There have occasionally been fun things that happened because of mom's mental illness. Such as, when she was in a Denver hospital, small town me, and little brother, used to get to ride in a real, live, elevator up to our hotel room when we'd visit. The hotel where we'd stay had a glass one, stuck on the outside corner of the building, so we got a good view.
Sometimes we'd also go shopping, and ride the escalators. Probably drove the parents bughouse, but I don't remember getting in trouble. I don't know if we'd have gone to Denver at all as little kids, if mom hadn't been in the hospital there.
There's also the time... wish I could remember the year for certain... I was in high school, we were living in the white and blue house, and mom was hospitalized again. Grandpa came up and hired a college girl to stay with us. She was in the Vet Tech program, and one of their practice dogs was de-barked. We adopted her, called her Penny. Gave Max someone to play with. (But when the guy training sled dogs came along, mom gave Penny to him. That wasn't so nice. But I suppose getting a dog while she was in the hospital wasn't perfectly nice, either.)
I can't recall, just now, if Max was another case like that. I remember who I got him from, and the story he came with, but I can't recall if mom was home when I got him. I sure do miss that dog.
Mustn't forget one of the most fun times... I think I was... 16, perhaps. Mom came home at... 4 am, I think it was, with a guy who drove truck for a custom cutting crew. He taught me how to braid my hair with four strands, and then we all went out and he taught me how to drive his big, ten-wheel Mack grain truck. Scary sort of thrill, 'cause even then I knew I wasn't old enough to get a license. We all got home, mom locked herself in her room with him, and we didn't see hide nor hair of him for about four days. Then he woke up, realized how much trouble he was in, and was gone in a flash. I can't say I know well how to double-clutch, but I still put that on the "fun" side of the scales.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
Thursday, July 19, 2012
What's in a name?
Perhaps this is a good day to come clean: I named my blog as I did because I've skipped over a number of things. Skipped several college courses, for instance. (Tested out, actually, but regardless of how it happened, I didn't have to go to those classes.)
Some of my skips were deliberate, like those courses. Others just happened. Like skipping over some parts of adolescence. No, I didn't magically age a decade overnight, and no, I wasn't magically mature, either. But when I look at some tween being a happy, silly, apparently carefree tween, I'm dead serious when I say "I was never that young."
The first time I got to admit my mother to a mental hospital, essentially all by myself, I was eleven years old. Up until that point, I would have said I'd been having a fairly ordinary life. Even having parents get divorced was part of the ordinary-ness of it all. (While it's true that my parents were the first divorced parents I knew about when I was ten, I'm pretty sure that has more to do with my circle of friends, rather than nationwide divorce rates.)
Watching the meltdown of a full-blown manic episode evolve over the course of roughly a week was... transformative.
As mom devolved, I found myself changed, whether I willed it or not. I tried to figure out what was happening with her. I tried to keep up with her (anyone who's ever stayed up for 36 to 48 hours without sleep probably knows how well that didn't work--my mother on a manic episode could stay up for a whole week with the merest blinks for naps) and when I couldn't, I worried. It's very difficult to pin down, since her apparent IQ skyrockets along with her ability to be convincing, but if you're paying attention, the logic is missing, and the attention span steadily gets shorter and shorter. The essential person who I thought of as "mom" was gradually engulfed in this... other.
I can't recall all the details of that first one I got to be up close and personal for--there have been too many. It might have been the time she wrote letters to Lech Walesa supposedly telling him all the things he needed to know to successfully lead Poland out of its troubles. (I don't know if she sent them, and if so, if she had a good address for them. But she wrote them, and told people around her that she was going to help him save Poland. Being a savior is frequently one of the signposts we need to watch for.) What I do know is this: She was going to college, and surrounded by students who are traditionally rather vocal about their take on current world events. And her meltdown coincided with finals week, fall term, 1981.
In the final analysis, I wasn't able to DO the admitting myself, but I was the driving force behind my friend's mom taking mom in. And while I won't say I was instantly a grown-up, I consider that the end of my childhood. Adolescence, and the chance to be carefree? Yeah, I skipped that.
Some of my skips were deliberate, like those courses. Others just happened. Like skipping over some parts of adolescence. No, I didn't magically age a decade overnight, and no, I wasn't magically mature, either. But when I look at some tween being a happy, silly, apparently carefree tween, I'm dead serious when I say "I was never that young."
The first time I got to admit my mother to a mental hospital, essentially all by myself, I was eleven years old. Up until that point, I would have said I'd been having a fairly ordinary life. Even having parents get divorced was part of the ordinary-ness of it all. (While it's true that my parents were the first divorced parents I knew about when I was ten, I'm pretty sure that has more to do with my circle of friends, rather than nationwide divorce rates.)
Watching the meltdown of a full-blown manic episode evolve over the course of roughly a week was... transformative.
