I had a somewhat unnatural relationship with the traveling carnival, during high school. We happened to move (back) to my old hometown during the week it was in town--the County Fair runs for a week, and in between the rodeo, and musical acts, and dirt track racing, there was always a carnival on the midway of the fairgrounds, to keep folks entertained. So the year we moved back, mother trotted over there, and hired several guys, who were otherwise just standing around, I'd guess, to help us unload our belongings, and move into our new rental house. The rental was just two blocks from the fairgrounds. I think they walked over.
Perfect strangers, unvetted, handling all our worldly goods. Neat trick, huh? Nothing went missing, it was quick and easy, and they earned a small windfall on a hot summer day. I'm not sure whether to chalk it up to small town mentality, the goodness of strangers, or mother's luck. We went back to see the sights, and ride a few rides, the next day.
By the time the next year's carnival rolled into town, we'd moved twice more, and I was just barely old enough that they'd hire me to work in the vending trailer. Sodas with ice, candy bars, someone else ran the cotton candy machine, but I made change and handed goodies out the window for several hours every night. Hot, sweaty, exhausting, but there were elements of fun.
The next year was the best, in my opinion. I was hired to work in a "stick joint" (meaning it was a wood-framed tent, of sorts) where people could come and wager on which hole in a spinning wheel/table, a rat would run to. No rats were harmed, I swear. They were well-fed, spent most of their time in a shady cage, off-stage. Was I hired because of my looks? I dunno, and I didn't care. That was the year that their next stop (the next week) was the next town west of us, and I traveled over every day for the second week, and worked there, too. I liked my boss, I liked the other folks on the crew, my best friend spent a lot of time on-site when I was off duty, so we could just bum around and have fun; it was just generally fun all the way around. (There was extra drama after the last night wrap up, but I'll get to that in a minute.)
The next year wasn't a favorite. And if it had been my first, I likely wouldn't have tried again. I was set up in a trailer, with cork guns, letting folks shoot cups for prizes. Have you ever used a cork gun? Not the most accurate weapon. I don't care who "loads" it, the corks aren't the most aerodynamic missiles, and if you push them in too tight, they won't come out at all, and... yeah, lots of grumpy customers. If they had been BB guns, perhaps some of the complaints might have had merit (or not--I wasn't instructed to fool with a customer's chances) but no matter what I did or didn't do, people who couldn't get their corks to fly true blamed me. That was my last year on the carnival. By the next year, I had moved out, and was living somewhere far, far away. Something of a sour note, but hey, sometimes life just turns that way.
But back to the extra drama from year three. I'd been working for two weeks, every evening, and since that second town happened to lie on the other side of the time zone line from my home, I was getting home (for that second week) every morning around 2 am. At which point, I'd generally fall into bed with a thud, and sleep 'til mid-day. All except that last day. I got home, and fell into bed just like usual, except that mother woke me up about an hour later. Note that time: roughly 3 am, Monday morning. She had a friend, who "desperately" needed to get to Nashville, Tennessee. Like, Right Now. And mother had decided that, while we couldn't afford to give her a bus ticket, we could drive her there. And I was elected to drive.
I was less than enthused, but mother tended to have these little adventures, and it was best to just roll with it. So I rolled out, and got dressed again, and we all (all four of us) stumbled out to the car. And headed east. I had never been to Nashville, and I wasn't the navigator for this trip, so I simply got on I-70 and booked it. Snacks and drinks were all we could manage for the first leg, so I was scarfing Pringles, and drinking DrPepper, trying to stay awake. Somewhere around Hays, when we stopped for gas, I picked up some NoDoz, because I was already flagging a bit. Let me just say, the minty NoDoz, plus Pringles, plus DrPepper, when burped back up--not a good combination. But I was buzzing just enough that I hit my second wind, and we kept on rolling. Stopped somewhere at a rest stop, I'm thinking it was in the general vicinity of Topeka, and took a picture of me and this woman we were helping.
Zoomed through the rest of the state, and on into Missouri, struggling with heat, and exhaustion, and just general dont-wanna-be-here, and managed to get mother to drive for maybe 30 minutes a couple of times. But she was shaky, and claimed to be tired, or sick, or whatever it took to always hand it back to me. (What she was, was in the ramping-up stage of a manic episode, but there really wasn't anything any of us could do about it.)
Crossed the bridge at St. Louis, and headed into Illinois, and that's where things got weird. Why nobody could be arsed to look on a map, I can't say. Could have been a manifestation of mother's mania, but we got all the way to Indiana before someone (it might have been me) asked just where we were going, anyway? My memory (now) is hazy. I'm almost certain we stayed on I-70 much longer than we should have, but that heads way up into the relative middle of IN, which, well, we might have, I can't say for sure. I think it was the act of crossing the Indiana line that actually woke someone up, to look at a map. So then we headed south, on whichever was the closest major route, and washed up in Nashville, where our passenger could begin to give directions.
