I hope my story demonstrates how challenging this issue is, and encourages people to demonstrate empathy to all who are affected and recognize that there is not one easy solution.
My mother suffers from mental health issues. Serious mental health issues. They have gotten progressively worse over the years. I don’t know her specific diagnosis – we have been estranged for years – but I will share some of what I experienced as a result of her mental health issues. In this story, I speak of her in the past tense, not because she is deceased, but because those were my experiences back then – in the past- though I have heard her mental health has gotten worse, not better.
First, appearances were very important to her, which is not uncommon. Don’t we all want to present the best version of ourselves to the world? However, her emphasis on appearances made for a challenging childhood. She was highly critical of us. The house was always expected to look like something from a “House Beautiful” magazine. We were expected to be tidy in appearance (difficult for me as a tomboy), and we were definitely, definitely NEVER to give the appearance that our family was anything other than “normal”, healthy, happy and successful in all endeavors.
Again though, isn’t that what we all want the world to see?
When my parent’s marriage began unraveling and they separated, my younger sister and I lived with my mom and saw my dad every other weekend. This was partly due to his 7/12 work schedule (he worked 7 days in a row for 12-hour days, then had 7 days off) and he lived outside a bus route that would get us to school. There is no doubt in any of our minds that our father loved us and wanted to be in our lives, however changing jobs was not a viable option, and the work schedule was inflexible.
We know my mother suffered from bouts of depression; Some were so severe that she laid in bed, day after day, only dragging herself out to go to work and come home. She had some “up” moments, too, but in general, her depression often made her even more negative and critical.
My father also struggled with her decision to separate and divorce. Those were dark days for our family, though very few people had any idea how bad things were because we maintained appearances to most of the outside world.
When my dad abruptly ended up in the hospital, my older sister Erica flew home with her infant daughter. She had requested and received permission for emergency leave from the USMC as soon as she found out what happened.
Within a few days of her arrival, my mom and Erica had an argument in the tiny living room that was our (rental) condo. She and my mom had always had a difficult and tumultuous relationship, and she was furious that my mom had not intended to tell her that our dad was in the hospital. Instead, Erica had received a phone call from our grandmother (my mom’s mom) alerting her to the situation.
I was mortified because the argument happened in front of my friend Jason, who had stopped over to say hello and drop off something. While we had been friends for a few years, Jason had never been privy to this side of our family dynamics. On that day, his perception of my family radically shifted. It got worse.
In an instant, my mother snapped, and grabbed a nearby fireplace poker, swinging it at my sister, who was cradling her daughter in her arms. My sister tossed her daughter to the couch and ran, yelling, “Call the Police” as my mother chased her, trying to hit her with the poker, bloodlust in her eyes. Jason and I were in the kitchen. He saw it all. I was frozen in place. Erica sprinted up the stairs, locking herself in a bathroom and yelling for me to call the police through the door as my mother banged the door furiously, cursing.
A quiet settled over the house. I don’t know how much time passed. The phone rang. My mother hurried down the stairs, standing over me with the poker in her hand as I answered the phone. It was Jason’s mom. He had come home in near hysterics over what he had witnessed. He had never seen or experienced anything like it in his life. She was concerned by what she heard and wanted to know if everything ok.
“Yes, everything is fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure.”
And that was that. Crisis averted. I don’t remember what happened after that with my mom and sister, but I know that after she left, they didn’t talk for years.
Before you criticize anyone’s decisions – keep this in mind. You weren’t there. You didn’t see what happened. This is just my recollection. I was a teenager. Jason was a teenager. My mother was/is mentally ill. My older sister was only 20. Jason’s mom only had a secondhand account of what happened. She had met both my parents in the past, finding them both to be calm, competent and rational. Had she called the police, things would have gotten even more complicated. You see, my mother was a records clerk for the police department. She saw, worked and interacted with those police officers every day. Who were they likely to believe- My sister, who had a troubled past? My mother, who worked there for years (and had passed a background and reference check)? A teenage boy? The secondhand account of his mother? What would I have said if they asked me? My mother’s personal and professional reputation was on the line – directly impacting her job, our income, housing and lives. These were all the things running through my mind.
There’s more to share, but I’ll close here. What I want you to understand is this:
