I can’t share memes complaining about my son watching kids playing video games on YouTube. I watch way too many mystery boxes being opened to get that off.

I was raised in a moderate (politically/religiously) household with a father who immigrated from the Dominican Republic, and a self proclaimed New York Rican mother. They had both shared their own difficult childhood hardships, but when my mother gave birth to me at 33 years of age she and my father had both became college educated Americans that left me with no needs unobtainable. Early in my childhood my mother would comment on how different I was from other children. I met or surpassed milestones, but did socially awkward behaviors and had a low self esteem at a very young age. I was mostly reclusive, and was told I was well behaved because of it. I idolized my older brother and tried to get hiss attention like most younger siblings would.

Emotionally, I remember that embarrassing moments physically ached my body, and I found it hard to hear, breathe, or move if I found something humiliating. I preferred to communicate with adults or people that were older than me (such as family friends, my babysitters older daughter, or be included in my mothers adult conversations); I think the learned tact that adults acquire with experience was super important for me. I really disliked playing with children that I didn’t know because I was always afraid of what would slip from their lips.

I wasn’t diagnosed with any health conditions until my teens. Is was as if when I turned 14 puberty and bipolar decided to create a giant hypo-manic storm of impulsive thoughts and actions. Granted, most teens this age find it difficult to control urges and impulses already, but mine almost always pushed the boundary. In my teenage mania I thought in two separate sides of the spectrum, black or white. I found a huge fascination with death, to which my brother began to worry. “Its not normal shes drawing things like that, she needs help.” Sibling rivalry and my own ego made me believe that my brother just didn’t understand the depth of my thinking. But his concerns were valid, as I sometimes found myself crying in my room when everyone was gone with no real reason as to why. I just hated to exist.

My depression fueled self loathing lead to a history of an eating disorder, self mutilation, and eventually agoraphobia. I went from being mostly hypo-manic to depression not allowing me to leave my own home. I was treated inpatient more times than I could remember, and had to repeat freshman year because I spent months in an eating disorder clinic. In the height of my hypo-mania I was unstoppable, fearless, and felt beautiful. In my depressive states I was fat, unworthy, and stupid. I was put under medications that made me physically ill, that tensed my body to which I could not even write a sentence, or that made me numb and dazed. Without feeling mania I had no feelings at all, and the numbness made me feel suicidal. I began treatment for my mental illness at the age of 14. I did not find a medication that worked for me until the age of 20. At the time, being able to tolerate life meant that I was doing well.

Now here I am, at 23. I’m pregnant with a partner that plainly expressed to be to not being mentally or financially ready for a child. I too had no real stability in my own life to think I could raise a child. I had to explain to my parents the situation which consisted of an awkward silent staring contest and then obvious disapproval. I was scared and frightened, but usually expressed these feelings in sarcasm or mild anger. I stormed out of the room as they tried to mutter what to say. I couldn’t stand feeling rejected. Still, we eventually at down and had a lengthy discussion and collectively decided that having the baby was right for our family. With the help of my parents I was able to be housed and fed while pregnant. The baby received gifts from wonderful family friends that ensured I was prepared with the necessary physical tools needed for motherhood. And though my parents were not happy about the circumstances they pushed their personal feelings aside and aided a healthy pregnancy to my son.

One thing that couldn’t be added to my registry was my own readiness to be a parent. The most care I had given was to pets and even though I felt I nurturing to my animals I feared I would be cold to the baby when it arrived. Was maternal instincts something that was only gifted on the mentally healthy? Was I in some way the same as these heinous news stories of mothers who abused their infants? My catastrophic thinking tried to persuade me to think of myself as some monster. I knew I wanted to love and care for the baby with warmth, deep emotional understanding and compassion, but my self esteem wouldn’t allow me to be confident in that thought.

As my belly I grew I found myself excited and nervous about my new role. Every new pant size and every new ultrasound made the arrival of my baby more concrete. The baby wasn’t just a distant idea anymore.

The pregnancy progressed and through the normal hormonal mood swings, I had to experience them as a woman that was manic depressive, and who could not take her medication (during pregnancy) for the health of her unborn child. I approached one of my close friends with my new found state. She looked at me and said “I don’t know about kids….. I’m definitely not ready to be pregnant.” She, like me, had a history of mental health problems and in her mind becoming a parent would be way too selfish. I understood her sentiment. It took me years to conquer even the most basic of thought patterns and the idea of having to care for the life of another was overwhelming to say the least.

By the 7th month of pregnancy I started making a plan for the baby and myself. I had to become grounded and accept that many of the physical and mental obstacles I was facing before and during my pregnancy were because of my Bipolar Disorder. In casual conversations Bipolar disorder had become a slur for people who were erratic or were aggressive in their opinions. My friends who didn’t know about my history would refer to people they didn’t get along with as “Bipolar” It was hard for me to accept the title, but I knew without acceptance I couldn’t target what my actions should be. I realized that I needed to continue treatment in order to function as a parent. I made long term and short term goals, and I wrote out step by step plans on how I was going to achieve them.

When my son was born the nurse put him in my arms as he was wailing. “Whats the matter little man?” I asked. He immediately stopped crying and began to relax. I had fallen head over heels for this tiny infant. He was so small, so fragile, and so beautiful. My heart was filled with joy and I tried to absorb as many techniques as I could to make sure he was properly taken care of when he got home. I was fearless, determined, and though tired, could not deal with him away from my side.

When I got home, I found that I could feel when the baby was not near me. If someone took him out of my room as I slept to help with changing or feeding time I would wake immediately. I felt connected to my son in a way that I never knew existed. His little arms would stretch and his face would twitch into little smiles, and every inch of that baby made my heart melt with pride and joy.

After a few days of settling in a home, I had put the baby down for a nap and I watched him sleep. He was so small, so fragile, and so beautiful. I silently began to cry. I was so scared that I didn’t know what I was doing and all the anxiety and all of the fear began to pour out of me. His father walked in on me silently weeping and just muttered “Oh God, I knew it…”

Parenthood is a journey. No one knows what the journey entails, and it takes a strong sense of self to be able to put the needs of someone else before you. I had to use multiple techniques in order to parent in the way I wanted for my son.

I find myself counting to ten when I’m frustrated or angry. I find myself listening to positive affirmations when my depression hits. I find myself coloring in adult coloring books when I feel anxious. More so, I have learned to trust my natural instincts. I learned to not allow a diagnosis to deem me an out of control or unsuitable mother. I learned to allow my actions as a parent to speak for the hard work I’m doing. I learned to accept the days I could do better, reflect on them, and move forward. I have learned that I can love and care for my son in the best way, and still be a woman with Bipolar Disorder.
Through continuous treatment and care I finished a vocational school, began to work to provide for my son, opened up a college fund, and crossed out many of those things that I wrote on my goal list.

My son is now 5 years old.

He cuddles me and calls me mommy. He has crawled in my bed after a nightmare to feel safe. He thanks me after I tuck him in, and tells me when he thinks my dinner is super delicious. He tries to use his manners and is used to me reciprocating them. He stomps his feet when he’s frustrated and tries to steal snacks when no one is looking. He is a loving, normal, healthy little boy and I feel so fortunate in knowing that I am raising him.

My little one deserves an amazing mother, and I am that amazing mother.