"Are those vitamins?" Mayzie inquires one rushed school-day morning.
I ponder my answer as I hold my pills in
my hand and look at Mayzie now 4 and Annika now 6. Two of the pills I
hold in my hand are in fact vitamins. The large beige pill is a
multi-vitamin and the small squishy gold one is the extra vitamin D that I take
because I live in the Midwest and don't get nearly enough sunlight. These
two pills are not the issue. My girls take vitamins every day, so they
surely understand the fact that mommy takes them too.
The other 5 pills in my hand are the
issue. There is the long capsule that contains the medicine that
supposedly regulates my serotonin, or something like that. Then I have
the medium-sized round white mood stabilizer, two small white anti-anxiety
pills, and finally a diamond-shaped one that is supposed to boost the power of
the other ones despite the fact that it is marketed as an anti-psychotic.
These are as much a part of my morning regimen as my coffee, and all of
the above will give me a headache if I don't have them.
Yes, I am one of the millions of Americans
that takes psychiatric medication on a daily basis. I am not ashamed of
my mental illness. I come by it honestly with a loooooong family history
of mental illness on both sides of my family, including some
institutionalization (not me) and too many stories to count. No, I do not
believe it to be a moral failing on my part. I refuse to be defined or
stigmatized because of it either. My diagnosis: Mood Disorder Not
Otherwise Specified, which really means that my awesome psychiatrist thinks I
should probably be diagnosed something that isn't recognized in the Diagnostics
and Statistics Manual (DSM) anymore.
I have wrestled with my mental illness for
all of my life. I remember contemplating suicide in the 5th grade.
I got so depressed my senior year of high school that I stopped eating
for a while, but it thankfully never developed into a full-blown eating
disorder. One of the worst episodes happened just after Andy and I got
married. I could NOT get out of bed or stop crying, and I was soo mad at
myself because being a newlywed should have been one of the happiest times of
my life. Funny enough, I never got post-partum depression, despite having
all the predispositions. I have crippling anxiety, which typically leaves
me incapable of making or receiving any phone calls or leaving the house
sometimes too. Our year spent in Germany was especially trying!
Upon our return to the U.S., Andy finally
convinced me to go to a psychiatrist. I am admittedly not a very good
patient. I question everything a medical doctor (or PhD for that matter)
tells me, like the good medical anthropologist that I am. I understand
the cultural patterns of mental illness and the culture of medicine that likes
to throw medicine at people instead of solving underlying issues.
Intellectually, I struggle with my own personal need for medication,
often to my own detriment. I question classification of illnesses,
doctors' intentions, and all things psychiatry related. I read too many
anthropology and medical academic research articles. I am either a
doctor's most hated or most beloved patient, and I can tell. I can
dissect everything, but it always has to come back to my bottom-line of the
fact that I mostly cannot function without taking some sort of psychiatric medication.
The question then becomes: how do I relay
this information to my children without making them think that I'm a sick
person and at the same time convincing them that mental illness happens and is
manageable? How do I teach them in a way that is age appropriate and
won't scare them? How will they process this information? I want
them to understand that I'm alright, and that they shouldn't think about me any
differently because I have a mental illness. I don't want to burden them
with too much information or with worry for their mother. This
conversation isn't in the mother's handbook.
So I sit down at the breakfast table with
the morning light streaming in our back door. I take a deep breath and
gather all the wits and bravery that I can muster. I AM going to have
this conversation this morning. I will answer their questions to the best
of my ability.
Me, "Yes, two of these pills are
vitamins that I take every morning."
Annika, "So what are the other
ones?"
Me, "They are pills that help my
brain work better."
Annika, "Do they make you
smarter?"
Me, "No, they help me think more
clearly."
Mayzie, "Are you sick mama?"
Me, "No buggy, mama's not sick."
Annika, "So why do you have to take
them?"
Me, "My brain doesn't work right.
Sometimes it makes me really sad and I just want to cry. Sometimes
it makes me really scared and I want to hide. But this medicine makes my
brain work the way it is supposed to."
Annika, "Oh, ok. So it keeps you
healthy?"
Me, "Yep. Any other
questions?"
Mayzie, "Can I have some juice?"
And that was that. That was the
whole conversation we had...so far. I know this will come up again.
I know this will be a conversation that happens over and over. For
now, my answers sufficed, but they won't always. As I continue to struggle with my mental
illness, so will I continue to struggle to define it to my children. Difficult conversations are certainly in our
future. For now, mommy’s medicine makes
her brain work better, and that’s all they need to know.