And what directions they were! We literally left her under a bridge, because that's where she told us to drop her off. There was a little camp, there, with tents and a general air of hobo chic. If memory serves, it was rolling around to suppertime, or later, like dusk, and we found somewhere to get a bite, but couldn't have a sit-down dinner, because no, mother was in a BIG hurry, now, to get home again. My head was pounding, and I had gone through my second wind hours ago, so I begged to stop at a pay phone, to call ahead of us, and see if my boyfriend could give us a chunk of floor to sleep on, if we could make it back to Kansas City. First place I tried, there were a bunch of kids throwing newspaper machines at each other in the parking lot, whooping and hollering, and I snatched up the handset, and backed against the wall, not wanting to put my back to them. No telling what might come flying my way. Except that the brick wall had a stub of broken pipe sticking out of it, sharp, and I backed into it. Stabbed MYSELF in the back, ha ha. Icing on the cake for that was, the phone wasn't working. The handset had been ripped out of the base unit, but I hadn't noticed that until I had it to my ear.
Mother was not at all pleased that I was bleeding on the seat, since she was in such a hurry, but consented to let me stop and get some gauze and peroxide. I think I used a pay phone at the pharmacy. So now all I had to do was make it back to Kansas City, and I'd be golden, right? Yeah, right. I really don't remember much about that leg of the trip. Mother kept insisting that she couldn't drive, and I had a migraine roaring behind my eyes, so it's probably just luck that kept us on the road.
Rolled into boyfriend's driveway at, oh, I think the sun had risen again, or was just about to. We all trooped inside, and I tried to fall into oblivion. But no, we couldn't stay. Mother had to get back on the road. Boyfriend helped me with the migraine--dialed it down a few notches for me--and off we went again.
At the I-70 turnpike gate, or more correctly, just before it, mother had me pick up three hitchhikers. A married couple, and a single man. I made it to Topeka, where the toll road ends (at least in terms of I-70) and gave up. I was done. Mother had, by this time, had plenty of time to chitchat with our passengers, and the single man claimed to have a license and all, so HE drove us the rest of the way home. I went to the way-back, and fell asleep. I remember waking up, just barely, to groggily notice that mother took over at the I-70 ramp, (let them out to seek their next rides) and got us the last five miles home. Stumbled into the house, and collapsed in a heap. It was Tuesday afternoon, about 3:45 or so. Google Maps, today, says that is a 29 hour trip. (Assuming we really did take I-70 all the way to Indiana.) Allowing for stops along the way, I figure that comes out just about right.
Wednesday, the three of us got back on the road, again, and took mother to Hays, where she stayed in the hospital for a while. All in all, we lived, and no harm was done beyond a dent in the bank account, so I suppose I'm just as satisfied that I didn't skip that.
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
Tuesday, March 6, 2018
Returned from the void!
Yeah, I've been neglecting this blog of mine, and I'm not sure how to pick it back up except to admit it.
Something about being emotionally hammered into the pavement, I just didn't have enough left of myself to emote any more. For quite a while.
But I've been working on that. And figured I can't restart this any sooner than when I actually do, so here I am.
Let's see, what sort of story can I write about today?
Relatively harmless, I think I'll go with that. Statute of limitations should have run out by now. Fill in more details on an earlier story.
Mother used to go out drinking, when the mood struck her. And bring home agreeable company, when the mood struck them. Once, when I was about 16, she brought home a guy from the bar, who was part of a custom-cutting crew. He was from Saskatchewan, and claimed a high percentage of First Nations ancestry. (Back then, I don't think that's what he or mother called it, though. I blame that on alcohol and/or other recreational chemistry and the mid-80s.) Drove up to our house in his great big 10-wheel Mack grain truck. At 3 in the morning or so. (Right after the bar closed, of course.)
Mother woke me up, because he was such a knowledgeable character, and he had so much stuff to teach me, donchaknow… So he showed me how to do a four-strand (flat) braid in my own hair, which was pretty cool, I must admit, and then mom pestered him a little more, and we three (or was it four? I don't remember if we woke up the fourth?) trundled out so he could show me how to drive his truck.
I'd been driving stick for over a year by then, but this was more than my three-on-the-tree. And air brakes are a bit more complex, I must admit. So he drove us out to about, oh, the Rexford turn-off, I think, with me just watching everything he did, and him telling off all the details. Then he turned around, and headed West again. And had me climb into the driver's seat.
I was nervous as hell, but excited, too. He was carefully telling me everything to do, and I think I was doing OK. Not much traffic at 4 am, luckily. We came even with the wrecking yard, where there was someone pulled over with a flat tire, and he had me pull over, so he could get out to change their tire for them. Then we got back in and headed on through town, and all the way out to Levant.
I turned around by myself, there, and on the way back, he didn't offer any help or advice, just let me drive (and make any little mistakes) as I would. No, I didn't run over any road signs or parked cars, thank goodness.
We got to the middle of town, by the bar where they'd met, and they had me stop. He and mother got out, and he told me to drive the truck home, they were taking mother's car home. They'd see me there. I just about died on the spot, but what could I say? No, thanks, I'll walk home? Granted, it was a fairly safe little town, but it was mighty dark, I'd be all alone, and if nothing else, there were crews in town!
