The Cycle

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It starts again. The cycle. The never ending punch in the gut, jolt to the heart, baffling cycle.

The first stage:

Denial

“Have you talked to mom?” The question I hate to hear when one of my four brothers calls.

“Yes.” I close my eyes before I ask, “Why?”

“She just seems,” sigh, “Out of it.”

“No. I haven’t noticed.” I lie.

Then I end the call and pretend it never happened. I go about my day. I play with my children. We do homework. I cook dinner for my family, a mediocre, limp mess that we call a meal. I sit in my chair at the kitchen table, fork some food into my mouth, chew, and swallow, all the while trying to push her illness away from my reality. I smile at my son as he tells me something really important about one of his Lego Star Wars characters and nod my head feigning undying interest. I wipe my daughter’s mouth and ask her to use her fork and listen to her hum a song she learned at preschool. We all sit and eat, and I pretend it’s not happening. Again.

It’s not happening again.

It’s not happening again.

And so on until she reaches the next stage … everyone’s favorite.

I’m back!!!

My phone rings. I look at the name. “Mom” lights up. I want so badly to hit the red Decline button, but I can’t. I cannot ignore her call. I long to hear her voice, to feel her, to hold on to just a little bit of her normal, so I answer.

“Hi, mom,” I say and hold my breath.

“You’re coming to see me Spring Break, right?”  She says, rapidly, faster than her usual Southern drawl.

“Um.  I haven’t thought about…”

“I’m cleaning out my closet,” she interrupts, “Do you want that brown suit that I bought with you at Dillard’s? You could use it for work.” Flight of ideas. Keep up. It’s not always easy.

“No, mom. I don’t work anymore.” I haven’t worked in 7 years.

“Oh.” She pauses, trying to make sense of that in her head but only briefly.Onto the next thought. “I’m so alive right now. I’ve never been better. Did I tell you? I’m back. I’m back, and I’m better than I ever was. I have so much energy. I stayed up until 6:00 this morning, organizing my closet. Organizing my cabinets. Organizing the laundry room.”

I picture my childhood home always tidy and neat, immaculate actually, and then I picture her organizing, her new way of organizing.  Her clothes drape over her bed and litter the floor next to her closet. The plates I ate so many meals from stack on top of each other on the kitchen counter next to the silverware and her cast iron skillet, the one that she used to make me fried okra and French fries anytime I requested. Her prized teapot collection no longer collects dust in her antique display cabinet.  Pieces of it scatter all over the house, unmatched. She uncharacteristically went on a catalog shopping spree and spent almost a thousand dollars on junk. My parents’ formal living room couples as an advertisement for the As Seen on TV store. I imagine my dad rubbing his lips together, kneading the soft wrinkled skin on his forehead back and forth with his fingers, trying to ignore the mess … the clutter … the illness.

“I’m glad you’re feeling well.” I lie. She’s not well. We all know it, but she feels great. Some synapse in her brain rapidly fires over and over and sends her on a temporary high. A high that she feeds on, that she enjoys, that makes her look “crazy” to the outside world, but just fragile, porcelain plunging to tile about to shatter in a million pieces, to me. She will break. Soon. So I brace myself. And I hold onto her happy, to her synthetic high with all of my force from behind my phone.

“I love you, mom.” I say, swallowing the huge lump in my throat.

“I love you, too.”

“I know.”

I know.

I know.

And I do, which is why I can handle the next stage:

Anger

Her name lights up on my phone for the eighth time today. I sigh. I can’t do it. I can’t pick up and hear what I know she is going to say. I can’t, but I do. Every time. Because I can’t ignore my mom.

“Hi, mom.”

“I don’t know what your problem is.” She spits at me.

“I don’t have a problem.” I say, grinding my teeth.

“You and your dad are assholes. Do you think I’m a child?” Says the preacher’s wife who rarely uses profanity. Sick Mom has no filter. Sick Mom uses words Well Mom would never, ever say.

She heard a conversation that took place between my dad and me, one where we were trying to decide what to do with her. She’s abused my dad to the point where he can’t stand it anymore. She hates him, hates the way he smells, the way he looks, the way he breathes, the way he walks, the way he sleeps, and she tells him this. Every minute of every day. I fear for him. I know that she would never hurt him, the well she, but the sick she hates him, and the sick she often references things like butcher knives and frying pans, so I speak to my father every morning when I first wake up to make sure that he’s still alive.

