I remember bringing my newborn baby home from the hospital six years ago in the dead of winter. Almost immediately, I was plunged into a dark room filled to the brim with postpartum anxiety and depression. There was no way out. No windows. No key. The isolation and desolation were overwhelming. It was as if time had been put on pause in our house. My life seemed to be taking place on another planet—one I never thought I would visit. The daily routine of breastfeeding and sleep deprivation made me feel like a zombie.

I longed to travel back to my old abode, but it no longer existed.

That harrowing postpartum experience has always stayed with me. Six years later, flashbacks of that traumatic time visit me daily. I am reminded of it now as we all try our best to survive the strange and unexpected new world of COVID-19. Since our school’s officially closed and my daughter has been home with us full-time, I realize that this place I inhabit is all too familiar.

Once again, I have become a mother forced into quarantine.

It can be super stressful to juggle work schedules with my husband, but parenting is definitely the hardest part of my day. Having an only child confined to a house with two parents who aren’t always available to be playmates sucks.

It’s a constant battle of wills, and I frequently watch myself crawling up the same four walls. My low-level anxiety, which usually just hums in the background of my life, is slowly drowning me. My casual and rare imbibing of alcohol has completely gone out the window. I have taken up drinking in the early evenings.

Remote learning has been a disaster for our family. The first two weeks were a novelty. My daughter enjoyed seeing her friends and the videos of their “News of the Day.” But we didn’t know then how long this pretending-to-be-educators gig would go on for. We were game at the beginning, because we didn’t want her to fall behind her peers.

It all seemed sustainable, until suddenly, it wasn’t.

When you’re a mother with diagnoses of bipolar II, Generalized Anxiety Disorder and PMDD (Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder, a more severe form of PMS), the everyday obstacles that pop up with a bored and unmotivated kid are a lot more overwhelming. How can I support my child and remain patient in the midst of her meltdowns when I am staggering mentally myself, despite my newfound addiction to chamomile tea?

In the early days of social distancing and trying to put a positive spin on things, I too posted pictures of my daughter and me painting rocks with motivational messages. The colorful hopscotch game we spray-painted on our driveway. The cute sign we created for sanitation workers and taped on our compost bin. They were all worthwhile activities to teach my daughter how we could play our part in a small way. But as this quarantine has dragged on, the inclination to take walks and see the unique ways our neighbors are honoring our frontline workers has slowly dwindled.

There have been many moments when I have simply broken down, walked upstairs and fallen face-first on my bed. Times I’ve closed the blinds and shut the door and waited for this ridiculous never-ending situation to end. But it hasn’t happened, and I’ve had to dig deep to find shreds of my own resilience and ingenuity. Not just for me, but for my husband and daughter.

They need me.

And sometimes I win, and my daughter and I have a good time. We enjoy hours together riding our bikes outside. One day we even made our own version of a Captain Underpants book, featuring a female superhero sidekick. Later we hid the hand-drawn pages for my husband to find in a treasure hunt. It was some much-needed fun.

The pendulum of parenting seems to be regularly swinging to extremes these days.

Maybe tomorrow will be different, but I’m not going to pretend it’s all right when it’s not. My most important job may be as a mother, but I am still a human being. I am allowed to be overwhelmed and sad. To express how worried I am for my well-being. I’m sure I’m not alone in this parenting spiral. But it’s not something most people in my real-life circle want to hear about.

They want me to toughen up, take it one day at a time and think positively, but it’s not easy. I don’t want to post COVID haircuts or snaps of homemade bread. Instead, I’ve managed to find my tribe of kindred spirits online: strangers and mothers I’ve never met who just get it, and also admit how they’re unraveling, bit by bit.

In my darkest moments during this pandemic, the hardest thing to deal with as a mother is the deficit of hope. My home feels like a jail. My heart is hanging on for dear life. All this social distancing is doing its best to knock me off the rails. And the usual problems of parenthood are harder to get through unscathed.

