I woke up on my son’s 20th birthday feeling like a right mess. My depression has taken a nosedive recently, and my second grief therapy session that I had just a day before brought up a lot of things I’ve been struggling with since my best friend died including the grief of losing her I had been avoiding — more on that in another post.

The night before my sons birthday, I struggled to sleep, tossing and turning, and when I finally drifted off, nightmares kept me restless. I woke up exhausted, drained, and overwhelmed by depression. But I knew I had to find the strength to focus on making his day special without letting my mental illnesses overshadow it.

I believe I managed that — my son said he had a wonderful day — but it was incredibly difficult. Usually, his birthday fills me with so much joy, but this time, finding that joy was a challenge – thanks so much anhedonia. I celebrated my son while also grieving the version of myself that would have been over-the-moon excited for the birthday of the person I love most in the world.

At first, I only planned to share the happy moments here — the ones everyone would have seen if they’d viewed us yesterday. But I realised it’s important to raise awareness about mental illness by sharing how I celebrated my son while managing my own significant mental health struggles silently.

Depression is often called an invisible illness, but it’s not truly invisible if you know what signs to look for.

The Poptart Breakfast

My son started his 20th birthday with a breakfast of hot fudge sundae Poptarts. He wanted a day filled with childhood nostalgia comforts, and food was a big part of that. He’s been eating pretty balanced meals for a while now and hasn’t had sugar for breakfast in years. Poptarts have still made appearances as dessert, but having them for breakfast again made him so excited.

He ate them with the birthday Jellycats I got him — an adorable, fluffy Jellycat chicken and a really cute Jellycat chick. I’d actually given them to him a few days early because I just couldn’t wait. I always get far too excited to hold onto gifts. The chicken had been on his Jellycat wishlist for ages, and I also bought him some clothes from Lucy and Yak, though they’re more suited for warmer weather than the freezing cold we have right now.

While my son enjoyed his breakfast, I drank two coffees and put my face on. I don’t mean makeup — I mean the mask I had to wear out of love today. Sometimes masking is necessary when you want to make your son’s birthday entirely about him, not you.

I hugged him with a big smile, wished him the happiest of birthdays, and asked him how it felt to be 20. We’re both still in disbelief that he’s reached this milestone. For me, part of that disbelief came from the detachment I was feeling. I was already exhausted, and the day had only just begun. After the Poptart breakfast, I somehow managed to get dressed so we could head out to Starbucks for his birthday coffee.

Window Shopping and Starbucks

After walking to town in the cold and doing a bit of “I’m just looking, I’m not buying — keeps me smiling”** window shopping, we headed to Starbucks. We brought so many plushies with us and had them all sat on the table. My son, very hungry after his sugar-filled breakfast, joked, “It must be a getting old thing to not be able to handle sugar for breakfast anymore.” It made me laugh — 20-year-olds thinking they’re old.

I ordered him a sausage bap to tame his post-Poptart hunger and his favourite mocha, while I got myself an Americano. I dipped Biscoff biscuits from my bag into my coffee — my current hyperfixation snack. Honestly, I’m pretty sure Biscoff biscuits were made for this exact purpose.

We sat, sipping our coffees and taking adorable photos of our plushies. My son was buzzing, literally, from all the birthday messages he was getting on Instagram. It filled me with warmth to see how many people went out of their way to make him feel special. That kindness meant so much.

While he scrolled through messages and snapped pictures, I couldn’t help but feel bad that this was all we could manage for his birthday this year. We planned to have Domino’s later too, which, when you’re going through a financial mess, already feels like buying a private yacht. Usually, we’d do something bigger — a trip to Cardiff, more gifts, eating out at restaurants — but I just couldn’t afford it this time.

While we laughed playing with plushies and snapped photos, I felt a heavy guilt pressing down on me. I wanted so badly to give him the kind of birthday he deserves, and even though he was happy, I kept thinking about everything I couldn’t do this year. My brain wouldn’t let me just enjoy the moment — it kept whispering that I should have done more.

I smiled through it, not because I wasn’t struggling, but because I love him too much to let my guilt ruin his day. We played with our plushies together on the table, and finished our coffees, trying to hold onto the warmth of the moment.

Nobody and Domino’s

After heading back home, it was already dinner time, so we ordered Domino’s pizza. My son wanted his all-time favourite — a chicken and barbecue sauce pizza with a side of chicken goujons. A custom ARFID special. Oh, and six extra barbecue sauce pots for the week because he’s obsessed with it.

I actually found something I could order for myself. Domino’s now has lower-calorie options on the menu, which made me laugh but also feel incredibly grateful that some options on the menu now follow Corrupted Clippy’s (My eating disordered thoughts) rules. It meant I could join in on the Domino’s order. I ordered the chicken and vegetable bake and ordered a smaller portion of chicken kickers. It arrived quickly, and we queued up Nobody on our laptops.

My son laughed a lot watching the movie, it’s a movie that’s on the favourite list for both of us, and really enjoyed his pizza and chicken. He hasn’t had Domino’s in ages, so it felt special for him, and he couldn’t stop smiling.

