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In 2014, a photo of my son and I appeared in the elementary school yearbook. In the picture, he’s at his book fair, wearing a striped t-shirt and flashing a proud smile, his eyes sparkling with joy as he shows off his new chapter books and a cat poster I succumbed to buying. He looks adorable.
I, on the other hand, don’t appear adorable at all. I barely resemble myself. My usually bright smile is forced and stretched, and I’m hunched behind him, seemingly trying to conceal myself. The most telling aspect of the image is my eyes—void of light or expression, they resemble lifeless black marbles.
Every time I recall that photograph, an overwhelming wave of sadness washes over me, dragging me back to a painful time I can hardly revisit. I have to remind myself that those years are behind me; I know what I must do to maintain my well-being. Life now is significantly different from what it was then. Back then, a friend’s misguided encouragement led me to stop my antidepressants—a decision I deeply regret.
My journey into clinical depression began in January, as the boys were settling into the second half of their school year. My oldest was well-established in 5th grade, while my youngest was entrenched in 2nd grade, and soon I found myself barely managing as a mother.
One of the most prominent symptoms I experienced was psychomotor retardation, characterized by slowed speech, reduced movement, and impaired cognitive function. However, this brief description hardly captures what I was enduring.
When people think of “decreased movement” in major depression, they often default to the stereotype of being unable to get out of bed. While the struggle to roll over and place my feet on the ground is a significant challenge, my experience encompassed much more than that. My movements became stiff and mechanical, as if my body were made of iron. Even more distressing were the moments I felt “stuck.” I could take a few steps, but then my feet would feel like they were glued to the ground, leaving me stranded, sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for what felt like an eternity. When the school bell rang and I was still far from the entrance, I often had to concede and send the boys ahead, feeling both relief and exhaustion as I slowly made my way home.
Cognitive impairment is another term that may not resonate with most. For me, it manifested as significant struggles with memory and focus. I didn’t need to assist my oldest with his studies—he was always on top of things—but my youngest was unpredictable, and his assignments often ended up lost in the depths of his backpack. Helping him with his homework became an insurmountable challenge. I never thought I, a seasoned English teacher, would struggle to help him write a paragraph about puffins, unable to recall simple words like “flight.” Basic math became a jumble of numbers that left me feeling utterly defeated.
“Slowed speech” seems straightforward, but my communication difficulties went beyond mere speed. My boys learned to navigate the oddities in my speech, but parent-teacher conferences were a nightmare. I would stumble and hesitate, trying to string together coherent thoughts while simultaneously hoping not to exceed our scheduled time. As teachers discussed test results, I was preoccupied with rehearsing what I would say next, much like a shy child counting down to their turn to read aloud.
Years ago, I remember discussing a student being home-schooled due to her depression with fellow teachers, who couldn’t comprehend how a child could miss school because she was “sad.” The issue isn’t that most people don’t understand clinical depression; rather, they’re convinced they do.
If I had merely been “sad” during those years, it would have been a relief. My reality was a complex blend of despair, guilt, physical pain, and exhaustion—not the ideal conditions for motherhood.
When I ask my sons about those years, they recall me as “being on the couch a lot.” Yet, they also share stories of their experiences, like how their friend Max tried to kiss every boy in gym class or how Mrs. Johnson rewarded students with candy for learning state names. I am grateful that both boys, now in high school and college, have thrived and enjoyed school’s myriad offerings, creating memories that differ vastly from my own.
For more insights on similar topics, check out this blog post and explore resources on pregnancy at the World Health Organization. If you’re interested in enhancing your fertility journey, you can find helpful information on fertility supplements at Make A Mom.
Summary
This piece reflects the struggles of a mother battling clinical depression while raising young children. It sheds light on the debilitating effects of the illness, including physical and cognitive impairments, and contrasts her painful memories with her sons’ more positive recollections. Ultimately, it emphasizes hope and resilience in overcoming adversity.
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