That’s what sickness does to a family. It makes it doubt the legs on which it stands. It makes it doubt the heart that makes it beat. It makes us doubt our mom. And it’s terrible.

“No, mom. I don’t think you’re a child.” Even though we sort of treat her like one. My dad unplugged the stove to keep her from catching their house on fire. He disconnected her car battery so that she can’t drive away when he isn’t watching. We whisper behind her back and tiptoe around her, not wanting to strike her ever ready match. We make plans for her without her approval. But we don’t think she is a child.

“Mom.  Please stop being mad at me.”

“You know what?”

“What mom?”

“Your husband should leave you. He should take your kids and leave and never look back. Those kids deserve better than you. And so does your husband. You don’t appreciate him at all.”

“I know, mom.”  Because agreeing makes the conversation shorter, and I’ve heard this at least four times today. She’s also told me that I’m a whore and a piece of shit and the worst mother on the planet.

She’s angry with me because last time this happened, I made the decision to put her in the hospital, the one she calls “the loony bin,” the one she refuses to go back to, the one that did nothing but make her worse. I hate myself for making that decision, but we didn’t have a lot of choices. My brothers weren’t brave enough to do it, and she became too much for my elderly father to control, and frankly, I didn’t want her to kill him in his sleep, but that I don’t tell anyone.

She also does not understand why I cannot visit her, why I won’t allow my children to see her this way. She can’t understand. They need to remember the well Nana. The Nana who always kept candy in her pocket and secretly handed them a piece each time I turned my back, the Nana who sang “The Itsy Bitsy Spider” off key but with joy and giggled every time the song ended, the Nana who would sit and hold them on her lap, rocking in her chair, reading them books, content to have the chatter of children all around her, who played hide and go seek, who threw the baseball in the back yard. The Nana whose laugh was contagious and the best sound on earth.

“I’m sorry that you’re mad at me, mom.”

“Sure you are.  You don’t care about me.”  And with that, she abruptly ends the call.  I put down my phone. And I cry. Because my mom is sick, and nobody can answer the question:  “Why?”

She’ll call me at least twenty more times this day, and I’ll answer every time. And I’ll listen to her assault of words because she’s my mom, and I know she doesn’t mean it.

I know she doesn’t mean it.

I know she doesn’t mean it.

And I brace myself for the next stage. The worst stage of all.

The lights are on but nobody’s home

“Mom” hasn’t flashed on my phone screen in days. Yesterday, on her birthday, I called her, and we spoke.  A simple, “happy birthday, mom,” conversation. I said, “I love you,” and she said, “I love you, too,” and we ended the call. That was yesterday.

Today is my birthday. On normal birthdays, my mom calls me and recounts my birth. She tells me for at least the 35th time that she went into labor with me at her birthday dinner, two days late. They rushed to the hospital where she continued to labor with me over night.   “Everyone from the church was there, and all I wanted was to be left alone,” I hear her voice in my imagination, her normal well voice, tell me, “My room was full of people,” and she goes on to tell me who was there.  She labored all night and then finally, with no aid of medication, she delivered me at 9:35 the next morning. The doctor announced, “It’s a girl,” and the room fell silent. A girl after four boys. “If you would have been another boy, I think I would have told them to put you back in,” her normal well voice tells me with a chuckle, normally.  Normally, on my birthday, my mom and I talk about her going into labor on her birthday with me, “the best birthday gift she ever got.” Normally, but not this year. And not last year. Because my mother forgot my birthday. Again. It’s not her fault. It’s because of the illness. It’s because of the sickness in her brain that we cannot explain.

But it doesn’t hurt any less. Because it’s our thing. Our birthdays … our birthdays are … special.  I’m the best birthday gift she ever got. Remember, mom?

Remember?

Remember?

But she doesn’t. Her brain has checked out. And she doesn’t remember.  She doesn’t even know if she brushed her teeth this morning. She stands at the sink and pours herself a glass of water, forgetting to turn off the faucet as water pours over the side of her glass and splashes her hand …and she doesn’t know it.

I’ll check my phone a thousand times today, and her name won’t appear.  She forgot. It’s okay, I tell myself.

It’s okay.

It’s okay.

She’ll get better. She’ll come back. She always does.

Until then, I’ll ferociously go through my card box and try to find one from my mom. A card with her voice, where I can hear her, the real her, the well her. And I’ll read every card she’s ever given me. And then I’ll find a little gem in the box, a note that she put in a pile of mail she sent me when I first moved to Dallas thirteen years ago. And there she is. Just like that.  Two simple sentences.