While we wait this out, I don’t want to live on the tragedy end of the motherhood spectrum. Most of all, I want her to be able to see her friends, go back to school and not feel detained. I want her to have her own life, so I can have mine back again.

This post originally appeared on Motherwell.

Tara Mandarano is a Best of the Net–nominated writer and editor, and an advocate for patients in the mental health and chronic illness communities. Her recent work is featured in the anthology BIG: Stories About Life in Plus-Sized Bodies. She has also been published in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, Reader's Digest, Motherwell, The Week, and Today's Parent. You can follow her on Instagram and Twitter.

Tito and I became best friends.

It was during a period I like to call “The Total Eclipse” because these happen only once every hundred years or so. I grew fond of the Austin, Texas-based vodka a year after my son was born. I was 36.

Clink, clink ice into the glass. Tito’s took the edge off after a long day of work.

Tito’s made the grit of the day smooth. It made me feel normal and jubilant. Soon—too soon—our relationship manifested into an unhealthy pairing. Turbulent verbal exchanges with my husband? Clink. Bad day at work? Clink. Feelings of inadequacy? Clink. Tito’s was not the best confidante or influence.

In retrospect, he fed me a bunch of crap and sorta ripped my life apart.

One morning, I looked up with one eye towards what I thought was the sun. My naked body ached, especially my back. It was throbbing as though I’d been lashed. Thrown-up scrambled eggs were splattered across the floor; my husband had made an attempt to sober me up with protein. I had spent Wednesday evening with Tito, passed out in the bathtub. I suppose I was drawing a bath, but the water and soap never happened. After being dragged to bed, I awoke dazed. Total darkness.

Why was I doing this? I am past my partying days. I didn’t crave alcohol. There was a deeper reason for my behavior. My mind was muddy. What I wanted was not clear.

A certain sadness had rolled in with the Equinox. I had nodes of happiness in between long bouts of hopelessness. Eclipses. Sometimes, episodes of sadness would extend over weeks, numerous fortnights.

I suffered in silence. I’d perfected the art of pretending to be happy. My smile, twinkling eyes and humor were ready and intact for any encounter. Of course, maintaining a facade of elation is extremely draining. Faker, I’d tell myself.

Since I was a stay-at-home mom, I fought off the melancholy with chores and arduous tasks, like refurbishing furniture. I would validate my work by trying to sell it on LETGO. No one bought my pieces. In fact, they still sit in the garage or are nestled between the furniture in my mother’s house. Still, they were a labor of love and a depiction of my mind at the time: used and messy.

When the evening settled into a still quiet, I hid my sadness from my son in soft sobs behind the shower curtain. I cried for the loss of my single-life, my miscarriages, my home in Austin, for the buried emotional trauma suffered as a child. If not crying secretly, I’d sleep. But to sleep meant I must wake, so I dreaded both.

When given the choice, I chose to sleep. In my dreams, fantastic phenomenons like kissing Ryan Gosling or traveling at light speed on a star occurred. Nebular. My life was a cycle of events encased in gray matter. It was colorless and without fervor. I simply was a revolving ball of cells moving through time.

I am matter, but would I or my life ever matter? 

My son and husband often were my source of power and courage to continue through each day. Do my chores. Pick a new project. But my days would run together, and I would lose track of the date.

Saturday. Tuesday. Tuesday. Sunday… Someday.

I was alone and isolated in Midland with a new baby. My mind ran feverishly throughout these phases. Most of the time, as a deterrent, my mind was focused on creating new pieces, whether it be jewelry, furniture or art. I battled my dark bouts of depression with alcohol and mostly isolation.

Full of anxiety, I had a painful urge to meet the expectations of Earth, my family and friends. What was wrong with me? Why couldn’t I embrace the changes in my life and be happy? Was I allergic to happiness? Were happiness and I foes in a previous life? Yet, I chased happiness: day-to-day, phase-to-phase, moon to moon.

Then one day, “The Total Eclipse” ended.

