Parenting from bed

I have struggled with my mental health since the on-set of puberty. Over time, it has only gotten worse. What started out as a diagnosis of Major Depressive Disorder ballooned into Bipolar and has now settled on Schizoaffective-Bipolar along with Generalized Anxiety Disorder and I suspect Panic Disorder. Needless to say, I struggle to make it through the day most days. I take five medications a day and they still only blunt the symptoms instead of taking them completely away. I struggle to get up, I struggle to clean, I struggle with basic hygiene and I struggle to stay sane. And my sanity is tested on a daily basis because I have three children.

I have bad days. Very bad days. Days that are so bad that my parents scoop my children up and keep them for days at a time because I am unable to get out of bed for days at a time. It’s a good bought of depression if I don’t end up at the psychiatric hospital. A simple errand throws me into a panic attack and an unexpected knock on the door sends me into crisis mode. My panic attacks are uncontrollable seizure like events where I lose control of my body and sometimes pull out my own hair. Some days, just sitting up in bed is an accomplishment.

I push myself out of bed, off the couch, because my kids need me. Every day I push as hard as I can to give all that I can to my children. But some days, I just can’t. I just can’t.

Those are my worst days. I retire to the bed, collapsing on the mattress, wrapping myself in a blanket cocoon. I lose the ability to speak full sentences. I don’t sleep, I just lay there for hours and hours, staring at the wall. It is impossible to parent in that state of mind so usually my husband takes over, or my parents come get the kids for a few days while I recover.

My 9-year-old recently asked why I spend so much time in bed. It broke my heart. I was kind of hoping that she wouldn’t notice, but she did. I explained that mommy has a brain sickness that causes me to spend a lot of time in bed. I don’t think she understood. It’s hard to understand as an adult. It’s hard to comprehend what it is like to experience it unless you’ve been there. And in my case, not many people have. So for a child to comprehend what I mean when I say I can’t, or I say that I’m sick several days in a row but show no physical symptoms, is near impossible.

Parenting from bed is painful because it’s not parenting at all. The three days I spend in bed is three days away from my children. Three days my husband has to sail the ship alone. Three days, wasted in bed.

I want to get up, I want so badly to get up, but I can’t. I just can’t. Some days I’m at 30%, I sit on the couch but I am not exactly active. Some days, many days, I am 100% and I am super mom. But some days, many days, I am 0%. I sob uncontrollably in the living room, silently, so I don’t draw attention to myself. As soon as my husband gets home from work I crawl into bed. Some days, I get into bed before he gets home and I parent from bed until he is home. I want to get up, I don’t want to waste my time in bed. I want to go, do and be. But instead I just am. I am just laying in bed for 72 hours and I hate it.