What I didn't realize 'til I got home is that one of us had set some of the air brakes (I don't remember doing it!) at that stop in town, and I didn't release them all the way home. Oh well, it's only 30 mph and only about 12 blocks. And in the final analysis, I can't go back and fix it! I know I didn't hear tires chirping, or any other weird noises, but it sure didn't want to go very fast. So I parked it out on the street (it was bigger than our driveway, even if I was brave enough to try to stuff it in the driveway) and shut it down. (That's when I noticed the brakes, because I was supposed to lock 'em down then.) For my very first solo, I give myself no better than a B, at best. If I'd needed to go further, I'd have figured it out eventually.
Somewhere in the meantime, they'd gotten home and locked themselves in mother's room. She came out the next day, sometime, but he didn't appear again for like four days. Seriously. I had begun to wonder if she'd killed him. Every day, I'd come home from school to find that truck still there, and wonder. Until one day, it wasn't. He woke up, realized his crew had moved on, and lit out like his ass was on fire. Likely it was. Being down one truck surely made 'em cranky.
Is that the sort of adventure you get with a sane parent? I don't know. I'm certain you're supposed to take some paper tests and get more training before driving a truck with air brakes, but (like many farm kids before and after me) I skipped that.
Something about being emotionally hammered into the pavement, I just didn't have enough left of myself to emote any more. For quite a while.
But I've been working on that. And figured I can't restart this any sooner than when I actually do, so here I am.
Let's see, what sort of story can I write about today?
Relatively harmless, I think I'll go with that. Statute of limitations should have run out by now. Fill in more details on an earlier story.
Mother used to go out drinking, when the mood struck her. And bring home agreeable company, when the mood struck them. Once, when I was about 16, she brought home a guy from the bar, who was part of a custom-cutting crew. He was from Saskatchewan, and claimed a high percentage of First Nations ancestry. (Back then, I don't think that's what he or mother called it, though. I blame that on alcohol and/or other recreational chemistry and the mid-80s.) Drove up to our house in his great big 10-wheel Mack grain truck. At 3 in the morning or so. (Right after the bar closed, of course.)
Mother woke me up, because he was such a knowledgeable character, and he had so much stuff to teach me, donchaknow… So he showed me how to do a four-strand (flat) braid in my own hair, which was pretty cool, I must admit, and then mom pestered him a little more, and we three (or was it four? I don't remember if we woke up the fourth?) trundled out so he could show me how to drive his truck.
I'd been driving stick for over a year by then, but this was more than my three-on-the-tree. And air brakes are a bit more complex, I must admit. So he drove us out to about, oh, the Rexford turn-off, I think, with me just watching everything he did, and him telling off all the details. Then he turned around, and headed West again. And had me climb into the driver's seat.
I was nervous as hell, but excited, too. He was carefully telling me everything to do, and I think I was doing OK. Not much traffic at 4 am, luckily. We came even with the wrecking yard, where there was someone pulled over with a flat tire, and he had me pull over, so he could get out to change their tire for them. Then we got back in and headed on through town, and all the way out to Levant.
I turned around by myself, there, and on the way back, he didn't offer any help or advice, just let me drive (and make any little mistakes) as I would. No, I didn't run over any road signs or parked cars, thank goodness.
We got to the middle of town, by the bar where they'd met, and they had me stop. He and mother got out, and he told me to drive the truck home, they were taking mother's car home. They'd see me there. I just about died on the spot, but what could I say? No, thanks, I'll walk home? Granted, it was a fairly safe little town, but it was mighty dark, I'd be all alone, and if nothing else, there were crews in town!
What I didn't realize 'til I got home is that one of us had set some of the air brakes (I don't remember doing it!) at that stop in town, and I didn't release them all the way home. Oh well, it's only 30 mph and only about 12 blocks. And in the final analysis, I can't go back and fix it! I know I didn't hear tires chirping, or any other weird noises, but it sure didn't want to go very fast. So I parked it out on the street (it was bigger than our driveway, even if I was brave enough to try to stuff it in the driveway) and shut it down. (That's when I noticed the brakes, because I was supposed to lock 'em down then.) For my very first solo, I give myself no better than a B, at best. If I'd needed to go further, I'd have figured it out eventually.
Somewhere in the meantime, they'd gotten home and locked themselves in mother's room. She came out the next day, sometime, but he didn't appear again for like four days. Seriously. I had begun to wonder if she'd killed him. Every day, I'd come home from school to find that truck still there, and wonder. Until one day, it wasn't. He woke up, realized his crew had moved on, and lit out like his ass was on fire. Likely it was. Being down one truck surely made 'em cranky.
Is that the sort of adventure you get with a sane parent? I don't know. I'm certain you're supposed to take some paper tests and get more training before driving a truck with air brakes, but (like many farm kids before and after me) I skipped that.
Saturday, February 7, 2015
Falling through the cracks
We are apparently dealing with a "fixed delusion" now. Nothing fixed about it. Entirely broken in my non-medical opinion. I have spoken with medical professionals, law enforcement, counselors, DCF (yes, they changed the acronym this year) and the local county attorney's office. So far, everyone with an idea has sent me on a chase that has come up empty. All too often, there are no ideas at all.
When a delusional person whose medications have stopped working repeatedly files false accusations, there's nothing that can be done, because, "we wouldn't want to discourage people from making reports." It doesn't even count as harassment. Apparently, it's not even harmful to my children, who have been called out of class over and over to talk to strangers about imagined abuse. (I would argue that, but my opinion doesn't carry much weight, since I'm merely the mom.)