“Here’s your mail, sweetie.  Sure do miss you so much. Love, Mom”

I miss you, too, Mom.

So much.

hands -The Cycle

 

293 thoughts on “The Cycle”

  2. Oh Mandi. This is heartbreaking. I had no idea about the cycles and the pain. I got teary eyed reading this. You know I can relate to having a family member with mental illness. I’m so so sorry for you, your mom, your whole family.

    This was gorgeously expressed in your writing. A stunning post.

    As you told me once before in comments: you have never been so naked. You are beautiful.

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    • I don’t feel so beautiful, but thank you, Beth. I don’t talk about it much. One of those “push it under the rug” sort of things. Mental illness sucks, no matter who has it because it effects the whole family. I know you can relate. I’m sorry that you can. Thanks for the kind words.

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  3. Wow Mandi. I wish I could give you a big hug right now or say something amazing to make everything ok. This is an amazing post that probably resonates with so many people struggling with a similar situation. I hope normal mom comes back to you and your kids in 2014.

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  4. This had me in tears. A few months ago my dad was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia. I had never heard of it, but apparently it has symptoms of Parkenson’s (the tremors), Alzheimer’s (the memory loss) and also comes with personality changes and hallucinations. I don’t know what to say to him — we’ve never been super close — but I’m also desperate to say SOMETHING before he doesn’t understand what I’m saying and who I am. I just still can’t wrap my head around the whole thing. I don’t know how you do it,

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    • Jana, I’m so so sorry that your father was diagnosed with any form of Dementia. It is heartbreaking to see someone you love go through anything like this. I don’t now what to tell you to say to him. I try to always treat my mother with dignity and to tell her “I love you” as much as possible. But most of the time, I don’t have to talk at all. Listening is what she wants from me, and I’m happy to sit and listen to her talk because one day, she might not. Hang in there, and if you ever need support, feel free to contact me. It’s not easy, but neither is raising children, and she raised me, so I’ll give her whatever she needs, even if it’s just an ear to listen to her yell.

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  5. Mandi, I know this could not have been easy to write but in the end I hope writing about it helped just a tiny, tiny bit. This is something I cannot imagine and fear with my own mother all the time. I’m sure many people do. My heart goes out to you, truly and I wish with all I have that you, and your family didn’t have to go through this. I wish your Mom didn’t have to go through this. This is a beautiful, honest and so brave. I hope with everything I have that well Mom comes back to you.

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    • Thank you, Sandy. I had a hard time writing it, but it was even harder to hit “publish”. The flighty funny posts are so much easier to share. This seems too close to home, revealing my fragile heart. Exposing something so personal isn’t easy for me. I like to hide behind a smile. But I do think it helped a little to share. If nothing more, I’m getting some pretty nice support, and I’ll take it!

      Well mom will come back. She always does.

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  6. Mandi, I’m shell-shocked. In spite of everything her illness has put you through, and all it continues to put you through, you’ve written about your mom with such tenderness and beauty that I’m quite blown away. Sending you wrap-around hugs, because this is quite one of the most heartbreaking posts I’ve read, but you’ve written it so, so well.

    I think you’re doing the right thing with your children, and the way you’re supporting your dad is heroic (and sounds completely necessary). I can’t imagine trying to live with or near this kind of illness, though I’ve somehow managed to wind up dealing with the Depression monster in more than one person in my life, myself included, but this – whatever it is that’s attacking your mom sounds so much worse, because it *almost* gives her back to you, but never quite.

    Degenerative mental illnesses run in the women on both sides of my family. I’m watching my own mum carefully, but I figure I’m screwed forsure once I get older.

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    • Thank you, Lizzi. I didn’t want to publish this post and “expose” her in doing so because keeping her dignity is so very important to me, and I never want anyone to think that I’m callous to her feelings. She shed blood, sweat, and many tears in raising me, and I owe her, if nothing more, respect, so I’m so glad to hear that my words came across the way I intended.

      Mental illness, in any capacity, is so exhausting and baffling and completely heart wrenching. The depression monster haunts so many people I know and love, including me at times, and he’s a bitch to tackle. I’m not sure if what she has is worse or better. I just wish so hard that there was more we can do for all of it. I appreciate your support so much because I know that, in a way, you know how I feel.

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      • I guess it depends how aware she is of it. Certainly with both my grandmothers, they are/were pretty oblivious to the effects of the illnesses on them. Which is heartbreaking in itself. My paternal grandma ended up not recognising anyone, and became very angry and violent towards the end of her life. I think she knew that things were wrong but not what. My maternal grandmother is pretty mellow now because they have her well medicated. Hers is a different deal, called early-onset paraphrenia, which is a schitzoid disorder. She gets scared cos she hears noises and thinks people are burgling her. She can’t remember what things are for, or how to cook. She’s in a home, where gradually she’s forgetting everything. But she’s chilled for the most part, which I guess is a blessing.

        I think I might just ask to be put down if I start going that way. In the meantime, the sirencalls of depression are never *all* that far away. I know shades of how you feel, I think, and my heart goes out to you.

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    • I’m sorry to hear that you have dementia on both sides of your family. It is both heartbreaking and exhausting. I have already told my husband that when I show the first signs, he is to put me in a home. I don’t want anyone to have to “deal” with me. But at the same time, I can’t do that to my mother.

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  10. I hope it doesn’t sound insensitive for me to say that this post was absolutely perfect. Not happy, of course, but so perfectly written and such an accurate picture of what it looks like to know and love someone who lives with a mental illness. This kind of blew me away. I’m sorry that you have to live in this cycle, one that is so cruel and unjust and inexplicable.

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  11. This is such an amazing post and thank you for opening up and sharing it.

    I think mental illness is that sickness that no one wants to talk about, you’re right, we’re all too busy sweeping it under the rug to talk about it because somehow, it’s just not on to talk about.

    I’m so so very sorry that you’re having to go through something like this.

    It’s one thing to loose someone suddenly. It’s a whole other game to loose someone slowly, painfully and with naked emotional trauma over a period of time like you are.

    I don’t think there really are words to express what I really want to so I’m going to leave you with thoughts of light, laughter and love and I hope that this year is somehow easier for you all.

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    • Thanks, Sharn, for the LLL. I so appreciate it, and you’re right. Mental illness isn’t something we talk like to talk about, but it’s there. And it’s real, and when it shows up at your door, it blows your freakin house down, so it’s time people quit sweeping it under the rug and embrace that it happens. And it’s ok.

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  12. Did you say today is your birthday? If so a very Happy Birthday to you despite it being crossed with this pain. This was so incredibly powerful and moving, Mandi. I have a great deal of first hand experience with dementia (Parkison’s) and how terribly painful it can be. I finally had to pick and choose all of those same incoming phone calls before it overran my own life and well being. When it got to the point where there was no quality of life for those in my family (yes, there was more than one) I asked my god to not let them hurt (I didn’t want the karma of saying “take them now”). You obviously a very strong young lady within your heart and soul – a survivor of today and every day in the future. Love, Light and Blessings from a blogger friend 🙂

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    • No, it’s not my birthday, but I did say that. That happened on my birthday this year. And last year, and it stuck with me, so I felt it needed to be written in “real time”. Does that even make sense? I’m so sorry to hear you have experience with Dementia. It’s not something I’d wish on anyone, for anyone to have to see a loved one suffer from it. And for you to have to go through it more than once. I’m so so sorry, Mike. When she was first diagnosed (and it’s sort of a loosey goosey diagnosis), I cried and said that I would have rather been told it was cancer, and you can understand why. Your words mean so much. Thank you. I’m truly grateful for my new blogger friend. 🙂

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  13. Your love shows through your words and I’m so sorry that your mother is missing out on the greatest gift of all. A daughter who knows her heart and sees past the hurtful things. I can’t even imagine how painful this process is for you and your family.

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  14. I’m in tears. Stunned and awed by what you are going through and your ability to express it so well here. I cannot even begin to imagine this kind of pain. My heart hurts just reading this because I can feel how much you love your mother….and what her illness is doing to you. This is one of the most moving blog posts I have ever read.

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  15. God Bless You. My mother lives with my husband and I; it’s becoming a daily struggle. It has not reached the point your mother has, but the childlike behavior has begun. Please know that you are not alone in this world, as I sometimes feel. There needs to be more for we “children” of the aging; but then you have offered that through your words so gallantly expressed. I too have difficulty not answering my mother; it’s a love and respect thing.
    Stand strong and perhaps you can think of your father as your ally. God Bless you this day and always.