The chicken and vegetable dish, with half a portion of chicken kickers, was actually pretty nice — though I can’t tell if it was really that good or if Corrupted Clippy made me so focused on preparing for it that I had barely eaten anything and was just really hungry. I probably would have found anything tasty by the time it arrived.

It wasn’t what I really wanted — I wanted my usual pizza — but I knew I couldn’t manage it. Ordering the lower-calorie option at Domino’s of all places felt awful. I was so mad at myself, even though I did order something and ate it. It still didn’t feel like enough.

This is my son’s birthday, and I couldn’t even share a pizza with him. Despite the fact the food I ordered fit Corrupted Clippy’s rules, it didn’t believe the Domino’s calorie counts and didn’t want me to eat what I had ordered. It screamed at me to leave it, but I ate it anyway. Clippy wasn’t happy about that at all. I wanted to cry, but I swallowed it down and tried to focus on the movie, looking over at my son, smiling as he enjoyed his pizza.

“At least I’m spending it with him and did join in.” I thought.
“No, it’s not enough.” My depression screamed at me.

Baking Brownies and 28 Days Later

After watching Nobody and eating pizza, my son wanted to bake brownies. Neither of us likes birthday cake, so we always get something else — whether it’s a tower of Krispy Kreme donuts stacked like a cake or a pile of brownies. This time, I decided to make some from scratch — by which I mean, I grabbed a box mix.

Baking brownies with him reminded me of when he was little, and I tried desperately to hold on to that feeling. He was so excited, especially since he’d also bought his favourite raspberry ripple ice cream to go with them. I poured the brownie mix into multiple trays so that every piece would be a corner piece — his favourite. They rose so much that they looked like mini brownie loaves, but somehow, they were perfectly cooked in the centre. My whole flat smelled like brownies as we settled in to watch 28 Days Later.

My son had never seen 28 Days Later before, and I hadn’t watched it in years. Licensing issues had kept it unavailable in the UK for ages, but my son found it. It was my favourite movie when I was his age, so it felt fitting that he was watching it now. He absolutely loved it — almost as much as his bowl of warm brownies and ice cream. He kept smiling and telling me how much he loved me for making them for him.

But making the brownies also filled me with dread. I was still battling everything from the Domino’s earlier, and not being able to calculate the exact calories in a loaf-shaped brownie meant I knew I couldn’t eat it. I did try a spoonful. It was pretty nice, I think, but by that point, I was completely numb.

I had planned to eat a bear-shaped brownie, but after the surprise of being able to order and eat Domino’s, Clippy screamed that this was too much. The same feelings I had after the pizza came rushing back, and it was getting harder and harder to keep them contained. It felt like holding back a tsunami that was ready to break through at any moment. I focused on the movie, trying to remember watching it with my friends when I was my son’s age.

I kept thinking about how I’d rather eat something safer than brownies later, and that if I had any more, I wouldn’t be able to have that. I swallowed everything down — everything except the brownies — so hard that I knew it was all going to spill out the moment my son went to bed.

The Illusion of Rock Bottom

When my son went to bed, everything came crashing down, and I cried so much. I haven’t really stopped crying since. One of the hardest things to face is the illusion of rock bottom. I keep asking myself why this isn’t it. Why wasn’t today rock bottom? This day — my son’s birthday, spent feeling like absolute trash — feels like it should be rock bottom. But it’s not.

Why isn’t this enough to start clawing my way out of the hole? There’s a strange comfort in rock bottom because, at that point, things can’t possibly get any worse, and suddenly everything becomes very clear. But I’m still not there. Even after today, of all days? How much further can I fall when this should have been it?

I grieved so much for the day we should have had, for the feelings I should have felt. My son had the best day — he was so thankful and grateful that I spent it with him. I worked so hard to make it special, going above and beyond when just getting out of bed felt impossible.

Yet, it’s not enough. Nothing feels like enough to pull me out of this hole. No one sees the effort it takes. They’d call me high functioning if they saw me today, or say, “I had no idea how much she was struggling,” when today was anything but functioning. I couldn’t even feed myself properly. Every moment was an exhausting battle — and that’s what hurts the most. Celebrating my son’s special day shouldn’t be a battle. He’s my everything.

My son had an amazing birthday, and I’m so glad.
I just wish I did too. I’m really struggling and I’m feeling so devastated about feeling this way.

This wasn’t the day I wanted it to be, and that hurts more than I can explain. But even on the hardest days, my love for my son shines through — and maybe, for now, that’s the best I can do. I know there will be better days, ones where the weight feels a little lighter and maybe when my weight is a little heavier. Maybe this medication increase will soon start working. I know we’ll make up for it, like we always do.

Until then, I’ll hold on to the fact that my son had a happy birthday, and that counts for something. Even when my mental illness tries to control everything, it doesn’t get to take away how much I love him. Not ever.

** Can’t window shop without hearing Stereophonics.

“Oh, I hope some day I’ll make it out of here
Even if it takes all night or a hundred years”