promise, I'm okay." I have to say, more than I should... because she doesn't trust me. She doesn't know... she can't be sure.
"You aren't going to have to go back to the hospital... are you?" She asks quietly, the fear evident in her voice - memories of me being in a locked ward and denying my kids visits, ashamed and unwilling to introduce them to the world that I'm stuck in for the moment.
Out of all four of my children, I see the impact of my decisions the most on my daughter. Although she is 11.5, there are days where she reminds me of a toddler, the way she snuggles and clings to me, insists on sitting just in the same room as me. She doesn't like it when I'm sick, she doesn't like it when I leave, and she is often terrified when I say goodnight.
I have gone through many episodes in the last 5-8 years to do with my mental health. Throughout my episodes, the one thing that remains consistent is that I never wanted to hurt my kids, and during my decision making process, somewhere along the lines I have often decided that they were better off without me. It is one of the biggest lies of mental illness... the one that warps the truth and forces you to see the burden that you have become, the way that you will hinder or hurt your kids if you remain in their lives, or simply if you remain alive at all.
Several times I left home over the past five years. Several times I tried to end my life. Several times I simply thought about it. Several times, I didn't know what to do so I just ran, disappeared without a trace. My mind was paranoid, delusional, warped, and at times psychotic, but the safety and the health of my children always seemed to be constant. But that is where the problem lies... when you think you are doing what is best for them, by hurting yourself or disappearing completely from their lives. To the outside it seems hurtful, unimaginable, and selfish - while in your heart and your head, you feel like you are protecting, loving, and helping.
And after it was said and done, after regaining level status and release from a hospital. After realizing the mistakes that I had made and apologizing for leaving. After explaining mental illness - a sickness of the brain to my kids in terms that were age-appropriate and gave them information without too much detail... after all of that, I started to learn about the aftermath.
I began to learn about the fear that they experienced - the unknown, the whispers that they put together. Eyes and ears are everywhere when you have kids, and while my husband and I have tried to keep them informed to the appropriate level they are at, there are some things that they still find out... that they piece together... that they share between them. When your front lawn is covered in police cars while they search for their mother, it is impossible to hide. When they eventually come to visit you in a place filled with people from all walks of life, experiencing all kinds of mental illness, it is impossible to hide. When memories and fights assault the adults, when tears begin and don't stop, when words are muttered and heard by little ears... they figure it out. They know. They understand. But they can't understand it all.
And so I tuck my kids into bed each night, and each night I give an extra snuggle when needed. I leave the light on, or do a quick groggy wake up when I come in to assure them I'm home. I let them check me over when I've just got a cold, and I tell them I love them as often as they need me to.
I show them that I am earning their trust. I talk to them. I build up our relationships. I show them recovery.
I show them dedication and hard work. I model research, counseling, reading, and talking. I model following a health plan and the doctor's advice. I practice self care, (mostly) healthy eating, the importance of regular exercise, and expressing emotion.
I've seen a glimpse of the aftermath. I know the chaos it causes when a parent decides their children are better off without them.I know the turmoil, the heartache, the mistrust, and the loss of respect. I know the pain, the fear, and the anxiety that comes as a direct result.
I know that when my head starts to shift, that if I don't catch myself, that I might fall again, take a hundred steps back in my recovery - and as a result, theirs. I know it's possible, and I know it's impossible to understand... even those closest to me having a hard time piecing together how I can shift so rapidly, so completely in my thinking. But I know, that I can make a difference now. I can work on myself. I can do whatever is necessary.
And I can fight hard, so that hopefully, with a lot of hard work and support and knowledge, they never have to experience that kind of pain again.
