I’m trying to be a good mom, but my intrusive thoughts are haunting me
In between sips of his orange creamsicle martini (a request for his 67th birthday brunch), my dad repeats “Grandpa Mickey, Grandpa Mickey, Grandpa Mickey” to my 1-year-old son. I smile as Joey pokes his grandpa’s nose, accepts his kisses and continues to learn who and what he is. As we wait for my husband to finish our omelets, we sit in the living room with my mom, my brother and my sister-in-law. We try to carry on easy conversations, but Joey steals much of our attention.
When my dad’s phone rings, he removes it from his pocket, lighting up when he sees who’s calling — his friend Tim from Myrtle Beach, where my parents live part-time. As my dad thanks his buddy for the birthday wishes, I think, “I’ll probably have to call this guy when he dies.”
And just like that, the thoughts are back.
These thoughts about my dad’s death weren’t anything new. They didn’t come up because his birthday reminded me that he’s getting older. And they didn’t come up because he’s sick or dying. They’re thoughts that come frequently these days — without warning. They’re unwelcome, unprovoked and almost always accompanied by paralyzing thoughts of my mom’s death.
When I think about my parents dying, my mind often takes them both away simultaneously, as if one could not live without the other (I kind of think that’s beautiful). Other times, I imagine what’ll be like if just one of them is gone. Both scenarios break me — and I’m already broken.
Of course, plenty of people struggle with intrusive and obsessive thoughts, and plenty of people fear their parents’ deaths — whether they are parents themselves or not. I know I’m not alone. But I’ve been told my thoughts are a symptom of my mental illness: bipolar II. I was in my 20s when I was diagnosed with the mood disorder after being treated for general depression and anxiety for years. I had been going through life with bad wiring, battling against a messed-up mind — one that’s home to the most verbally abusive voice I’ve ever heard, and one that brings the kind of pain that takes over my entire body, making each sunrise seem impossible to tackle and each sunset an indication of a wasted day, a wasted life.
While I have my mood disorder mostly under control thanks to medication and therapy, the obsessive thinking remains. My mental illness has always made it nearly impossible for me to live in the now. I’m either replaying something from the past, thinking of all the things I should’ve done differently or worrying about what could happen — usually, the worst things that could possibly happen.
This whole inability to be in the moment bothers me now more than it ever has before. Because I’m a mom now. And that means there’s magic happening around me constantly — developments, discoveries, transformations — all these amazing things that I want to be both physically and mentally present for. But I’m not.
A week or so ago, after emptying the tissue box and tossing about 100 Q-tips into the bathtub, Joey moved onto the bathroom drawers. “Please put that back, Joey. That’s mommy’s medicine,” I said to him as he started to shake one of my prescription bottles like a rattle.
“Med-cin,” Joey said, placing it back in the drawer.
“Yes, medicine.”
As I returned to my tired reflection in the mirror, continuing in my efforts to get ready for the day, I shook my head in disappointment.
Every day, my son is learning new words, repeating just about everything he hears. In the initial moments that followed this exchange between Joey and me, I felt mad at myself for teaching him the word “medicine,” like it’s profanity. Instead of celebrating my son adding another word to his vocabulary, my mind immediately went somewhere else.
I jumped to a day in the future, where Joey is old enough to ask questions like, “Why are you taking medicine, Mommy? Are you sick?” I played out the conversation we’ll have in my mind, imagining different reactions of his as I try to explain what mental illness is. Despite being prepared for this inevitable talk, I’m worried I won’t do an adequate job and whatever I say, or don’t say, will leave him feeling scared and confused. I pictured him going to bed, unable to sleep, overcome with fear that he’ll get “sick” one day, too. After all, that is what I’m most afraid of — of him experiencing the kind of suffering that I have, and of having the kinds of thoughts that I had (that I have).
Sometimes, I’m right there — with my mind as much as every other part of me. I’m right there with my son, who is the first human whose breath I’ve ever loved the smell of and my all-time favorite dance partner. He fills my chest with a heavy heat, but hollows out my stomach — and he gives me the deepest sense of belonging I’ve ever known. And when I’m focused on all this, and all of him, I forget about my mental illness. But when I’m watching my mom give him a bath while also envisioning myself typing her eulogy at our kitchen table, I’m well aware that something is wrong with me, well aware that I’m broken.
When I finally received what I believe to be an accurate diagnosis, I was relieved. For almost a decade, I tried to find a solution to my struggles—a pill that would quiet the tortuous voice inside me. I was prescribed what felt like every SSRI out there by doctors and nurse practitioners who never spent more than 25 minutes with me. I went through the special kind of torment that is weaning off these types of drugs and starting all over again. It was a long, painful process.
Finding the right provider and the right medication was vital to my survival. For more than 10 years, I’ve taken a mood stabilizer and antipsychotic every day. There have been a few times over the years, after long stretches of mood stability, where I’ve tried to get off my medications, curious if I’d be OK without them. Every time I’ve done this, I’m quickly reminded, no — I’m not OK without them. I need them.
I need them because I want to see the world in vivid, mesmerizing light. Not behind a dark shade. And because I want to live my life without debilitating disturbances — without moments that rob me of joy, self-esteem and logic. But mostly, I need them because I have this beautiful boy to raise.
My providers help me understand the connection between the thoughts about my parents and my bipolar disorder.
“There’s an increase in rumination and obsessive negative thinking with mood instability,” Vera Imperiale, a psychiatric nurse practitioner in Albany, New York, and the person who helped me find the right meds all those years ago, tells me. “People with bipolar get triggered easier and have more emotional dysregulation than people without mental health issues.”
Her response comforts me a little, sort of offering an explanation for why this is happening.
I’m also working with a therapist to stop the intrusive thoughts, or at least find ways to better cope with them. When he tells me we can work on this, I believe him. And I know it will be work, but I’m used to that. I’m used to putting in the effort it takes to manage this illness and what it brings.
These intrusive thoughts about my mom and dad are what’s currently troubling me, but next week they could be about something completely different. Perhaps they’ll return their focus to my son, as they do from time to time. At a month old, when Joey had surgery on his stomach, I was overcome with horrifying visions of his surgeon telling me he died on the table, or that they discovered an inoperable tumor. I even thought of him being taken from the hospital — a movie-esque kidnapping story. Later, when he began to walk, I’d imagine freak accidents, where he’d end up paralyzed from the neck down.
I’m aware that many parents may catastrophize from time to time. They may envision worst-case scenarios, worry about unlikely tragedies. But I think the difference for me is that these thoughts can come at any point—at bath time, while reading “Oh No, George!” or as Joey dances to Diana Ross and the Supremes. And these interruptions come often, despite how stable my condition is. Maybe that’s the part of my bipolar that cannot be treated, the part that will always linger in the background like an uninvited guest.
I plan to work on this in the coming weeks, or however long it takes, because I know that I need to stop these thoughts from consuming me. Because I’m missing too much — too many moments with that amazing little boy I made — broken and all.
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This article was originally published on TODAY.com
