between the broken places

My daughter’s 22nd birthday! When I was her age I was pregnant with her. This fact freaks her out as she proclaims that she has broken the family curse of early parenthood. At 44, I am happy to not yet be a grandparent. (Mom had me when she was 21 and my Grandmother had Mom when she was 18…I see the pattern)

She has just left my house to return home to NJ where she has lived with her father, without me, since she was eight years old. We have a wonderfully, loving relationship considering that we grew up at the same time in different states. My journey into non-custodial motherhood was directly tied to my undiagnosed descent into Bipolar Disorder.

The depression arrived first just after she was born. It was not my first episode but it was the most significant. After 17 hours of labor, my beautiful, blonde haired, blue eyed baby girl was in my arms. Breast feeding was the order of the day and I wanted to do all that I could to be a “good” mother. After three weeks of breast feeding I was such a basket case that I would have an anxiety attack every time she needed to eat. One night when she woke up for her late night feeding, my lack of sleep exploded into a wild anger that I didn’t even understand.

When I went to her crib I looked down on at her and firmly wrapped my hands around each of her little arms and begged her to be quiet. I don’t remember how we got back to my bed but I do remember my fingers slowly wrapping into fists. That’s when I began to shake her, more like pound her into the bed. Thank God that it was a waterbed which allowed my tiny child to simply bounce up and down only a few times before I snapped out of where ever it was that I had slipped to. Quickly releasing my grip, I stumbled back into the wall, fell to the floor and began to sob.

I called the doctor the next day. He told me to stop breast feeding…NOW! I was not to wean her off, I was to stop immediately. I did as I was told and she and I started a more relaxed bonding process. When my second daughter was born I didn’t even attempt to breast feed, I was too afraid of what I could do. I was certain that deep down I was not a good mother.

There were many times over the next eight years that I would lose my temper with little provocation. I worked two jobs while my husband stayed home with the girls; I did this to avoid hurting them. Jackie, my eldest daughter, recently told me that she doesn’t remember her life with me in the house. She was concerned that would hurt my feelings; I think I’m glad her memories are not clear. While I don’t recommend the non-custodial tour of motherhood it seems to have worked out ok for me.