Ironically, the first time this happened to us, the interviewer told me (later) that my eldest daughter was the happiest child she had ever interviewed. After a half dozen false reports and about a dozen interviews, she's not such a happy interviewee any more.
I don't want to imply that abuse doesn't happen--I know it does. And reporting helps catch perps. But there needs to be some way to stop false reporting from being a way to freely harass.
The County Attorney refers all his cases to the doctor before sending it to a judge. I understand why, in simple terms. No judge wants his courtroom turned into a circus. But if a person needs a Care and Treatment Order, and the last resort is to get it from a judge, why would that judge toss it back at the same doctor who is asking the judge for it? I don't see the logic. Jail or prison is not the appropriate place for the mentally ill, or at least I don't think so. Not most of them, anyway. But when you make it nearly impossible for a doctor to place a person under care unless they think they want it, seems to me you're setting everyone up for a whole lot of mentally ill people without care, or even in jail. Paranoia is an insidious beast, and not limited to shambling hulks you might envision living under a bridge somewhere. Add in the unfortunates turfed out as quickly as possible because they may or may not have any sort of medical coverage, and, yeah, the old insane asylums of horror movie fame actually might not be quite so bad... as prison or death.
I was given the advice (I think it was supposed to be... soothing?) that sometimes people with severe mental illness push away anyone who might help them. Not to worry, this is normal. Well, yes, I am aware that Alzheimer's patients are known for becoming somewhat combative and argumentative with their caregivers, sometimes not recognizing friends and family. Not quite the same situation. She knows exactly who I am, and is attacking with finesse and precision. If she had not been Bipolar, with decades of medical history on file, I'm not too sure my kids wouldn't have spent time in foster care "just in case" by now. Or possibly that hubby or I might have been detained for more detailed questioning.
When a delusional person whose medications have stopped working repeatedly files false accusations, there's nothing that can be done, because, "we wouldn't want to discourage people from making reports." It doesn't even count as harassment. Apparently, it's not even harmful to my children, who have been called out of class over and over to talk to strangers about imagined abuse. (I would argue that, but my opinion doesn't carry much weight, since I'm merely the mom.)
Ironically, the first time this happened to us, the interviewer told me (later) that my eldest daughter was the happiest child she had ever interviewed. After a half dozen false reports and about a dozen interviews, she's not such a happy interviewee any more.
I don't want to imply that abuse doesn't happen--I know it does. And reporting helps catch perps. But there needs to be some way to stop false reporting from being a way to freely harass.
The County Attorney refers all his cases to the doctor before sending it to a judge. I understand why, in simple terms. No judge wants his courtroom turned into a circus. But if a person needs a Care and Treatment Order, and the last resort is to get it from a judge, why would that judge toss it back at the same doctor who is asking the judge for it? I don't see the logic. Jail or prison is not the appropriate place for the mentally ill, or at least I don't think so. Not most of them, anyway. But when you make it nearly impossible for a doctor to place a person under care unless they think they want it, seems to me you're setting everyone up for a whole lot of mentally ill people without care, or even in jail. Paranoia is an insidious beast, and not limited to shambling hulks you might envision living under a bridge somewhere. Add in the unfortunates turfed out as quickly as possible because they may or may not have any sort of medical coverage, and, yeah, the old insane asylums of horror movie fame actually might not be quite so bad... as prison or death.
I was given the advice (I think it was supposed to be... soothing?) that sometimes people with severe mental illness push away anyone who might help them. Not to worry, this is normal. Well, yes, I am aware that Alzheimer's patients are known for becoming somewhat combative and argumentative with their caregivers, sometimes not recognizing friends and family. Not quite the same situation. She knows exactly who I am, and is attacking with finesse and precision. If she had not been Bipolar, with decades of medical history on file, I'm not too sure my kids wouldn't have spent time in foster care "just in case" by now. Or possibly that hubby or I might have been detained for more detailed questioning.
Hiatus
Life gets away from us, sometimes, and this blog certainly fell into the cracks for me. If anyone was watching, I apologize.
Much news, but where to start... where to start...
Mother moved back to town. And the sky didn't fall, the earth didn't crack in two, and life essentially kept plodding along. She pressed--hard--for a meeting, and much against my better judgement, I finally set one up, with a moderator. Mother wasn't happy with that, and had a number of unkind things to say about it, but I survived. Felt as though she'd run me over with a semi truck, then picked it up and hammered me into the pavement with it, but that's merely the subjective perception. Some little while later, she pressed for another meeting, which I attended again. Took along some written notes, so that she couldn't disconcert me enough to leave out some salient questions I wanted her to answer. I don't feel as though she actually responded to the facts and questions presented, but at least they were aired in front of a neutral observer.
Afterwards, the moderator requested a meeting with me and my husband, so she could get some idea for herself about the sort of man he really is, apart from the hype my mother has been spreading to everyone with ears. I think she was pleasantly surprised. And she gave us what I consider a compliment. Namely, that she was surprised that we were still a couple. Apparently many of the people she counsels have had marriages unravel under the weight of stresses like ours. She went on to say that I really shouldn't feel the requirement to visit. She could see that it was a great stress, and that mother has no intent to change her position. Though mother did announce that she will stop making police reports, etc., since she's decided that my children are just "liars" and won't tell (her) truth no matter how many times she reports. I'm relieved, to a point, but I suspect I may never stop being angry about the name-calling.
Since then, my aunt (the one who was a school counselor) has retired, and volunteered to be moderator for a couple of meetings. They were a bit calmer, without an "outsider" present, but still took a toll on me. I have not given mother my phone number, and have asked the family to continue to respect this as well. I'd like to believe that my continued lack of communication is only self-preservation, and not something darker, such as vengeance.
If I'm destined to "heal" enough that I can ever return to anything resembling the relationship we once had, I hope it happens soon. But something tells me that somewhere down the road of life, I'll be able to say I skipped that.
Much news, but where to start... where to start...
Mother moved back to town. And the sky didn't fall, the earth didn't crack in two, and life essentially kept plodding along. She pressed--hard--for a meeting, and much against my better judgement, I finally set one up, with a moderator. Mother wasn't happy with that, and had a number of unkind things to say about it, but I survived. Felt as though she'd run me over with a semi truck, then picked it up and hammered me into the pavement with it, but that's merely the subjective perception. Some little while later, she pressed for another meeting, which I attended again. Took along some written notes, so that she couldn't disconcert me enough to leave out some salient questions I wanted her to answer. I don't feel as though she actually responded to the facts and questions presented, but at least they were aired in front of a neutral observer.
Afterwards, the moderator requested a meeting with me and my husband, so she could get some idea for herself about the sort of man he really is, apart from the hype my mother has been spreading to everyone with ears. I think she was pleasantly surprised. And she gave us what I consider a compliment. Namely, that she was surprised that we were still a couple. Apparently many of the people she counsels have had marriages unravel under the weight of stresses like ours. She went on to say that I really shouldn't feel the requirement to visit. She could see that it was a great stress, and that mother has no intent to change her position. Though mother did announce that she will stop making police reports, etc., since she's decided that my children are just "liars" and won't tell (her) truth no matter how many times she reports. I'm relieved, to a point, but I suspect I may never stop being angry about the name-calling.
Since then, my aunt (the one who was a school counselor) has retired, and volunteered to be moderator for a couple of meetings. They were a bit calmer, without an "outsider" present, but still took a toll on me. I have not given mother my phone number, and have asked the family to continue to respect this as well. I'd like to believe that my continued lack of communication is only self-preservation, and not something darker, such as vengeance.
If I'm destined to "heal" enough that I can ever return to anything resembling the relationship we once had, I hope it happens soon. But something tells me that somewhere down the road of life, I'll be able to say I skipped that.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
more "about me"
I grew up as the child of a mentally ill parent. She's still mentally ill, but I am no longer a child. I have recently begun to realize some things I thought "everyone"--at least in the family-- knew were not, in fact, known. This blog may help me to put together my memories with others' into what might begin to approach a more complete history. I don't expect "truth" but it sure would be neat if I could track down that elusive beast.
I have evidence that my mother's parents actively hid facts for years. Not too surprising, considering that her first episode was in 1960, which was still not a very enlightened hour in modern mental health care. I lost my chance to question them, when they each lost their individual battles with cancer.
I can be judgmental and politically incorrect, but I hope that I achieve kindness more often than not. At this moment, my kindness for my mother has run empty. Hopefully for my peace of mind, I'll eventually be able to dig some up again.
I have evidence that my mother's parents actively hid facts for years. Not too surprising, considering that her first episode was in 1960, which was still not a very enlightened hour in modern mental health care. I lost my chance to question them, when they each lost their individual battles with cancer.
I can be judgmental and politically incorrect, but I hope that I achieve kindness more often than not. At this moment, my kindness for my mother has run empty. Hopefully for my peace of mind, I'll eventually be able to dig some up again.
Wednesday, August 8, 2012
Define: Memory
I would say that my mom never has shown much ability to remember. Considering the sheer, mind-boggling number of drugs and treatments she's been subjected to since 1960, I have generally given her a pass on that. My own memory has bits I wish I could lose, bits I wish I hadn't lost, and quirks that annoy me mightily.
But some things seem to me to be just too big to lose. When I was five months old, mom says she left me with dad and took a little trip--one time she said for a week, another time she said it was no more than three days. For a nursing mother to take even three days off seems a bit odd to me, but not impossible to believe.
The problem comes when I compare to dad's side of the story. He came home from work to find his infant daughter home alone, obviously untended for several hours, and no sign of his wife. He called friends, neighbors, her parents (more on that later) and the police. Nobody knew where she'd gone, when she'd left, or why. Considering some of the other stunts mom has pulled, I have little trouble believing this.
Somewhere about a week after she disappeared, dad found out that she had gone home to her parents, but they wouldn't return his calls. He got help from the neighbors to take care of me, kept working, and played the waiting game. Nine months later, out of the blue, her parents brought her back, and left without a word.
I just have to wonder. How do you forget your nearly-new baby for nine months? To say nothing of a husband. Did none of her friends ask? If her parents thought dad was so bad that he wasn't worth talking to on the phone, why did they leave me with him? Or if they thought dad and I were so bad for mom, why did they bring her back?
