TG As Mom

For those of you who know me personally, you know my greatest joys and most frequent insecurities come from being a mother. I wonder about my older son, placed for adoption at birth, all the time. I want to know the sound of his voice and know what his hands look like. I question if the space I am trying to respect is what he needs or if I should be trying to contact him, reaching out to him, reiterating my love for him. And for my 17 year old son I worry about his safety and happiness and homework and... everything.

A huge part of my worry and concern is because of the many years I was not a very good mom. I have been treated for most of my life for depression and anxiety and the worst of it was from about 2005 - 2010. My younger son was 8 when I was hospitalized for the first time in his life. Two more hospitalizations followed as did lots of therapy. He was aware of as much was age-appropriate and there weren't secrets kept from him. His little world had essentially turned upside down and he had many, many questions. My family and I tried to address each one in an honest way that wouldn't confuse him or scare him any further.

In 2014, I am much healthier. I take my medication, I have an incredible support system, and a caring, available team of therapists. I am in remission and I am well. I am hopeful that this will last; I have tools I never did before and I am active in my recovery. Yet the worry about the damage I may have done lingers.

I recently asked my younger son if he feels like a character in a TV show we watch. The young man on the program has a mother who has schizophrenia and there are some episodes that touch on the impact her illness has had on his life. My son was quiet for quite some time after I asked and then said he wasn't sure how to answer the question. It seems that even handling a bad situation in the best way possible you still aren't able to change it to a good one. And while my son will have empathy and understanding and patience that was born from my illness, I wish he didn't have to have them. I wish he didn't know the difference between a psychiatrist and a therapist. I wish that his life hadn't been infringed upon by my depression, my anxieties, my illness. But he does know and it did affect him. So I am grateful for the amazing, compassionate, easy-going young man he is. And I am blessed beyond measure to be his mom.