Today, I found a new way to describe my personal experience with mental illness: obstacle course. Yesterdays ago, my life was about schedules, meetings, overtime, travel, presentations, coffee breaks and colleagues. I walked ten minutes to home, lunched daily with my husband, knew every shop keeper and held everything I wanted in palms of my hands. Then, I asked for one thing more.
Not emergency rooms, doctors, radiologists, bed rest, fetal monitoring, hypertension, fetal distress, emergency caesarean section, psychiatrist, medication, suicides, hospitals, recoveries, relapses …
Six years ago, I thought my life was wonderful and happy. Each day since, there’s a walking, talking, growing Miracle beside me. He never fails to remind me that he loves me “more than anything in the world.” He writes notes, draws and colours pictures for me. He is happy to see me at the bus stop. After we fight, he asks me if I’m still mad. I try to say I’m not, but he still comes by and gives me a big hug with lots of kisses all over my face.
One night, when I pretended I was sleeping, my Miracle came to my bed, pulled up my blankets and rubbed my back. Another night, he called out in the darkness, “Mommy, what are you doing?” I was playing a game on my phone at 3 am, “Nothing.” In his sleepy but gentle voice, he said, “It’s time to go to sleep, Mommy. You don’t want to have a bad day tomorrow. Good night.” Some days when I’m “not feeling well”, he tucks me in and shares one of his beloved stuffies with me.
He’s the miracle when I could not see through my tears and anger. He’s the light when I raged in the darkness. He’s the joy when I was hurt and bitter. Each day, my miracle is growing, becoming stronger, smarter, taller, bigger and more independent each day. Each day, my miracle loves me more. Sometimes, Miracles hide.