Needless to say, I don't remember any of that. I barely have any memories at all before I was four years old. Which just happens to be when my brother was born, and mom spent over a year, total, in something like four different hospitals, split among maybe a half-dozen or more separate visits. That time makes perfect sense to me. The medical and mental health care of the mid-70's was still trying to figure out what was wrong with her, and what treatment(s) might help her, and that took time. But in 1971 she did not go to any hospital, and there's no indication that she saw any doctors.
The trap, here, is that there probably isn't any way to understand, because over the years we have figured out pretty conclusively that her brain chemistry is just not right. So we can't expect her to be normal. I'm not sure which diagnosis was being used then--I've been told that in 1960, she was deemed to be Paranoid Schizophrenic. Some time later, (perhaps in the 70's) they decided she was Manic/Depressive. These days they call it Bipolar disorder. She doesn't follow the herd there, either, since there is no evidence that she has ever had a depressive event. Ever. Apparently depression is very common, mania less so, and manic-only bipolar people are quite rare, like maybe 5% of people with bipolar disorder. Having a rare diagnosis is emphatically not a good thing. Because almost nobody knows how to help.
One of the things I'd like to do, and part of the mindset behind starting this blog, is to see if it's possible that any of those neighbors remember. In our mobile society, I doubt that many, or even any of them might remain there. 1971 was a long time ago, after all. Is it important? Probably not. Do I disbelieve my dad? Absolutely not. But since it's a he said/she said situation, I'd like one more "said" just because I want to know. Or maybe I'm just... too stubborn, and I want to prove that mom forgot. But I wonder--what did it look like to the neighbors? Did they notice? (Some of them knew at least some of the details, because some of those kindly neighbor ladies babysat little me.) There's been a lot of turnover in our old neighborhood. It's not like we stayed, after all. We left when I was about 18 months old. But as of about the middle of 2014, the house my parents built, and the neighborhood it stood in were still standing. (But the house has been painted. No more Forest Green with Orange Trim. (Nobody said dad had popular taste in colors.) It blends with its neighbors much better, now. I've driven by, and seen it.)
The grands are gone. They will answer no questions from beyond the grave, even if they would, since they were remarkably tight-lipped before. I've been given the impression that the aunts weren't aware of the events as they were happening--whether they were out of state, or weren't read into the full details, or some other unknown detail, I'm simply not certain. And as mentioned above, communication was not happening with my dad, so he wasn't even able to find out at the time who knew what was going on.
This is one of those things I wish I could have skipped.
But some things seem to me to be just too big to lose. When I was five months old, mom says she left me with dad and took a little trip--one time she said for a week, another time she said it was no more than three days. For a nursing mother to take even three days off seems a bit odd to me, but not impossible to believe.
The problem comes when I compare to dad's side of the story. He came home from work to find his infant daughter home alone, obviously untended for several hours, and no sign of his wife. He called friends, neighbors, her parents (more on that later) and the police. Nobody knew where she'd gone, when she'd left, or why. Considering some of the other stunts mom has pulled, I have little trouble believing this.
Somewhere about a week after she disappeared, dad found out that she had gone home to her parents, but they wouldn't return his calls. He got help from the neighbors to take care of me, kept working, and played the waiting game. Nine months later, out of the blue, her parents brought her back, and left without a word.
I just have to wonder. How do you forget your nearly-new baby for nine months? To say nothing of a husband. Did none of her friends ask? If her parents thought dad was so bad that he wasn't worth talking to on the phone, why did they leave me with him? Or if they thought dad and I were so bad for mom, why did they bring her back?
Needless to say, I don't remember any of that. I barely have any memories at all before I was four years old. Which just happens to be when my brother was born, and mom spent over a year, total, in something like four different hospitals, split among maybe a half-dozen or more separate visits. That time makes perfect sense to me. The medical and mental health care of the mid-70's was still trying to figure out what was wrong with her, and what treatment(s) might help her, and that took time. But in 1971 she did not go to any hospital, and there's no indication that she saw any doctors.
The trap, here, is that there probably isn't any way to understand, because over the years we have figured out pretty conclusively that her brain chemistry is just not right. So we can't expect her to be normal. I'm not sure which diagnosis was being used then--I've been told that in 1960, she was deemed to be Paranoid Schizophrenic. Some time later, (perhaps in the 70's) they decided she was Manic/Depressive. These days they call it Bipolar disorder. She doesn't follow the herd there, either, since there is no evidence that she has ever had a depressive event. Ever. Apparently depression is very common, mania less so, and manic-only bipolar people are quite rare, like maybe 5% of people with bipolar disorder. Having a rare diagnosis is emphatically not a good thing. Because almost nobody knows how to help.