I was diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder, which is characterized by long bouts of depression. Most notably, I have an uneven level of chemicals in my brain produced by the hypothalamus.

I struggled through “The Total Eclipse” of my ’30s, searching for answers. Although I personally embrace everyone’s idiosyncrasies—and even perhaps even their craziness—I’ve learned that asking for help when your craziness is caught in the shadows can save your life. 

Now, I’ve found that just beyond the horizon, cresting—where the illumination is brightest—is my happiness. You can do anything…. Anything you can…  Just head towards the light.

This post originally appeared on Midland Moms Blog.

Sonia is a writer and artist living in West Texas. She taught upper week of writing for over decade and now takes on writing projects as a stay-at-home mom. She develops interesting narratives depicting her life as a modern mother of a toddler. 

I know it seems like middle school is a long way off for my girls. They’re 8 and 9 right now, and my oldest is just finishing up 3rd grade. But she’s always been early with everything, and it seems like teenage lunacy won’t be any different. She’s already acting like a bipolar ball of hormones and angst. Multiple times a day, she oscillates between snuggling with her American Girl doll one minute, and shrieking about her hair the next. She sits me down for deep conversations about being ready to shave her legs (she isn’t) and that she thinks she needs acne medicine (she doesn’t).

I am so not ready for this, but I have to be. Since I’ve always dealt with problems better in writing, I thought I’d compose a list of things that I want my daughters to learn before teenhood makes them crazy.

1. Girls can pee outside too. I know, I know. You think this sounds gross. Boys are always bragging about how special their junk is because, among other things, it allows them the freedom to water the trees and write their names in yellow in the snow. But if you and your girlfriends are ever out somewhere where the only option for a bathroom is a crap-smeared “toilet” with a wet doorknob, please, PLEASE go outside. Find a private spot, preferably one where you can lean your back against a wall or a tree. Lower your pants to your knees, squat, and just be sure to steer the stream clear of your clothes. You can do this.

2. Don’t ignore your vagina. Sorry girls. I know you find this topic painfully humiliating, but it has to be said. (Aren’t you glad I did this in writing?) Right around puberty, you’ll start to notice some goopy stuff coming out of your vajayjay on a regular basis. This is totally normal and nothing to worry about. But if it itches, turns red, or starts to smell weird, you need to see a doctor. Vaginas are tough little mofos, but the tiniest upset in bacteria or ph balance can cause some serious discomfort. Don’t be embarrassed. Don’t suffer through it because you don’t want to tell me that your lady bits hurt. It’s not worth it. Trust me.

3. Your princess ambitions are fine with me. Screw all those “forward-thinking” and enlightened people who insist that princess culture is holding girls back. You are beautiful, adventurous, and fun-loving girls. If you want to dress in pink frilly dresses and daydream about magical places, you go right ahead and do it. I love your imaginations, and I hope you never outgrow them.

4. Your friends parents don’t let them stay up until midnight or have boys in their bedrooms. And even if they did, I wouldn’t care. This one, I’ve already heard a billion times. “All the kids in my school get to stay up for HOURS after I have to go to bed!” “All of my friends’ parents let them watch that movie!” “None of the kids in my school have to do chores except me!” Guess what, guys. I’m not buying it. Believe it or not, your friends’ moms are actually my friends. I know these people. They are not running some party-till-you-puke boarding house with unlimited supplies of candy, money, and maid service. And if they were, I’d call them all suckers and then kick back with your father to drink wine and watch TV because my kids are in bed at 8:00.

5. When kids turn 11 or 12, they usually go insane. This too shall pass. It’s a good thing I’m writing this to you now, because once you actually reach middle school, you’ll be far too psychotic to listen to it. The pre-teen brain is somehow wired to make you think that drowning yourself in Axe is hot, or that you’re in love with some boy named Derk because he has 2 inch gauges in his ears, but then Derk likes some other girl and you want to die. I know it all feels crucially important and never-ending. And I promise that if it’s important to you, I will make it important to me. But I will keep repeating this silently to myself: “She won’t be a monster forever. She won’t be a monster forever.”