As mom devolved, I found myself changed, whether I willed it or not. I tried to figure out what was happening with her. I tried to keep up with her (anyone who's ever stayed up for 36 to 48 hours without sleep probably knows how well that didn't work--my mother on a manic episode could stay up for a whole week with the merest blinks for naps) and when I couldn't, I worried. It's very difficult to pin down, since her apparent IQ skyrockets along with her ability to be convincing, but if you're paying attention, the logic is missing, and the attention span steadily gets shorter and shorter. The essential person who I thought of as "mom" was gradually engulfed in this... other.
I can't recall all the details of that first one I got to be up close and personal for--there have been too many. It might have been the time she wrote letters to Lech Walesa supposedly telling him all the things he needed to know to successfully lead Poland out of its troubles. (I don't know if she sent them, and if so, if she had a good address for them. But she wrote them, and told people around her that she was going to help him save Poland. Being a savior is frequently one of the signposts we need to watch for.) What I do know is this: She was going to college, and surrounded by students who are traditionally rather vocal about their take on current world events. And her meltdown coincided with finals week, fall term, 1981.
In the final analysis, I wasn't able to DO the admitting myself, but I was the driving force behind my friend's mom taking mom in. And while I won't say I was instantly a grown-up, I consider that the end of my childhood. Adolescence, and the chance to be carefree? Yeah, I skipped that.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Nightmares
As I mentioned in a previous post, bad memories stick, for me. I'm not quite willing to have amnesia to get rid of them, but I would really like to have good memories that are that sticky.
One of my really horrible ones is actually quite simple. My mom was in the hospital (again) and had been dosed with Haldol, and perhaps other things. Dad took me for a visit, and I remember this long hallway, and a stiff, drooling, staggering zombie shuffling down the hallway towards me. Dad and the doctor both told me it was my mother, and tried to encourage me to go and hug her. I couldn't imagine anything I wanted less. I wanted, desperately, to run away screaming. I was probably four years old.
Another shouldn't have been so awful, perhaps. My parents had a record cabinet, a box fitted for LP's, perhaps twice as long as it was wide, on casters, with a padded lid to sit on. I had to have been small, because I was crouched behind the cabinet, curled up small enough that a glance would not see me, and mom was sitting across the room talking with a friend, laughing over some silly thing I'd done or said. I don't remember what action of mine was being discussed, but I cried with the shame of being ridiculed. Did she know I was there? Did she realize it hurt? Would she have cared if she did?
A third that has really stuck with me was the time the teenage babysitter pretended to have a fatal accident. She eeled through the railing of our second story deck, dropped down, and pretended that she'd fallen. I even remember the hollow-sounding thud, like thumping a ripe watermelon, she managed to make, out of my sight. I ran around and took the stairs down, crying and tugging at her, trying to get her to wake up. She played dead convincingly (how hard is it to fool someone four or five years old, really?) and I ended up running across the street to the my best friend's mom for help. When I dragged Mrs. S back to see, the babysitter was gone. We couldn't even find her in the house. In point of fact, I don't know if I ever saw her again. I suspect that she was tired of babysitting daily. Mom was in and out of hospitals for roughly three-quarters of the first two years after my brother was born. Dad has always worked extremely long hours, and I'm sure that was true then, as well.
One of my really horrible ones is actually quite simple. My mom was in the hospital (again) and had been dosed with Haldol, and perhaps other things. Dad took me for a visit, and I remember this long hallway, and a stiff, drooling, staggering zombie shuffling down the hallway towards me. Dad and the doctor both told me it was my mother, and tried to encourage me to go and hug her. I couldn't imagine anything I wanted less. I wanted, desperately, to run away screaming. I was probably four years old.
Another shouldn't have been so awful, perhaps. My parents had a record cabinet, a box fitted for LP's, perhaps twice as long as it was wide, on casters, with a padded lid to sit on. I had to have been small, because I was crouched behind the cabinet, curled up small enough that a glance would not see me, and mom was sitting across the room talking with a friend, laughing over some silly thing I'd done or said. I don't remember what action of mine was being discussed, but I cried with the shame of being ridiculed. Did she know I was there? Did she realize it hurt? Would she have cared if she did?
A third that has really stuck with me was the time the teenage babysitter pretended to have a fatal accident. She eeled through the railing of our second story deck, dropped down, and pretended that she'd fallen. I even remember the hollow-sounding thud, like thumping a ripe watermelon, she managed to make, out of my sight. I ran around and took the stairs down, crying and tugging at her, trying to get her to wake up. She played dead convincingly (how hard is it to fool someone four or five years old, really?) and I ended up running across the street to the my best friend's mom for help. When I dragged Mrs. S back to see, the babysitter was gone. We couldn't even find her in the house. In point of fact, I don't know if I ever saw her again. I suspect that she was tired of babysitting daily. Mom was in and out of hospitals for roughly three-quarters of the first two years after my brother was born. Dad has always worked extremely long hours, and I'm sure that was true then, as well.