One of the things I'd like to do, and part of the mindset behind starting this blog, is to see if it's possible that any of those neighbors remember. In our mobile society, I doubt that many, or even any of them might remain there. 1971 was a long time ago, after all. Is it important? Probably not. Do I disbelieve my dad? Absolutely not. But since it's a he said/she said situation, I'd like one more "said" just because I want to know. Or maybe I'm just... too stubborn, and I want to prove that mom forgot. But I wonder--what did it look like to the neighbors? Did they notice? (Some of them knew at least some of the details, because some of those kindly neighbor ladies babysat little me.) There's been a lot of turnover in our old neighborhood. It's not like we stayed, after all. We left when I was about 18 months old. But as of about the middle of 2014, the house my parents built, and the neighborhood it stood in were still standing. (But the house has been painted. No more Forest Green with Orange Trim. (Nobody said dad had popular taste in colors.) It blends with its neighbors much better, now. I've driven by, and seen it.)
The grands are gone. They will answer no questions from beyond the grave, even if they would, since they were remarkably tight-lipped before. I've been given the impression that the aunts weren't aware of the events as they were happening--whether they were out of state, or weren't read into the full details, or some other unknown detail, I'm simply not certain. And as mentioned above, communication was not happening with my dad, so he wasn't even able to find out at the time who knew what was going on.
This is one of those things I wish I could have skipped.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
But sometimes it's Really Bad.
Three years ago, mom decided that tickling was some nebulous sort of sexual torture, and my husband and I are child abusers because we refuse to abstain 100%. She also tarred one nephew with that particular broad brush. (Seriously--watch some TV, read a novel or magazine, and talk to... I don't know, a dozen random people. Count how many times tickling is referenced as ordinary and harmless.)
Last year, she decided that my niece, her granddaughter, was seducing any man in sight. That girl's own somewhat tragic history makes this claim illogical at best. (Even that is probably saying too much--it's her story to tell or not as she sees fit. But anyone who knows her ought to realize this claim was ludicrous. One advantage that year was that there is a three hour drive between niece and grandma.)
This spring, she began by saying that requiring my children to help with housework (cleaning their own rooms and washing dishes, primarily) was going to drive them to run away or commit suicide. I caved in to blackmail and took eldest to see a therapist, who proclaimed us a normal family, including the arguments and the pre-teen drama.
So mom upped the ante. Now we're abusive because we own guns (both girls have said they want to go hunting this deer season, and they also like to fish, but I digress) and sometimes use spanking as a punishment. When SRS and the local Sheriff's department closed that investigation, she upped her game again.
Now, since eldest doesn't want to sit down and have a long, detailed conversation with her grammy about her private parts, she must therefore be suffering molestation by her father. As evidence, mom said that hubby's brother expressed that there is a family history of incest. (Brother-in-law in question has, in my hearing, told the following "joke:" Vice is nice, but incest is best! And while it may be off-color, politically incorrect, and offensive to some sensibilities, I do not believe for one minute that it the statement she claims it to be.) Mom has tried to trick me into taking the girls to the local emergency department for a pelvic exam to prove her point. My girls are nearly-nine and just-turned-twelve years old. I believe that is too young for such an invasive and inherently embarrassing, if not truly humiliating inspection. Especially since the "evidence" has been invented in the mind of a madwoman. (When eldest reached menarche earlier this year, I asked her doctor if I needed to schedule a visit. He said not for a few more years yet, unless she develops problems. But he did recommend the Gardasil vaccination. Which reminds me, I need to set that up. Eldest won't be happy with me--she hates shots.) Mom insists that since I don't agree with her, my husband must "have something on me" to stop me from speaking up. That's the most charitable thing she's said about me, since this all blew up with her initial abusive call on Mother's Day morning. I'm also, apparently, a lazy slob, a screamer, and a horrible mother. I'll claim the slob--I dislike housework with a burning passion. But while I may put it off, I generally get it done eventually, and hubby does more than his share. I'll have to accept the screamer designation--I'm battling severe pain in my feet, and walking is agony. So I'm more likely to call them to me to tell them something, rather that walking all over the house looking for them. Also, when my preteen screams at me, I'm not perfect, sometimes I scream back.
Mom has announced that she's moving away. (it helps to "hear" that with the tone of a three-year-old stomping off in a tantrum-induced huff.) She claims that she moved to this town to be near family (that's another story, I'll try to get to it later) and since now none of her family is speaking to her, she's going to go live near her friend at the other end of the state. That this leaves all her local friends behind doesn't seem to matter. The fact that she's the reason I'm not speaking to her (I can't see how getting verbal pins stuck into me at every conversation is supposed to be pleasant) doesn't register. One of her sisters isn't speaking to any of us, because she has been mad at us for over a year--she's bipolar, too, but in denial about it. And the peacemaker sister has a full time job with a local school (she's a nurse and counselor) as well as a part time job as a landlord, AND has her own husband, kids, and grandkids to give her time to. She doesn't deserve the stress, either.
When I'm being a caring daughter, I'm afraid that mom won't have the support team she needs. Her friend is bipolar, and has attempted suicide in the past--an unfortunately frail personality to be leaning on. When I'm being the hurt and vengeful victim, I want to say good riddance, and I hope the door doesn't smack her on the rump on her way out. She's already tried to move once--about a month ago. She blew the engine in her car just over an hour away (it's about a nine hour drive to where she's going) and had to be rescued by my brother. She stayed with him for a week, and scared the shoes and socks off of him. But nobody can seem to see the trouble in a therapy visit--she can pull it together for an hour, or under conscious control. I desperately want her to get inpatient treatment. I hope that if she were observed for a few days, or even a week, that medical professionals could see the problems and perhaps help her. I don't know if she's taking her meds on time, or at all, I'm not sure if the meds she's taking are the right ones, or the right dosage. She might need more, she might need less, she might need different ones. She has never, in nearly 50 years, been able to keep control without medication. She's tried to control herself with diet before. Just one disaster of many. But for an involuntary commission, she needs to be declared a danger to herself or others. I doubt she will harm anyone (unless she drives me to a heart attack) and I don't think financial suicide is what they mean. She's on a fixed income anyway, so it's not like she has a job to stay here for. I'm just... at a loss.
Family drama. I really wish I could skip that.
Last year, she decided that my niece, her granddaughter, was seducing any man in sight. That girl's own somewhat tragic history makes this claim illogical at best. (Even that is probably saying too much--it's her story to tell or not as she sees fit. But anyone who knows her ought to realize this claim was ludicrous. One advantage that year was that there is a three hour drive between niece and grandma.)
This spring, she began by saying that requiring my children to help with housework (cleaning their own rooms and washing dishes, primarily) was going to drive them to run away or commit suicide. I caved in to blackmail and took eldest to see a therapist, who proclaimed us a normal family, including the arguments and the pre-teen drama.
So mom upped the ante. Now we're abusive because we own guns (both girls have said they want to go hunting this deer season, and they also like to fish, but I digress) and sometimes use spanking as a punishment. When SRS and the local Sheriff's department closed that investigation, she upped her game again.
Now, since eldest doesn't want to sit down and have a long, detailed conversation with her grammy about her private parts, she must therefore be suffering molestation by her father. As evidence, mom said that hubby's brother expressed that there is a family history of incest. (Brother-in-law in question has, in my hearing, told the following "joke:" Vice is nice, but incest is best! And while it may be off-color, politically incorrect, and offensive to some sensibilities, I do not believe for one minute that it the statement she claims it to be.) Mom has tried to trick me into taking the girls to the local emergency department for a pelvic exam to prove her point. My girls are nearly-nine and just-turned-twelve years old. I believe that is too young for such an invasive and inherently embarrassing, if not truly humiliating inspection. Especially since the "evidence" has been invented in the mind of a madwoman. (When eldest reached menarche earlier this year, I asked her doctor if I needed to schedule a visit. He said not for a few more years yet, unless she develops problems. But he did recommend the Gardasil vaccination. Which reminds me, I need to set that up. Eldest won't be happy with me--she hates shots.) Mom insists that since I don't agree with her, my husband must "have something on me" to stop me from speaking up. That's the most charitable thing she's said about me, since this all blew up with her initial abusive call on Mother's Day morning. I'm also, apparently, a lazy slob, a screamer, and a horrible mother. I'll claim the slob--I dislike housework with a burning passion. But while I may put it off, I generally get it done eventually, and hubby does more than his share. I'll have to accept the screamer designation--I'm battling severe pain in my feet, and walking is agony. So I'm more likely to call them to me to tell them something, rather that walking all over the house looking for them. Also, when my preteen screams at me, I'm not perfect, sometimes I scream back.
Mom has announced that she's moving away. (it helps to "hear" that with the tone of a three-year-old stomping off in a tantrum-induced huff.) She claims that she moved to this town to be near family (that's another story, I'll try to get to it later) and since now none of her family is speaking to her, she's going to go live near her friend at the other end of the state. That this leaves all her local friends behind doesn't seem to matter. The fact that she's the reason I'm not speaking to her (I can't see how getting verbal pins stuck into me at every conversation is supposed to be pleasant) doesn't register. One of her sisters isn't speaking to any of us, because she has been mad at us for over a year--she's bipolar, too, but in denial about it. And the peacemaker sister has a full time job with a local school (she's a nurse and counselor) as well as a part time job as a landlord, AND has her own husband, kids, and grandkids to give her time to. She doesn't deserve the stress, either.
When I'm being a caring daughter, I'm afraid that mom won't have the support team she needs. Her friend is bipolar, and has attempted suicide in the past--an unfortunately frail personality to be leaning on. When I'm being the hurt and vengeful victim, I want to say good riddance, and I hope the door doesn't smack her on the rump on her way out. She's already tried to move once--about a month ago. She blew the engine in her car just over an hour away (it's about a nine hour drive to where she's going) and had to be rescued by my brother. She stayed with him for a week, and scared the shoes and socks off of him. But nobody can seem to see the trouble in a therapy visit--she can pull it together for an hour, or under conscious control. I desperately want her to get inpatient treatment. I hope that if she were observed for a few days, or even a week, that medical professionals could see the problems and perhaps help her. I don't know if she's taking her meds on time, or at all, I'm not sure if the meds she's taking are the right ones, or the right dosage. She might need more, she might need less, she might need different ones. She has never, in nearly 50 years, been able to keep control without medication. She's tried to control herself with diet before. Just one disaster of many. But for an involuntary commission, she needs to be declared a danger to herself or others. I doubt she will harm anyone (unless she drives me to a heart attack) and I don't think financial suicide is what they mean. She's on a fixed income anyway, so it's not like she has a job to stay here for. I'm just... at a loss.
Family drama. I really wish I could skip that.
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