Suffering from anxiety as a mother is extremely hard. My only because I constantly worry about those sweet little monsters, but because those sweet little monsters don’t quite understand what an anxiety attack is, and why mommy can’t handle being touched, or sat on, or wrestled.
They don’t understand why mommy is crying, or why she gets up when they try to cuddle. They want to make me feel better when I’m sobbing, and I have to go to another room because I don’t want them to see me this way. They want me to play Batman and be the bad guy, but I can’t unbury my face from the pillow. They are knocking at the door of the room that I’ve locked myself in because I don’t want them to see the horror that is a breakdown. I cry harder because I know that their little arms just want to wrap around me, but I can’t handle the sensory overload of them coming in and yelling for my attention and laying all over me. I cry harder because I know that they just want to give me love. I cry harder because I know that I should suck it up and be a mom, because that is what my mom would tell me to do. I cry harder because I knew if my mom could see me right now she would think I was being a terrible mom, and tell me to get my shit together for my kids. I feel like a bad mom. They deserve better.
I want them to have a mom who doesn’t cry when she gets overwhelmed. I want them to have a mom who doesn’t have to lock herself in the bathroom when she can’t keep it together anymore. I want them to have a mom who isn’t plagued by constant, torturous anxiety.
But I am the mom they have. And I’m trying my best.