Struggling with depression again as I have been a bit lately, I’ve come to finally accept something about myself: I really don’t possess the selflessness necessary for this being-a-mother thing.
Depression has magnified this lack, I think. Or perhaps I’m just more aware of it, as I’m more myopic and sensitive to all of my shortcomings and failings — as a friend, partner, writer, boss, human being, all of it, all of it. And it’s a form of self-centeredness in itself, the daily accounting of what I lack, how I have fallen short, how I have disappointed. All of this, the countless facets of my deficiency, are thrown into stark relief most when I deal with my daughter because she above all other people on this planet earth requires and requests so much of me on a daily basis. The things she wants, the energy she needs, her questions that require answers, the endless barrage of busywork and errands related to taking care of another, much-less-able human being, is just so, so exhausting. And by “exhausting” I don’t even mean tiring or physically draining. I mean that, in my case at least, it exhausts ME, who I am. That it drains not just energy from me, but my sense of self, whatever it is I’ve come over the course of 38 years to think of as my identity, and the integrity of my mind.
In the past when I had nothing else, no other star to guide my ship by, I’ve always relied on the girding strength of my own persona, and felt certain that whatever else was true of me my character was a stalwart force, my mind formidable. These things were constant and would not fail me. But when I became a mother, whole years seemed to pass in which I did not feel I was myself at all, in which I — the “I” I recognized as me, who it is that I understand myself to be — kind of wasn’t there anymore. And not in the Now I’m A Mom And I’ve Changed And Adapted Myself To Fit This New Reality sort of way. No, I was not a new version of me modified to accommodate a child. I just wasn’t there. *POOF*
Babies and young children compel parents to put their own needs aside, and that’s what I did I guess, but to the absolute extremity. It wasn’t a thought process, a decision I made, to give up myself in order to be a mother. Maybe who I am isn’t, at bottom, all that compatible with motherhood, at least not in its common Selfless Giving Self-Sacrificial manifestation. And if that’s true, perhaps I had to erase myself to be what I needed to be for my daughter in her early years. I’m not quite sure, honestly. Those years are gone now.
The love I feel for my daughter is enormous. I can’t even wrap my head around that kind of love sometimes, it’s so big. And its profundity is what has kept me going even when I’ve been mired in the blackest tar pit of depression — it is the infallible engine inside me that will not quit even when my spirit collapses. But this Fall, when she turned 6 and entered Kindergarten, it truly felt as though I’d emerged from exile. Depression, which had accompanied my self-erasure, lifted. And I saw myself (or, rather, my self) again as I had before, for the first time in years. I felt myself to again be singular Me, not The-Woman-Who-Is-Mother-To-My-Daughter. Maybe it’s horrible to say this, but I felt liberated, glad that my daughter was finally old enough and self-sufficient enough to be gone most of the day, because it meant I could be blissfully alone with myself again, the self I’d misplaced for years.
In the 6 months since, I’ve struggled to not feel intensely protective of my time and energy, to not feel I’m operating at a 6-year-long time deficit and want to hoard every moment I can for myself and only myself because I am owed. I’m trying to find a middle ground, one in which I don’t fall too in love with the return of my independence and singularity, in which I don’t disappear into the mirror reflecting back to me the long lost self I’ve missed so much. It’s hard, though. A few weeks ago I went out and bought something close to a whole new wardrobe, and it was the first time I’d bought any substantive clothing for myself in years. I’d considered my own needs and desires incidental for so long I’d forgotten how to take care of myself, to be good to myself. It’s shocking to realize that now. It makes me incredibly sad to think of it.
Of course I don’t blame my daughter for any of this. She was and is beautiful and perfect, and I very much wanted her, and I would do everything again to have her here with me now. I do wonder though if any of it could have been different for me, or if the part of me that holds the equipment necessary to being a mother is simply broken, damaged, incomplete.
I’d thought for a time about having a second child, about giving my daughter a sibling, something she’s wanted. And I’d like to give that to her, I would. But I’ve realized I can’t. Because as much as she wants a brother or sister, I, in my selfishness, need me more.
. . . . .
This post was picked for Five Star Friday, “The best of what’s being thought and said on the web.” (I’m so totally honored, thank you!)
