do you mean by society?”
“Our culture sends a clear message to women: good mothers are calm, loving, and willingly sacrifice themselves for their children. When you fall short of those expectations, the problem isn’t that we have created an unattainable myth of mothering, but that you are a failure and broken.”
“That’s how I feel; I am a failure.”
“What do you think when you wake up?”
“Another chance to feel bad all day.”
“Do you think you are depressed?”
“I don’t know. I have a great husband, great kids, and a great job. How can I be depressed?”
“It’s very common.”
“Sometimes it’s good. Like yesterday, when the rain cleared, the kids and I went on a rainbow and puddle hunt. I felt genuinely happy then.”
“Sure. But what keeps you up at night?”
“I feel like I could not survive without my husband or my colleagues, but that they would be totally fine without me. What does that make me?”
“Depressed. Let’s get you some medication for now.”
“Will that help me get more done?”
“It’s not about getting more accomplished; it’s about feeling better,” she says, laughing a little.
“But if I take the meds to feel better, then that proves that I am a depressed person. And I have no reason to be depressed.”
“You don’t need a reason. It doesn’t matter why you are struggling, it only matters that you are. No amount of working harder will change the chemical imbalance in your brain.”
“But that feels like a death sentence, not a solution.”
“It’s not forever. Things change. You only feel that way because you learned somewhere that you are supposed to be happy all the time. That’s a lot of unrealistic pressure.”
“But maybe if I did more to be better at mothering, or better at my job, I would feel better, and I would be happy. I wouldn’t need meds.”
“You don’t need to do more, excel more, or accomplish more to be more worthy,” she says firmly.
I want to believe her. I hear the truth in what she is saying, but I can’t shake the notion that I am broken. I leave her office feeling like I have duct tape on my forehead that labels me as “DEPRESSED.”
#
I am thirty-nine. Ten years into our marriage, Kurt and I are struggling. Maybe it’s my depression. But he’s the one who seems gloomy. I take my antidepressants every day, but I wonder why I still don’t feel happy. Maybe it’s just middle-age marriage stuff. I don’t know, because no one talks about the difference between normal problems and red-flag warnings. Our relationship is suffering under the weight of stress, children, and money issues. How do I know this rough patch will pass? What if things never get better?
One evening, I prepare a big taco dinner for everyone. When I finally sit down, I notice that Kurt is almost done eating. I wait for the kids to leave the table and turn angrily to Kurt.
“Can’t you see that I always eat last? Just once I want to sit down and eat first,” I say.
“But the food was getting cold,” he says sheepishly.
“That’s not the point!”
“What is the point?”
“Why can’t you just get me?” I snap at him. He opens, then closes his mouth, without saying anything. I don’t want to explain that in life, as with this meal, I feel like I put everyone else before me. I want him to put me first without me having to tell him to do so. Can’t he understand that?
Kurt and I are just too different. He thinks linearly and speaks directly. I think emotionally and speak indirectly. I’m an extravert who feeds off social energy. He is an introvert who prefers to be alone. I should have stuck to my perfect partner list, because all I see now are the cracks and imperfections in Kurt. I want to fix them all.
I bring him to a coffee shop and make him write down his career goals. I think I’m helping, but he feels like I am micromanaging. Things on the surface of our relationship suddenly bother me. I beg him to exercise more, to drink less, and to wear something other than his old blue sweatshirt. I know I’m being shallow, but I can’t stop thinking about all the ways he could change for the better. I spend my free time worrying about the future and criticizing him. He ignores me and dives deep into his dissertation. We go to bed at different times. We wake at different times.
One night, I’m up because I’m feeling anxious about our marriage. I notice the way Kurt is sleeping. He lies on his back with his thumbs hooked into the top of his boxers, like a little boy. It’s not his fault, I think. We just need a change. A fresh start will save our marriage.
#
We move to Colorado. Kurt continues to write his PhD dissertation on black bears. I am offered the position of director in a global education company. I am learning decades worth of material in months. The financials are dizzying. I should understand them better. I stay up late sorting through them. When I travel internationally for work, I leave Kurt and the kids behind. There is no time to talk with him about anything other than logistics.
Then there is the stress of risk management. I am responsible for the safety and happiness of hundreds of students around the world. In one quarter, a volcano erupts in Indonesia, there are air strikes in Israel, an Ebola outbreak in Senegal, and a terrorist attack in China. I keep the phone next to my bed; it rings at one in the morning because a student in India may need surgery on her appendix. It rings at three in the morning because we need to re-route a group to avoid kidnappings in Jordan. My journal, which used to be full of poetry, is full of risk management scenarios and strategic plans. I have constant headaches. I can’t keep up.
Meanwhile, our children grow and so does their number of soccer games, music lessons, dance recitals, and plays. I feel guilty all the time. Fear says, “Good moms don’t miss their children’s recitals.” I don’t make it to most soccer games either, because of work. “Every other mom will be there, except you,” Fear says, dousing me in shame.
The founder of the company sends me an email blaming me for low enrollment. He says he is not going to offer bonuses this year, and it’s my fault. His words feel untrue and make me angry, but they still sting. I’m not cut out to be the director. I’m failing. I try to advocate for myself and for the others, detailing our tireless work and successes. But I feel sluggish and inarticulate around him. Why can’t I say the right words to change his mind? Fear says, “A real leader would know exactly what to say.”
Two weeks later, the founder brings me flowers and praises me for my leadership in general. I feel light and successful. What can I do to win his praise again? My journal entries shift from strategic plans to strategic ways to please the founder. I hustle and perform for the founder, not for the good of the company. I live and breathe for his approval. I continue to take my antidepressants, but I don’t tell anyone that I am struggling inside. I don’t even call my girlfriends at home anymore. I imagine that I would sound whiny or needy. They are
