I can see myself in Lindsay Clancy. That’s about as scary to say as it probably is to read. But here’s the thing: before the headlines called her a monster, she was a mother struggling with her mental health, fighting the demons in her head alone, like so many mothers do.
Like so many military spouses do.
I’ve had three babies and with each one, a diagnosis; however, only two of them were officially flagged as postpartum anxiety (PPA) and postpartum depression (PPD) of varying degrees.
If I’m being totally transparent, my last round with PPD was the worst, and scary as hell. It didn’t follow the same flight plan as the first round. It came on faster, and I was in a more vulnerable situation — two months alone to solo-parent two young kids and a newborn on a new base without my friends, family or husband.
The weight of being the only adult responsible for three tiny humans while my mind fought to tread water was crushing. Each day felt heavier until one Friday afternoon, it hit me like a ton of bricks: I wasn’t going to make it through the weekend.
I sat on the standard paper-covered exam table, trying not to cry in a cold room surrounded by desperate attempts to make me feel more at ease. I stared down at the depression-scale survey I’ve filled out so many times before. 10 questions all asking the same thing: was I okay enough to leave that room?
I knew, with every ounce of strength and clear thinking that I could muster, that I was drowning and needed help. Yet I found myself trying to excuse the intrusive thoughts, the constant overwhelm, and the blanket of sadness that I wore every damn day.
My husband was in pilot training while I was unraveling, while I was supposed to be the strong and steady force holding the home front together. After over a decade as an enlisted loadmaster, he was following his dream of becoming a pilot.
I couldn’t fall apart. I couldn’t fail him and our family.
How was my diagnosis going to affect my husband and his career?
Being put on EFMP (Exceptional Family Member Program) status could mean my mental health determined our future.
Would they treat my husband differently knowing he had a “fragile” spouse who couldn’t handle the lifestyle?
Up until that moment, I had done my damnedest to keep myself sewn together and at least looking like I had everything under control. Claiming “I’m fine” while wiping away tears on the phone with my husband was working — until it wasn’t.
Masking my symptoms so I wasn’t the variable that derailed our future was easy because it was instinct; I was doing it without really thinking about it. So often we find ourselves fitting whatever mold we need to in order to put the “mission” first because that’s what we do, that’s our job.
We don’t mention the severe anxiety and not being able to leave the house with the kids because we’re afraid something horrible is going to happen the second we step out that door.
We don’t talk about the dark thoughts that we let seep in when we lay in bed alone in a quiet house because our mind is so worn down and weak to fight them off.
We don’t hint at our undoing because if we did, that would mean we’re failing.
PPA and PPD are hard enough as a mother, but as a military-spouse mother, we’re waging another war as a result of the one in our head: whether honesty is the best policy.
As military spouses, we take our jobs very seriously. We may build our own careers and identities outside of the military world, but we still love the human in uniform so fiercely that we would burn ourselves alive to keep their world from catching fire. Because it’s not just their world, is it? It’s our whole lives. We would willingly lie on a clinical form, swallow the dark thoughts, and pretend to be fine, not because we don’t need help, but because we refuse to let our breaking point become their failure.
While undeniably loyal and honorable, it’s toxic and unsustainable.
I’ve realized that the hardest part of military motherhood isn’t surviving the solo parenting or the moves — it’s deciding that your life is worth saving, even if it disrupts the flight plan.
If you or someone you know is in crisis, please call, text or chat 988. The 988 Lifeline provides 24/7, free, and confidential support. There is a community to help and support you – you are not alone and your feelings matter.
Visit Postpartum Support International (PSI) for additional support and resources:
- Call or text the PSI HelpLine at 800-944-4773.
- Visit postpartum.net for additional resources and free online support groups
- Visit psidirectory.com to view the PSI online perinatal mental health provider directory
