For most of my life, "acceptable" mental health has evaded me. This includes my years before I started having serious boyfriends, or even serious problems. I've always managed to have the blues and I carried them around with me for as long as I can remember. My teachers would remark out of concern for my (lack of) facial expressions. I was also introverted, which made my mood disorder more painful due to isolation and boundless silence. Different doctors would initiate different beginning intervention in my childhood, but nothing really stuck and made a difference in my brain chemistry until decades later when my mental health had become a crisis and I desperately sought aggressive routes of treatment from professionals on my own. I had known "laughtears" all up until then. But as an adult, it was actually a battle for my life.
Today, if you were to ask me, "Are you happy?" I'd probably answer you back with a question--but not with "No”--so, I consider that to be much progress made. With my age, I have more practice with thinking about things outside of myself to give my brain a break from suffering, and I got very honest with myself one day: if I never become any happier in my life, which I once saw as a huge possibility, then I at least had better take up some lessons in navigating my life of darkness skillfully; I needed it to look good on the outside. I worked jobs. I dated tragically. I moved around a little and I experienced much.
Kids were not heavily on my radar, ever. I started to age dangerously close to a phase during which my figurative inner clock would start ticking, and there still was not a blip on any meter of my concern. Those around me had already accepted that creating a family must not have interested me much--that, or I preferred women. That was so until I met my now-husband. I met with my OBGYN one afternoon very soon after becoming engaged to Curtis and I asked her, "I know that we were just talking about my cysts and endometriosis, but will you help me through this baby-time stuff now?"
Luckily for me, my doctor knew all about those things. Sadly, my body didn't catch on so quickly. After a year of trying for a baby and managing to only approach bankruptcy from purchasing pregnancy tests every four weeks with nothing but digital receipts to show for it, I knew that we were headed in the wrong direction. I got a nice diagnosis of infertility (Doctors don't like to use that word now, due to all of the intervention available--if you can afford it) and I grieved. This did wonders for my mood, if you can imagine. My stupid body couldn't even do the singular thing it was specially designed to do.
Anyway, I got pregnant about half a year later, and I was afraid the whole time. I prayed for a happy child to save him or her from the misery that I had experienced in my own life. And I wish I had considered to insert myself as an additional recipient into my own prayers: The pregnancy was miserable complete with subchorionic hemorrhaging, hyperemesis, and what was developing into psychosis. My little 3-pound baby stayed in the NICU for 3.5 months before he could come home. And then we began our grand adventure together.
Now during this time after my delivery, I would scream at God daily. Every time I woke up, I would brush up against the boundaries of my sanity. Time lessened nothing... Once discharged, my son would miss milestones and he presented a global delay that worried me more and more each day. I tried my best to keep myself standing on the outside. I got rid of the little baby development app on my cell phone and threw out all of my books that outlined what to expect at each stage of infant development. I gave up hope of all normalcy as I stayed up late every night with worry and waited for a day that I would have answers. I pushed hard at every wellness visit and to every specialist for more referrals and more tests... When an autism diagnosis finally did come, I had already been expecting to receive it, based on what all I had learned in my independent research for solutions. I had my confirmation, and there was only a brief, slight experience of relief. That was well over two years ago now.
I prayed to God for happy children, and Caleb is the happiest, goofiest, sweetest little boy I know. His younger sister is a grinning little munchkin. God did answer my prayer. My "Why" now is for me to come into a living out a happiness of my own that I know exists somewhere in this life. I own my identity as the parent to two wonderful toddlers on the spectrum, and I navigate my challenges with strength (and even grace sometimes). I know that living a broad, fulfilling life full of joy can still be my portion, and that of everyone else in my little family. And I will not stop seeking just that. I will remain in pursuit of such wellness.