My Story, Part 1

I have always admired good storytellers. I SO envy the talents of writers like J. K. Rowling or the Bronte sisters. Creatively, I can’t write my way out of a paper bag. Back in high school (which was, sadly, half my life ago!) I could whip up a five-paragraph essay quicker and better than anyone in my class. But when it’s time to share an anecdote, or tell a joke, or explain the plot of a movie, I usually go into too much detail or worse, give away the ending. Like when I told a friend that “The Shawshank Redemption,” was about a jailbreak. Oops, there went the surprise ending! Shane and I still laugh about that one. Oh, well. So I’m not a born storyteller. But I do have a story I want to tell. It’s for my children, and their children, and anybody else whose lives have been turned upside down by mental illness. The story is about my childhood, my mother, and about how it has shaped me as an adult – both for the better and for the worse.

I can’t remember exactly the last time I saw my mother, but I know it’s been about six years. The summer she ran away, I became pregnant with her first grandchild. This may sound strange, but I never told her about the pregnancy. The daughter in me longed to confide in my mother, but the mother in me chose to protect my baby first and foremost. That first year, I often cried over my mom’s stubborn refusal to get treatment and mourned the loss of our relationship. Many questions I had about motherhood have gone unanswered: What was I like as a baby…was I calm like my son or fussy like my daughter? Or, did you carry me in the womb compactly, like I carried my babies? Was your childbirth experience as quick as mine? How long did I take to potty train? At times when I feel her absence acutely, I wonder if I’ll ever see her alive again. I also wonder, is there anyone out there with a situation like mine or am I the only one in the world whose bipolar mother left home to live out of her car? (See what I mean about giving away the surprise ending? I’m way ahead of myself here.)
I never realized there was anything wrong my mom until I was 15 years old. Before then, I thought it was normal for mothers to call the Suicide Hotline and talk for hours or to stay in bed for days. She spent so much time talking on the phone or talking to herself in the mirror that sometimes I would remind her to make supper. She was a good student who earned an Associate’s, a Bachelor’s and a Master’s Degree while raising me. But in some ways I was like her parent. I would coax her out of bed or sit and talk to her in her room. I never dared to tell her my problems because she seemed so fragile that I thought she would break if I shared my burdens with her. She had enough of her own and besides, I didn’t think she was competent to help me. So I spent a lot of time alone with my thoughts and my movie posters and my radio. More later.