I love being a mother. I felt I became myself when I brought my son home. It was the first time I had ever experienced true contentment in my life.
As my son got older I started to be pulled away from that serenity.
Back into life, the real world, or so they say.
But let me start from the beginning.
I am a wife and mother.
I also happen to suffer with anxiety and depression.
Looking back on my life I realized these “episodes” started very early on.
One of my first memories was when I was about three or four years old. I was sitting on my parents bed alone looking around the room and everything seemed distorted. Almost moving in a way. I was having a panic attack and I didn’t know what it was.
My childhood was, according to my mother, stressful. She suffers from mental illness as well.
Without going into details I will just say my condition comes from certain traumas in my life as well as genetics.
Mental illness. Trauma. It seems very strange to see those words written down for all to see. Written by my hand.
It feels good.
So that’s my back story.
I have no idea where this blog will go…but I know the one thing that is hard about being a wife, mother or just grown up woman in general, is the expectation to be perfect and the indifference of the people around watching us drown when we find out we aren’t or not lending a hand when we are exhausted from trying.
Life can be lonely.
But today I have decided to live my best life.
Not the perfect one, and probably not very conventional, but it will be mine.