My daughter saw me crying
Early last winter, I was working through decluttering and packing up my household in advance of a big move.
I came across some of my daughter's creations in the basement. Numerous pictures and hand-drawn storybooks bound by pipe cleaners or staples. Treasures that, however impractical, I was likely to haul across the continent.
I paused my packing for a moment and picked one up called Mommy and Me. The book followed a stick figure mother and daughter, both with voluminous hair and eyelashes - thank you very much - happily living their best lives. Each masterpiece was accompanied by an adorable and grammatically imperfect caption:
Mommy and me go to the dog park with Nash [our dog].
Mommy and me go to the grocery store.
Mommy and me watch movies.
Mommy cries about work.
My heart sank. There was a stick figure me with outrageously proportioned teardrops dripping down from those unattainable lashes. A stick figure daughter was looking up in sympathy.
I was completely gutted and felt like the worst parent alive.
While I had some significant struggles, I thought, I hoped, that I was hiding everything from her, the worst of it anyway. The role of a mom, as I saw it, was to see her cry, so I could help her fix whatever was wrong, but never the other way around.
Wracked with guilt for not handling myself with more poise, I continued to pack while my discovery haunted me for months.
Looking back on the history documented in Mommy and Me chronicles, I remember reserving my darkest moments for solitude. Though there was the odd breakdown that I couldn't help, I was certain that my depression and anxiety were safely concealed from view. Since my friends and colleagues were none the wiser, my performance was an obvious "success."
When things were especially bad, I reached out to a doctor for help at one point but then found it difficult to assure her, and she didn't believe me that I would never harm myself. The truth was, it wasn't okay. I felt alone, worthless and completely without purpose. I was not classically suicidal. However, I still harboured the disposition that: "well, if I overdose tonight and I don't wake up tomorrow, it won't matter." [As a disclaimer, this thought only came when I was in an empty house. Child safely at her father's.]
That thought alone was barbaric - not for me, but for her. It would have fucking mattered. It would have mattered a lot. Also, the nerve that I thought anything I was harbouring would have gone undetected by the person closest to me. What worried me most was exactly how much she could tell was wrong? And how much long-term damage had I caused?
It took years after those shakey doctor's visits, but eventually, I began making small changes. Finally, the clouds were lifting. But the high-visibility atmosphere around me just revealed the damage left by the storm. While most of it was contained to my own backyard, I worried there were likely some metaphorical shingles torn off my daughter's roof.
I relayed this story to a therapist last spring. Who offered a new perspective on things, offering the consolation that my daughter saw me go through a tough time and then saw me get myself out of it. We all experience a full range of emotions from time to time. This could be something that she could remember when facing her own adversity in the future. Understanding that it's okay to cry and break down, and when it's over, you'll pick yourself up and move on. Things will work out and you will be okay again.
She reminded me that is exactly what I did. And that while she noticed the weaker moments, it's obvious - mainly from the drawings - that the happy memories I gave her far outnumbered the bad. To quote Douglas Coupland: nothing very, very good and nothing very, very bad lasts very, very long. Though hopefully, the very, very good times we give to our children and loved ones far outweigh those very, very bad times.
Going back to the book. After the defeated "Mommy cries..." page, it continued…
Mommy and me go for ice cream.
Mommy and me eat dinner.
Mommy and me go to the library to read.
And so on…
While she noticed it and it registered, luckily it was just one page in an otherwise happy story.
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There are some excellent resources out there if you or anyone you know need them. Below are just a few spaces where I found support. Though it's different for everyone. I would suggest throwing absolutely everything at the wall - if it's running, swimming, tarot cards - it's your healing; you get to choose what helps.
If you think you need a therapist or counsellor, my advice is that you shop around. If your counsellor or therapist doesn't feel right, it's probably because they aren't right! By all means, don't stay with a counsellor that's making you feel worse.
BetterHelp can hook you up with a counsellor, just someone to talk to if you're feeling lost or alone. They have SMS chat, phone and video chat options. I recommend this one for more in-the-moment incidents.
Psychology Today can help you find a licensed psychotherapist who can help you do some deeper digging. Finally, found one who was incredible, even though she made me cry.
Tempest is a safe community for women and transwomen to find support to work through addiction issues. What's best about Holly Whitaker's take on addiction is her eye-opening discoveries of what addiction does to the brain. There are various programs offered, but if they're not what you need, her other resources may be of interest. For example, Recovery Roundup, Holly's newsletter, has a free subscription option. You can also buy or borrow her How to Quit Like a Woman: The Radical Choice to Not Drink in a Culture Obsessed with Alcohol.