6. Most of the stuff your friends post on Tumblr and Yik Yak is bull. People lie. A lot. And one of the main ways they lie is by making themselves look perfect on social media. Whether they want to look perfectly gorgeous or perfectly pitiful, they are designing a persona with their Instagram posts. Nobody’s life is as it looks online. Nobody’s.

7. There will always be mean girls. Don’t let them define you. I’m sorry, honey. I pray that this never happens to you, but the odds are that it will. There are girls in every middle school who will do cruel, hateful things to you. They’ll ice you out. They’ll whisper about your body. They’ll invite you to eat lunch with them and then tell you you’ve been voted out of the table because you smell like a period. Sometimes they’ll do worse things. Sometimes they’ll spread rumors that seem like they could destroy your reputation for years. Or secretly take photos of you in the locker room. Or convince you to take nude photos of yourself and then spread them all over the school. Please hear this now. You never have to be alone with this. If someone is being cruel to you, no matter what you did, now matter how much trouble you think you’ll get into for whatever role you played in the situation, I will always be on your side. And YOU will always be a thousand times better, smarter, and worthier than any mean girl tries to make you out to be.

8. Please, for the love of God, do not BE a mean girl yourself. It might be tempting. It might seem like you’ll end up getting iced out yourself if you don’t join in on the icing. But you are better than this, honey. And if I ever find out that you are cruelly bullying some other kid, or even that you saw a kid being bullied and didn’t stick up for her, you know I will put an end to that nonsense immediately. Don’t test me.

9. If a boy is asking you to do anything you’re uncomfortable with, he is 100% wrong for you. I don’t want to make it seem like middle school is full of horrible kids. Most boys and girls are good kids who are having trouble figuring out how to keep their brains from making them do stupid stuff. That being said, it’s right around this age that some boys start thinking they have every right to expect girls to service their joysticks. This is not your job. And if anyone ever tries to make you feel like there’s something wrong with you for not wanting to do it, please laugh in his face and tell him that he should really stop concerning himself with sex and worry about his horrible personality and petty manipulative ways.

10. If an older teen boy or an adult man is interested in you, there is something wrong with him. This is hard for me to write. I don’t want to imagine that some day you might have some creepy older guy eyeing your little girl body. But the truth is, I was 12 the first time an adult man hit on me. And it wasn’t just once. It happened all the time. Sweetheart, these men are sick. An adult who is sexually interested in a child is called a pedophile. Run away as fast as you can, and then let me know who I need to run over with a truck.

11. Sleeping in a bra does not give you cancer, and it won’t keep your boobs from growing. I have no idea how this bizarre rumor got started, but it’s crap. The only thing bras do is hold your boobs up. You’ll need to wear one eventually.

12. Despite what you’ve seen on TV, it is not normal for teenagers to be caught in a love triangle. If you believe everything you see on TV, then teenagers have seriously dramatic love lives. Reality is a lot more boring. I promise.

13. No, most kids your age don’t know exactly which career path they will follow, and that’s OK. There are a hell of a lot of kids on TV who know exactly which career they want, and they’re preparing for it RIGHT NOW. I didn’t know which career I wanted until college. Neither did your father. You will get there eventually. For now, please just enjoy being a kid.

14. If you ever have an embarrassing problem, a question you can’t answer, or you’ve gotten yourself into some kind of trouble that you can’t figure your way out of, I am the person to come to. Always. I can’t promise that I’ll never be mad or disappointed, but I swear to you, I will do everything in my power to help you make it right, and I won’t make you feel like an ass for asking. Please come to me, baby. I am your mother, and this is my job. We got this.

Nicole Roder lives in Maryland with her husband, their 4 children, and Lucy–their fiercely terrifying, 20-pound Boston Terrier who protects their home from some ubiquitous danger only she can see. When she’s not busy writing, she’s wiping bottoms, searching for shoes, kissing boo boos, and driving all over God’s creation. AKA–mothering her children.