Monday, July 16, 2012
Books and toys
When I was in third grade, I read and re-read a book, over and over, written as if through the eyes of Comanche, the horse that ended up being the last US Cavalry survivor of Custer's Last Stand at the Little Bighorn. (I've even been to visit him in person--he's in a museum here in Kansas.) Drove the school librarian half crazy, because I kept checking it out again and again, and the fact that it was 8th grade reading level didn't make her very happy, either. That was many years ago, and only small vignettes remain. I wish I could find it again, but unfortunately none of those vignettes include the title or the author. It's probably long out of print, anyway. Considering that it was written as if from the horse's point of view, I'm sure it was fiction, but I think there was a fair amount of historical research woven into it. I'd like to read it again, and see if my grown-up self remembers any of it correctly, and might correct or flesh out things that may have been skimmed over.
I also read Black Beauty, and as many of Walter Farley's Black Stallion books as I could get my hands on. I had a serious case of horse-crazy. But I also lived in town, and nowhere near anything like a public riding stable, so I didn't get much contact with the real thing. (Unless you count feeding marshmallows to my uncle's cutting horse, and singing to him, when I was two.) Instead I had a rather extensive stable of toy horses. Breyer was my favorite maker (they have had some really wonderful artists to make their models) but since most of my steeds came via birthday and Christmas gifts, I had examples from many makers, in plastic, glass, acrylic, and porcelain. Toward the end of my collecting days, I also accumulated other things besides horses. Cows, bulls, elk, deer, moose, buffalo... I even had several bears. Though, simply by happenstance, I did not get even one "teddy bear" until I was 16 years old. I did, however, have two different stuffed rats as cuddly toys when I was small.
We had a small fire, a number of years ago, that thinned out my toy collection drastically, and two floods that cleared out a lot of books. Lucky for me, I can still remember at least some of the fun I had reading and playing. Probably worth more than the things, by any measure. Part of the drive to make this blog is the hope that I will be able to remember. Happy memories, for me, seem to fade too fast, or never take hold at all, while the nightmares stick like crazy glue.
I also read Black Beauty, and as many of Walter Farley's Black Stallion books as I could get my hands on. I had a serious case of horse-crazy. But I also lived in town, and nowhere near anything like a public riding stable, so I didn't get much contact with the real thing. (Unless you count feeding marshmallows to my uncle's cutting horse, and singing to him, when I was two.) Instead I had a rather extensive stable of toy horses. Breyer was my favorite maker (they have had some really wonderful artists to make their models) but since most of my steeds came via birthday and Christmas gifts, I had examples from many makers, in plastic, glass, acrylic, and porcelain. Toward the end of my collecting days, I also accumulated other things besides horses. Cows, bulls, elk, deer, moose, buffalo... I even had several bears. Though, simply by happenstance, I did not get even one "teddy bear" until I was 16 years old. I did, however, have two different stuffed rats as cuddly toys when I was small.
We had a small fire, a number of years ago, that thinned out my toy collection drastically, and two floods that cleared out a lot of books. Lucky for me, I can still remember at least some of the fun I had reading and playing. Probably worth more than the things, by any measure. Part of the drive to make this blog is the hope that I will be able to remember. Happy memories, for me, seem to fade too fast, or never take hold at all, while the nightmares stick like crazy glue.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Precious memories
I was recently told of a happy moment in my childhood that I was either too young to remember, or simply oblivious to at the time. I can't confirm it by myself, but I don't doubt the storyteller.
My dad had taken me to visit mom in the hospital, and I darted off for a detour into a stranger's room. A very nice lady, she didn't get angry, but instead sat and talked with me. Dad had been ready to grab me, but was assured that it was OK, and instead stood by and watched, somewhat in awe. She had a wonderful voice, but was dreadfully thin and frail. At some point, a nurse popped in and asked if she might like some ice cream. Dad says I piped up happily, "Yes, please!" and the kind lady in the hospital bed answered that "If this young lady wants ice cream, I suppose I will have some as well."
The nursing staff later mentioned, where dad could hear, that it was the first thing that nice lady had eaten in a week. Her name was Karen Carpenter.
My dad had taken me to visit mom in the hospital, and I darted off for a detour into a stranger's room. A very nice lady, she didn't get angry, but instead sat and talked with me. Dad had been ready to grab me, but was assured that it was OK, and instead stood by and watched, somewhat in awe. She had a wonderful voice, but was dreadfully thin and frail. At some point, a nurse popped in and asked if she might like some ice cream. Dad says I piped up happily, "Yes, please!" and the kind lady in the hospital bed answered that "If this young lady wants ice cream, I suppose I will have some as well."
The nursing staff later mentioned, where dad could hear, that it was the first thing that nice lady had eaten in a week. Her name was Karen Carpenter.
Looks like today is the day.
I've been dithering for years about creating a blog. Finally got around to making a start. I'm not sure how this is going to work out, but then, my crystal ball has been a bit cracked for a long time. Consider this a site under construction.
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