Another Anxious-Depressing Thought: Am I Turning into My Mom?

by Donna Barnett

Ever look in the mirror and dislike what you see? I don’t mean the brittle, graying hair, the wrinkles or the crinkles, or that pesky age spot on your cheek. For me, it is the reflection that scares me. Am I turning into my mom? She was crippled by anxiety and depression, and I, too, am experiencing similar mental health issues. Is my future already mapped out, or do I have some control? That’s the perpetual debate of “nature vs nurture.” What part does my genetic makeup play compared to the circumstances of my childhood? That’s the question my mirror asks me when I stare into it.

Of three siblings, I was the closest to my mom. My older sister had a tumultuous relationship with her, and my younger brother had addiction issues and lived far away. My mom was an only child whose parents died unexpectedly, one year apart, from heart attacks at ages 58 and 61. I heard how my mom cared for her father when her mother was hospitalized for mental illness and how my mom took on the nurturer role with her own mother. She did much of the cooking, laundry and cleaning, as well as coaxing and encouraging her mother to get better. We didn’t describe or label mental illnesses back then, but my best guess is my grandmother suffered from debilitating anxiety and depression. When I was growing up, my mom repeatedly (and resentfully) said that she would never turn out like my grandmother and lean on her children like she did.

Yet, as a young girl, I was the one gravitating to my grieving unhappy mom, and I was the one who continued to do so throughout the rest of her life. I remember believing my sister and brother were detached and unavailable for not helping me with this burden. I felt pity for my mom, but never confronted her with my feelings.

My mom didn’t cope well after losing her parents. I have vivid memories from when I was nine or ten of her hysterically crying while my dad tried to go to work. She would beg him to stay home. Many times, he gave into her pleas, and, if he didn’t, I would bring her coffee and breakfast, sitting with her until she calmed down. Then I’d leave for school. She took sleep aids and a variety of other pills and slept a lot.

In my mid-twenties, my dad got cancer and later contracted AIDS from numerous blood transfusions. This was a heartbreaking time for my family. It was the early 1980s when AIDS was prominent in the news. My mom didn’t tell any of their friends for fear they wouldn’t visit or, worse, not come to his funeral. It was a big secret until months after he died, and our family tested negative. I was a registered nurse by then, so I was the most likely candidate for her to call frequently for medical advice or just to cry.

After my father passed at age fifty-four, my mom became clinically depressed. She thought she had the flu almost every week. She would frequently cancel plans with friends and stay in bed for several days, then call me that she had driven to Kentucky Fried Chicken for a basket of wings.

I loved my mom, and understood she had endured much sorrow growing up, as well as during her adult life. Yet she seemed weak, lacking conviction and motivation. She called every day, often begging me to drive to her home thirty miles away and keep her company. She was unaware how draining this was for me. I had a husband, four kids and a job.

I became her therapist, advice nurse, errand runner, gardener, motivator and occasionally cheerleader. I did this for about twenty years, growing resentful, angry, and frustrated.

She had done exactly what she swore she wouldn’t do—lean on me. If I’d known then what I know now, I would have set some limits and reached out for other support.

In my forties, I began having anxiety and panic attacks. I would become nauseated then lightheaded. I’d run to a bathroom and put my head between my legs in dire fear I would throw up or faint. Other times I felt like I was crawling out of my skin—just this sick, nervous overwhelming feeling. I could no longer drive in a car. I could no longer safely care for my patients.  Eventually, I was forced to take a leave-of-absence from work. I took anti-anxiety medications and saw a therapist. I remember at my first therapy visit, asking whether I might never get better and have to live with this horrible feeling forever. Maybe the therapist shouldn’t have said this, but he told me 100% I would improve and return to work. That gave me hope. My panic attacks stopped and I returned to work, taking care of my family and my mom. I was always fearful, though, that the panic attacks would come back.

At age seventy-four, my mom was diagnosed with stage IV ovarian cancer. She died eight months later.

Over the past few years, my anxiety has become considerably more challenging. I’ve tried different medications, and often just feel lousy. I cry a lot. I feel like a burden to my friends and family, because who wants to talk to someone who never feels good? I called myself, “Donna Downer.” I look in the mirror, petrified. I do not want to be just like my mom. Thank goodness I don’t stay in bed or cancel plans. I keep busy and do my best to lead a healthy life. But the concern for my destiny is always hovering like an annoying fly. I, too, have promised my children I will never lean on them.

Then, recently, during a session with my therapist, we discussed “nature vs nurture,” and I did my own research on epigenetics. I gained a whole new outlook on my destiny.

Epigenetics is emerging research that shows, as children, how our life experiences and environment can affect which of our genes are turned on or off. It’s “nature vs nurture,” but there are additional influential factors. As we go through childhood, our epigenome or markings on our DNA are affected by both positive and negative experiences. How those markings are rearranged determines much of our future characteristics.

Am I genetically predisposed to mental health challenges? Yes. My grandmother and mother both had anxiety and depression. As a child, I was exposed to the tragedies of many family members dying relatively young and a mother who coped poorly. Those genes for anxiety turned on as I got older.

But there is hope!

Fortunately, epigenetic research is showing that we may be able to reverse certain negative epigenomes and restore healthy functioning ones. This research, as it relates to anxiety and depression, is in its early stages. What I do know is that my mental illness challenges are not my fault. They are most likely genetic, exacerbated by my environment and experiences. So, whether it’s “nature vs nurture” and/or epigenetics playing a role, I am stopping the cycle. How?

I bring out my “coping anti-anxiety toolbox.” I access it daily and more often, if needed. It involves meditation, mindfulness, self-help books (of which I have quite a variety) and notes from seminars. Not to mention apps, friends, family, a therapist and psychiatrist, my golden retriever, gratitude, journals, as well as nutritious food, exercise and my passions (visiting grandkids, writing). It also includes home-made chocolate chip cookies, my hairdresser, inspirational quotes and photos on my phone. I feel empowered.

I may be predisposed to certain behaviors or illnesses, but I have the ability to control my anxiety. I don’t feel guilty for having it, even when it creeps back in, which it does. I no longer fear that I’m turning into my mom. I am able to remember and appreciate the wonderful things about her that were hidden beyond a thick fog. She was loving and supportive. She came to every drama performance and dance concert I was in, and even sent flowers to the house for me! She was understanding and non-judgmental during boyfriend breakups and my divorce. She loved holidays and making birthday dinners with all our favorite foods. She loved to travel and go on cruises.

If “knowledge is power,” as the saying goes, I can choose the path of genetics that is riddled with potholes, or I can choose a path that may have some bumps along the way, but eventually leads to a free-flowing highway.

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