Bipolar disorder kept me from being a super mom. Now I understand my kids just need me to be OK.

• I'm a mom of five kids and was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2006.
• Before the diagnosis, I was screaming at my children constantly and impulsively spending our money.
• My kids never expected me to be a super mom, and I had to learn that.

I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder in 2006 after many months of struggling with symptoms and personality changes that mystified and terrified me. My five children were ages 11 to 21 at the time. With treatment, I've now been stable for years.

It took quite awhile for me to fully realize the impact of my mental illness on my family. 

I wanted to escape my parents, and I became worse than them

My childhood was extremely chaotic, with two immature and self-absorbed parents. There was no discipline or order at home. While most of my friends enjoyed things like clean houses, nutritious meals, and regular bedtimes, my sisters and I had to navigate a constant mess, haphazard meals, and no bedtimes whatsoever. I believe our parents did love us, but they just couldn't provide us with any consistency or stability.

I couldn't wait to escape that environment; I got engaged at 17 and married at 20. When the children came along, I swore I'd do absolutely everything differently from the way I was raised. For decades, I worked on my best impression of Super Mom: cheerful and productive, whipping up great dinners, volunteering at school, and keeping everyone's schedules in order.

It was exhausting, but I felt it was worth it. Because of my efforts, my kids would look back on happy childhoods someday. 

But suddenly, I was much worse than my parents had ever been. I became wrapped up in myself, much of the time manic, the rest depressed. I couldn't focus or concentrate on my family at all. "Super Mom" had now wrecked the budget with large impulse purchases, was screaming and cursing constantly, and made our home a minefield, an uneasy place where anything anyone said or did could trigger an outburst. 

My youngest kids got the worst of me

During that time, my oldest son graduated from college and lived independently. My second son was at the Naval Academy and rarely home. My older daughter spent a year as an exchange student in Thailand. Those three may have escaped the brunt of the misery that was living with me. But my youngest son and daughter were home for me at my worst. 

I finally agreed to see someone and eventually found the right therapist and medication. After I stabilized, I kept apologizing. I tried to make it up to all five kids and my long-suffering husband.

What I learned was they had never expected — or even wanted — Super Mom. I decided to be honest and open about every step of my recovery journey.

My perfectionist alter ego, of course, would have done anything to keep the messiness hidden, but I didn't have the strength to go on pretending. It turned out that my children cared much more about my getting better than any special meals or tidy rooms. So many of the things I'd thought were vitally important, things I was positive made me a wonderful mother, fell by the wayside, and nobody really cared.

While I would never have wished those terrible years on anyone, I've come to believe this dark chapter had a silver lining. My kids, who are now in their 20s and 30s, are empathetic, kind, and wonderful people — with special sensitivity around mental-health issues. While I will probably always feel some guilt about what I put them through, they've never shown me anything but love.

Now, years down the road, I've let go of my compulsion to be the perfect mother. But I hope I'm something that may be even better for my family: an imperfect but authentic, good-enough mom.