As I lay in bed with her, our
heads resting on the lap of Big Murphy, her oversized stuffed bear, I stroked
her face, silently begging Jesus to help me to help her. “Heal her. Make it better.” Meanwhile, my mind doubted His willingness to do
so. After all, at 34, I have my own
bouts of anxiety and depression. As her heartbeat
raced, I could feel my own begin to speed up.
“It’s going to be okay,” I said, trying desperately to believe my own
words.
I silently wondered, as I have many other nights, if it truly would be okay. Or would she succumb to vulnerabilities marked by low self-esteem, low self-confidence, poor body image, and extreme intuition and worry? I have battled these demons for years; but I truly thought that THIS would be the generation where it would end. I wrongfully thought that parentally encouraging her in her gifts, telling her she is beautiful and a child of God, of trying hard to let her be unique in whatever ways she chooses to express herself (with limits of course), and focusing on her intellect, would save her from the distress of those susceptibilities mentioned above.
But perhaps this is the generation where we finally have a name for it: A medical diagnosis of anxiety and depression.
However, those terms are only a starting point, as now I must advocate for her, constantly, in order that this diagnosis would be taken seriously. Over the past year, I have been blamed for poor mothering, lack of structure, and lack of spiritual guidance (which I do not doubt are true at times…but grace…where is grace?). Meanwhile, she has been labeled stubborn, dangerous, dramatic, and overly sensitive.
I cannot blame others though. One’s paradigm is given to him by his ecosystem and through a lack of education on current societal issues. I have had to come to terms with the fact that maybe they will never understand. I do not need their approval of a diagnosis in order to move forward with her healing. I do not need their affirmation in order to advocate for her. This is where the rubber truly meets the road though. This is where I must press in, lean in, and call the shots. The caveat to this is that calling the shots does not come natural to me. I must step outside of my passive, people-pleasing skin and stand up for what I believe is essential to my daughter’s well-being. I tell myself each time that if I did it while living in Italy, in a foreign language and amongst their extreme cultural ignorance, I certainly can do it here.
And so I move forward. One step at a time. With many a breakdown in between.
As mothers, we carry the weight of our children’s hurts literally on our chests. I feel it when I think of her future. I feel it when she wakes up in the morning and I know she cannot stop the thoughts, no matter how hard she has tried before making her way to breakfast. I feel it when I think of her going to bed late because she couldn’t stop worrying about school the next day. All of the coping skills in the world (and as a children's therapist, I know many), do not help in that moment. Her reddened cheeks and shortened breath. The dark circles and sweaty palms. The stomach aches. The headaches. I want to sweep her up in my arms and turn her into a baby again…controlling every moment of her day and her environment. I want to watch her sitting in the cart at Target as a baby, smiling at strangers as they pass by. I want her to be 18 months, singing in her bed in the morning, shouting intermittently, “Momma….Mommmmmmma! I wake!” I want to take her to the park and push her in a swing. I want to watch her dress up in princess costumes and dance around in circles. Carefree. Not a prisoner to her mind.
Watching my children suffer from mental health issues is something I never considered when dreaming of a family. I thought of babies and toddlers and preschoolers. I thought of curly hair and chubby legs and little feet. I thought of tutus and baby dolls and dance classes. I never considered my daughter standing outside of her gymnastics class, telling me the reason she won’t take off her shorts like all of the other girls is because her thighs are too fat. I didn’t think about how she would ask me every few minutes if she looks sick. I didn’t consider moments of rage, of helplessness, of her wanting to die.
But here we are. Caught somewhere between desperation and hope; between sorrow and joy. I have learned to observe more...to rejoice when I see her playing as a child should. As a photographer, I have learned the beauty of capturing these moments...because I need often to return to them, in order that i can remember that it is NOT all bad. I have learned that therapy is a necessity for me, if only to process this pain. I have also learned that I cannot be a therapist for my daughter. This is a release for me and I am so thankful for so many people who have reminded me that it's okay to be her mommy and not her counselor. Grace for myself does not come easy; but I'm learning it is necessary in order to extend grace to her, particularly in the moments of rage.
I believe the journey through anxiety and depression with my daughter is one whereby God can intervene in a way that gives depth to her relationship with him. On a good day, I see hope for her. I can see how strong she is and how this weakness has the capacity to make her even that much stronger.
The Serenity Prayer hangs on my refrigerator, as a reminder of the balance between acceptance and change. Through this journey with my brave, amazing, and sweet daughter, I am learning to allow difficulty to be present and to not fight against it. I am learning to ask for wisdom to know when I need to help her press in and when it's simply okay to let up.
"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. Living one moment at a time; enjoying one moment at a time; accepting hardships as the pathway to peace."
