It’s important to discuss mental health with your children. They will learn from us, as parents through watching us. We can tell them what we want them to do, but that doesn’t mean they’ll copy it. Mental health is one of those things that you can’t just pick up. I watched my parents, swore I wouldn’t be like them, then reverted to their exact image when faced with difficulties. I can be confrontational like my Mom or ignore a problem like my Dad, but when I’m not angry, I will deny, deny, deny. I’m rational and caring. Any aloof attitude will be blamed on being an Aquarius, because I can’t control my sun sign.

This pandemic, we’re all dealing with bullshit and fuckery. There’s the loss of loved ones, acquaintances, and I’m sure a few frenemies. There’s been job loss, and supply chain shortages. We’ve seen some of the worst aspects of big business and we’ve seen some really great small businesses fall to what seems like an avoidable situation. In hindsight, of course. We’re staring down the barrel of World War III and trying to come to terms with the every day microaggressions or structural racism in our own country. It’s a lot.

It’s been a rough pandemic and in full transparency, I’m not okay right now. Owning that is okay. I should clarify that I’m not a danger to myself or anyone else. The stress is just manifesting as different things in my body. I’m in therapy. I’m going to the doctor. Above all, I’m practicing self care and I will be okay. This isn’t my first time dealing with these things, but this time I’m much better prepared.

Personally, I’ve lost four jobs a lot earlier than I planned. One is calling me back for another short term job. In the spaces without a toxic boss and constant fight or flight, I have begun to unpack the many ways I was retraumatized. I’ve stopped long enough to let things settle and break what I stopped trying to hold together. It’s messy and painful.

I lost a childhood friend in the spring of 2020, my ex-step mother in law that summer, and my oldest sister at the very end of 2020. A very short while later, 2021 took my ex-father in law and 2022 took my dog of 15 years. She died in my arms just after the month where I had 3 different biopsies, none are cancerous, but all are being watched in case they change their minds. I was officially diagnosed with complex PTSD, anxiety and major depressive disorder, but that felt like peace because I already knew what I had. The major panic attack in a Walmart told me about the anxiety. I’m struggling to walk with plantar fasciitis on both feet, that also have bone spurs. I started with tennis elbow and threw carpal tunnel in both hands on top of it, with neck strain. My body doesn’t want me to work, but my shopping addiction does. I moved away from everyone I know, and my liberal ass ended up in a very conservative and Christian city that has a sundown town that I might be brave enough to venture into, for the sake of an antique store. (No promises, so don’t hold my beer just yet.) Along the way, shared custody became full time custody and I miss the spaces alone. Through it all, there’s been a balance of really good things happening, but that’s not the point of this post.

Talking about mental health begins long before it becomes a safety issue.

I talked to my kids about how I’m doing and it was part of an ongoing discussion that we’ve had for many years. When I learned how weak my boundaries were during therapy in 2015, I wanted to make sure I taught my kids how to understand emotional abuse and set stronger boundaries. I still remember how fragile I felt when my therapist had me repeat over and over that I was an abused woman. She was right to do so. It removed the feeling of powerlessness over the situation by naming it until the pain became numb.

For the boys, it started small with things they didn’t have to share. It was a toy. It was about autonomy over their bodies. They didn’t have to hug relatives anymore. It was about private spaces and honoring “No,” as a complete sentence. It was about sharing how they felt without worrying about getting in trouble for it. My kids can tell me they’re angry with me, or that they disagree with me as long as it’s respectful. We don’t call each other names, but we do call each other out. We don’t have mantrums to manipulate, but tears of frustration and pain are met with hugs.

We’ve talked about feelings that are so big that sometimes we need help to deal with them. We talk to each other, or our friends. Sometimes we get into therapy. I was so proud of my son the first and second times he told me he needed to be in therapy. We talked about how temporary feelings can be. We talked about asking for help and continuing to ask for help.

Choosing transparency and vulnerability.

It wasn’t an immediate decision to tell my kids about my current struggle with depression. I also didn’t hide anything. I had chest pain a few months ago. It was anxiety and why I started therapy. My kids were told I’d be closed off in my bedroom while I was in session. They respect that boundary every other week.

From the time I was let go from my most recent job (for completing a 2 month contract in a week), I had been escaping all day. I was gone more than when I was leaving the house for work and Kid3 called me on it. I was running away on a day trip, or going from store to store, and checking out museums I already didn’t love. I was exploring my city, but I was reachable. When I was home, I wasn’t gardening but playing a game on my phone, or swiping through an endless stream of videos or social media posts. I was busy enough to ignore my feelings.

It was time to talk to my kids.

Depression isn’t always just feeling sad. It’s not always about hopelessness and wanting to harm yourself.

Sometimes depression means having a hard time getting out of bed, or doing small chores. My cat knocked over a plant and it took a couple of months to get the dirt off the carpet. Sometimes it’s not being able to shower or it’s forgetting to eat until your body is weak and trembling from hunger. I was getting alerts from an email or text message and it felt like an overwhelming mountain to climb with sudden pressure on my shoulders. I had been living under this weight for most of 2021, but it had gotten worse over the last few weeks.

I talked to each kid separately. I described how I wasn’t out of bed for long, and how I wasn’t showering consistently. I talked about escaping. My kids understood because they had also experienced these things. My vulnerability allowed them to be compassionate and express empathy. The privacy gave them the space to ask any questions they had.

My kids know me well and any change in my behavior is easy to internalize from the perspective of a child. You’re their world, so it makes sense that they would be yours as a parent. I’ve always pointed out that they don’t make me angry, and they don’t make me lose my shit. My ability to manage my emotions depends on how I’m doing at any given moment. They are consistent, but how I’m doing might change from day to day. Their hugs always help me manage my feelings, but it’s still up to me to gain control of myself.

I also explained that what I felt wasn’t their fault or responsibility.

I let them know I wasn’t a danger to myself or them, but I also explained what my personal warning signs are. I pointed out that I’m not drinking alcohol and I don’t do drugs. The cigars I smoke are about the same amount as I usually enjoy. And I could stand to spend less money on bullshit we don’t need.

I also pointed out the times they would need to confront me to be a better Mom to them. The last time this happened was right after the start of my separation in 2015. I was in a deep depression and my oldest had to remind me to cook dinner for them. One night Kid3 asked me to read bedtime stories to all of them. Kid1 took over reading for me when my crying was uncontrollable. They’ve seen worse than my poor personal hygiene. We got through that and I got better. That point of reference reminded them that we’ll get through this too.

If I start self medicating with alcohol or drugs, or start spending time with some random man that we all know isn’t shit, I need an intervention.

If I start doing dangerous things, remind me that there’s only one of me and they still need me. Climbing on the roof to check out the HVAC doesn’t count. I would do that when happy because extreme independence is just another one of my quirky trauma responses.

I might not be okay, but I know I will be. And my kids know it too.