Posts Tagged ‘mental health’

It’s the little things

This is a bit of a ramble.  I’ve been staving off the downcycle for a little while now, reminding myself that holidays start tomorrow and my husband will be around, I’m having fun with my science blog and things are generally OK.  I got quite sick this week, but still managed to remain positive.

Then last night hit.  My littlest one doesn’t sleep, and at 2am everything is so much harder.  The world suddenly went from being an OK place to being monotone guilt.  And pointless guilt – everyone else’s kids seem to be doing about the same as mine (or better!), so why am I putting myself through this?  Why don’t I just stick a dummy in her mouth and shut the door?

This morning was playgroup day, which is generally good.  It added to the pointlessness, because everyone else seemed to be coping better than I do (I know, it’s just my perception, but when you’re in the downcycle everything piles on top), but several people thanked me for cutting up the fruit.   It’s just one of the normal jobs, but it was nice to be thanked.  Unfortunately this afternoon I was plunging deeper.  I knew it, but couldn’t do anything about it because everything I do is/has been worthless, so how could anything I tried now be any help?  My husband bought chocolate and listened, my toddler was worried in her own goldfish way, but by that point I just wanted to wallow. 

I couldn’t even look at writing a post because they were all so unrelentingly negative, which added to the guilt – one post a week is a tiny commitment and I can’t even do that.

What turned it around, unexpectedly, was Twitter.  There is a tradition called Follow Friday, where you put up the names of people whose updates you enjoy reading.  The idea is that your followers see these names, and think well if she thinks they’re worth following, maybe I’ll have a look at them too, and you might pick up some more followers.  A couple of people I don’t know other than through Twitter put my name up.  Even better, one of them has recently been voted as one of the top 100 science Tweets to follow, which is pretty important to me (given that I’m ScienceMum and all).  I was flattered enough that he started following me, but being put up for Follow Friday I took as a great honour.  He may not mean it that way, but it certainly boosted me. 

It makes you think.  My husband’s support did nothing – he’s my husband, he has to support me and worry about me (at least he’d better!).  I know several people who will worry when reading this, and while I appreciate it, they’re my friends so that’s sort of their job.  The playgroup Mums are another step removed, and I really did appreciate being thanked.  But when complete strangers say something nice it is so much more important.  I think because we know they have no ulterior motive – they’re definitely not saying it just to cheer you up, so you can trust that they are being honest.  So how much of an impact do we have on the people around us?  How many times have we said something that meant nothing to us but has been really important to somone we hardly even know? 

And more importantly, how often have we thought something but not said it?

Whatever Works

I went to a mothers group meeting once. I was quite new to the group, and I felt a bit nervous. I can’t remember how the subject came up, but one of the other mothers asked me how the Dumpling, then four months old, napped during the day. I explained that we’d moved a mattress into the lounge, so I could lay down with him and feed him to sleep there; and the moment he stirred I’d lay back down beside him quickly to feed him fully to sleep again. I was a little bit apologetic I think as I said, “It’s just easier that way.”

She just smiled at me and said, “Hey, whatever works.”

I remember feeling very relieved at her attitude. It’s something which has stuck in my mind, though, and I refer back to it often. You see, I frequently find myself in a position where I need to go with the “whatever works” option, rather than doing what I think I “should” do as a mother.

You see, I have a mental illness. I have bipolar disorder – Type II Bipolar Affective Disorder, if we want to get fancy about it. Actually, like Stephen Fry, I prefer the term ‘manic depression’, but that name has largely fallen out of use and it seems a bit pedantic to swim against the tide.

People don’t often talk frankly about mental illness, particularly not as it relates to parenting, so I thought I’d share some thoughts from my perspective. Heck, I don’t even talk about it much, mainly because mental illness is largely stigmatised still. If you watch a soap opera and a character has a mental illness, almost without fail they’re dangerous to other characters in some way. Schizophrenia is a convenient excuse for criminal insanity on television and in books. Actually, criminal insanity is a convenient excuse for just about anything, or so it seems sometimes on the 6 o’clock news. It’s not hard to see why people are often uncomfortable with the concept of mental illness.

Even setting aside the all pervasive media for a moment, in reality mental illness carries with it a number of slightly unsettling ramifications. There are several professions which are basically off-limits to people with certain mental illnesses – positions of critical responsibility, like the police, or ambulance service. There are some good reasons for this, and I don’t dispute that even if I sometimes think these policies could be a little more flexible. But the message we receive from these kinds of limits are that people with mental illness can’t be responsible people – they could go nuts at any time.

And have you spent much time with a person who’s having a psychotic episode? It’s disturbing, to say the least. By definition, a mental illness screws with the way a person thinks and behaves. This is way outside many people’s comfort zone.

So if societal attitudes carry an undercurrent (and sometimes a tidal wave) of fear: that people with mental illness are dangerous, crazy, incapable of shouldering responsibility, and just plain weird; it’s no wonder we don’t talk much about people with mental illness becoming parents. Parents are supposed to be stable, and responsible, and people to emulate.

According to SANE Australia, approximately 20% of adults are affected by some sort of mental disorder every year. (SANE factsheet: “Facts and Figures”) Twenty percent. That’s one in five. It stands to reason that there are awful lot of parents out there who suffer some kind of mental illness. I assume most of them are doing a relatively good job, given that civilisation isn’t crumbling around us.

Basically, people with mental illnesses are just like everyone else. Well, as similar to everyone else as everyone else is, anyway. We’ve all got our idiosyncrasies, we’ve all got our peculiar set of problems, and we’ve all got interesting families. Mental illness presents its own particular set of problems, especially where parenting is involved.

It’s not always simple. I have a particular responsibility to balance my health needs with my child’s. I need to pay close attention to my mental health and be compliant with treatment plans, because my son’s wellbeing is directly affected by my own. But there’s room for flexibility, which is good because even when my condition is well managed, episodes are still inevitable.

This is why I return, time and time again, to that mother’s words: “Whatever works.” The truth is that I can’t always be the parent I want to be. When I’m having a depressive episode, my toddler watches a lot more TV than I’d like. I read fewer books to him. We don’t walk to the park, because it’s too hard to get off the couch.

So what do I do? I call in my in laws, and he spends some more time than usual with Grandma and Grandpa. I leave the dishes in the sink, and I remember that he doesn’t care if he eats baked beans on toast for dinner. To be honest, he kind of likes it. Even if he has it three days in a row.

On the flip side, if I’m hypomanic, we have a great time. We dance a lot, and we run around in the playground together. I’m sure that other parents watching us in the park think I’m a little strange: my toddler just thinks I’m awesome. We draw and paint and cut and paste and make cars out of boxes and I run with him in the shopping trolley through the supermarket making “broom, broom!” noises. We sing and dance in public and I don’t care. So I suppose it all balances out.

I worry, frequently, that I’m not a good enough parent. I’m not stable enough, I’m not consistent enough. But the thing is, if I put aside my worries and just look at my child, I see a happy, healthy, confident child who’s developmentally well on track. So my ‘up’ days and ‘down’ days don’t seem to be having a negative effect on him.

Hey, whatever works, right?

Further info and some useful resources:
SANE Australia
COPMI – Children Of Parents with Mental Illness
Beyond Blue
Black Dog Institute