The Good Mother Myth by Avital Norman Nathman

Author:Avital Norman Nathman [Nathman, Avital Norman; Burns, Christy Turlington]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781580055031
Publisher: Seal Press

THE PECULIAR CURSE OF MENTALLY ILL MOTHERHOOD /

SHANNON DRURY

since my early teens I have suffered from chronic anxiety and severe depression, but only since my first child was born was I sufficiently motivated to seek appropriate treatment, as my usual coping mechanisms of alcohol, sorrowful alt-country albums, and furiously self-indulgent journaling were no longer available to me. Motherhood made me finally acknowledge these serious threats to my health, which is why I rarely, if ever, think of myself as a person with mental illness. I am something far more dangerous and frightening—I am a mentally ill mother.

This is a terrible thing to admit, let alone understand. Even now, I equivocate: I write in a passive voice, I bury the information at the end of my sentences, I crack stale Prozac jokes, I let acquaintances think I am running off to Meetings of Professional Importance that are in fact intensive hours of therapy.

In contrast, I hardly mourned when my son was diagnosed with Asperger’s Syndrome when he was seven. After all, as countless psychologists reminded me, this was likely the same neurological quirk that made Bill Gates the wealthiest man in the world. Hell, in my wholly overeducated social circle (I am one of very few with “just” a bachelor’s degree), you’d be hard pressed to find a young boy without a spot on the autism spectrum. Even the discussion of emotional anguish in our children occurs without much eyelash-batting, for only a truly engaged mother cares enough about junior’s nail-biting to wonder if it might be evidence of a condition requiring professional intervention. You’re going to fix it. You are a good mother.

I doubt such compassion exists for nail-biting moms, or to be more accurate, cuticle-ripping, nail bed-slashing moms, the ones dripping so much blood they must stanch the flow with the hems of their black t-shirts. I do this when I am uncomfortable, which is nearly all the time. Do other parents notice this? Was my terror conspicuous today, when I brought my children to the start of a fresh week of summer classes at the local high school? Did the teenage instructors see my right thumb, mummified on the edge of my shirt?

The peculiar curse of an anxiety disorder is the terrible warping of reality that occurs when an episode is at its peak. Camp counselors cannot be bothered to monitor the hands of their charges’ mothers, of course, but this is not obvious until much later, long after Toy Story Band-Aids have been applied to each offending finger. The knowledge that could save me, that no one else cares as much as I seem to, is cruelly withheld until it is no longer of any therapeutic use.

My own mother is also mentally ill, but she is not my ally. She cannot offer me support, nor will she, for the peculiar curse of her own condition requires that she strenuously object to any characterization of herself as a less than ideal parent. A few times a year, we

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