![]() Mental illness runs rampant in my family, affecting both male and female-it’s power and affliction knows no discriminatory bounds. I’ve struggled with depression and anxiety from the time I could walk, and talk. This is what it feels like to be a mom with high-functioning depression. ![]() But every day, when I drag myself from my bed, I tell myself: “They can’t. Together with my anxiety and depression, the disorders try to exhaust me to death. These are pieces of my Obsessive Compulsive Disorder. You might find me folding and re-folding the laundry, sweeping, and re-sweeping the kitchen floor, or counting, and re-counting the seconds that pass. In the evenings, I assist with homework, do the laundry, and laugh at my son’s obscure jokes. I do what I’m used to doing-treat the symptoms systematically, however little my attempts may help-because in the end, I want to heal. Recovery is a cold shower where my mind wants to drift to sink into the chasm of depression. ![]() Far and fast, in the blazing summer heat of the south. I work and I write, and I write and I work. Without giving my thoughts the chance to stack, and instigate, I move, and I keep moving, and I don’t stop moving until the day’s end. We dance through the morning, a dizzying array of choreographed routines to get them dressed and ready for their school day. Until it’s time to move on with this new day. Until the grog completely fades (it never really does). They keep their distance until my eyes pop wide open, but even still, there will be an emotional barrier for some time. The series of motions adds to the gravity crushing my bones. Through the first cup of coffee, I’m the most unlikable protagonist: angry and restless for no real reason, but also every reason in the same breath. My feet drag, arms just weighted appendages, while the ache in my chest awakens, emboldened by the start of another day a new day with new beginnings and hopes, or a new day with more of the same. A grunt, or three, I make my way into the land of the living-a brightly lit house brimming with the kind of optimism only my 10 and 5-year-old can bring through an early morning sunrise-a place that feels more unfamiliar, yet more comfortable, with every passing day. My eyes struggled to open as I dragged myself from the threaded waves of bed sheets.
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