Monster Within

Sometimes I’m a much meaner mom than I want to be, or even thought I could be. When my coping mechanisms are out of order and my son defies a request one too many times, or is just being generally impossible, I react in ways that I’d never want my son to emulate. I can get whiny, exasperated, contemptuous, or even explosive with anger. More than once has my voice hit a volume that can probably be heard by the neighbors. I can remember one, or maybe a handful, of times before parenthood when I screamed that loud. I only hope that this happens to the best of us, because I don’t want to think of myself as a monster. Aren’t the best of us the sweet, accommodating, demure women who try endlessly to anticipate and meet other people’s needs? And isn’t that bending over backwards mentality (even if we aren’t aware of it) the ultimate reason why we are prone to the occasional outburst?

Of course there is no excuse for screaming at a child, even with some generous understanding of how parents can reach that boiling-over point. I can’t bear to think about the frightened look on my son’s face when I yell at maximum volume. It shames me, and I share with hesitation that, as a depressive person, that shame takes me to a very dark place. The same dark place that led my college therapist to stand up and fetch her supervisor during a session because she was concerned for my safety. In that place, I do not want to live with the version of myself that scares my sweet, innocent kid. And he doesn’t either—he will (rightfully) call me a meanie, say he doesn’t want to be with me anymore, and run off.

Then I have to pull myself out of the dark place. Earlier in my life, that was harder to do. I was more prone to what you might call wallowing, but wallowing makes it sound like a choice. A depressed person is a sick person. My sickness kept me emotionally (and sometimes physically) immobilized, and until I had more tools to work with, I tended to get stuck for longer periods. I remember days when I’d be lying down in a dark apartment, feeling nothing toward the sunny, bustling world outside my window, other than its terrible contrast to the emptiness inside me. And then there were times when the emptiness was replaced by cancerous self hatred, usually when I had done something to hurt a person I cared about. My brain undoubtedly inflated the importance of whatever I’d said, to the point where I thought I deserved to curl up and disappear. Or worse, to suffer.

It is not always purely depression. When I have feelings that are overpowering and scary—emotions that my anxious brain magnifies—and somebody gets a peek at them, it feels like I’ve unleashed a monster and need to pay penance for that. This has come into play with my intimate relationships, which have always triggered a kind of OCD, something I plan to write about more in the future. In short, I go through cycles of intense doubt and questioning of my relationships, and become overwhelmed by fear that I do not feel enough desire or love for my partner. Usually I can’t keep that doubt inside, and when my partner sees it and becomes despondent, it sends me into a spiral of self loathing. Once I started banging my head against the wall in front of a boyfriend, when we were at the nadir of that cycle. I needed to show him how bad I felt about the way I was treating him (as I perceived it). And I’ve had other compulsive thoughts about self-harm, though never with real intention.

I have definitely felt unworthy of being a mother after my worst moments. I’ve sobbed, curled up on the couch, dug my fingernails into my own arm. Never showing the extremes in front of my kid; only sometimes in front of my husband. But it’s so much easier to see the light than it used to be. My child, despite how he triggers me, is one of the brightest beacons of hope. It takes only a few breaths for me to recall how genuinely I am needed in this world because of him. So I get up off the couch and begin the work of repairing. Again and again, as many times as it takes.