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    • Jane, I am truly sorry that you’re dealing with this, too. The childish behavior is one of the worst parts. I have a toddler, and sometimes, it’s easier to rationalize with her than it is my own mother. I want to scream at her to stop acting like a child, and yet, at the same time, I want to wrap my arms around her and cry onto her shoulder and seek comfort from the one person who has always given it so freely. My mother lives over 300 miles away from me, which I think makes it a bit more bearable. You should be commended for opening your home and taking your mother in. That must be such a challenge. I hope for you, for us, that they will have more well days than sick. God bless you, too, and your mother.

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  17. I’m sure this was hard for you to share, Mandi, but I’m glad you did. My heart aches for you and your family – and your mom. You made me feel your pain with your words – you should absolutely submit this to the Blog for Mental Health like Lizzi said. You are most certainly qualified – your experience and this post qualifies you as much as bloggers who have been at it for years. Hugs to you, my friend.

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  18. I can’t begin to imagine your pain. My father-in-law suffered from Alzheimer’s. Even though it was painful to watch, it wasn’t my own parent. You are a wonderful writer. I read a few of your posts and you have a real gift of drawing your reader’s in. I’m glad I found you.

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  19. Your mom taught me strength of character. She taught me to always tell the truth. She taught me how to use Southern manners when asking someone to “pass the taters,” and she taught me that cleanliness really is next to godliness. I love her as a second mother, and the only thing more difficult than watching her go through this heart-breaking cycle is knowing that you have to go through it with her. You know I’m here. I’ll always be here. When it gets to be too much, hop in- we’ll go chase the moon.

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    • It’s always too much, but I appreciate that you never probe me about it, that you respect that I don’t like to talk about it, that you still respect her and love her in spite of her illness. And she loves you, too, even if she’s mean about it. I’m ready for the moon when you are.

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  20. The writing here is so raw and honest. You strike such an emotional chord. The repetition of the line, “I know she doesn’t mean it” says so much about you as a person and as a writer. My own mother is bipolar and showed much of the same behavior you’ve outlined above while I was growing up. No matter what, she is my mother and I love her. But it can be so hard…

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    • So true…it can be so hard, and then there are the little moments of wonderful. I just have to keep remembering those. My mother may also be a bit bipolar. She’s been diagnosed so many things. She currently refuses to take anything except for a daily baby aspirin, so who knows what’s to come next?

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  23. Such raw power and a beautiful, subtle driveness about the energy in this post. You really took us into your world and your poise and grace are a clarion call to all of us who may have to face this ourselves one day.

    My Grandfather’s decent into dementia was pretty full-on and his placement into full-time care was a massive relief for my Grandmother, she wasn’t on red alert all the time.

    You have a beautiful heart Mandi, it’s a pleasure to read you.

    Respect REDdog

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    • Aww, thanks, REDdog. I’m happy to report, my mom has been in her “normal” stage since right after I posted this. I just capitalize on the normal time and prepare myself for when she’s not. I think we have a little time before we have to put her in full time care, and I don’t look forward to it. I can’t even think about it actually.

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      • Yeah, Mandi, it would be a hard decision. My Dad and his sisters did it for my Grandmas sake. It got to the point where he would sit on the edge of the bed all night groaning and then sleep all day. He was sick a very long time and I think my Gran just wore out from taking care of him so when the dementia took over there wasn’t much joy in her life. She really came alive once she knew he was being cared for properly. God’s luck with the future, enjoy your Mums normal time for now.

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  24. God this story, this illness…there are entirely too many of us who know it, live it. It breaks my heart and makes me so angry at this world where we can’t figure out how to fix it. Why can’t we fix it yet? I don’t know, but I know how this hurts and I just want to hug you so tight and tell you that I understand.

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    • The first story I read on your blog was about your uncle, and I immediately felt a connection to you. The “why’s” will keep going unanswered. In the meantime, I graciously accept your hug and offer one back and hope that one day there will be a medicine or a therapy that will make it better, or even slow it down because the havoc that it reeks on a person, a family, is astronomical.

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  25. Your last few sentences broke my heart. That some things are truly un-fixable is something I still struggle to accept. I always want there to be some way out, some ideal solution, some parting of the cloud for divine intervention… the things I hate most are the things I cannot change. I am so, so sorry… and I’m deeply glad to read that she’s been herself for a while. You’re absolutely right – we have to savor those moments and store them up.

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    • “some parting of the cloud for divine intervention” You and me both. Until that happens, I’ll just appreciate every “normal” conversation I have with her. She was here this weekend and was able to be my rock that she always was (before) while I grieved, and as I stayed strong for my friends, she held my hand and reminded me that she still is my mom, even if sometimes, her mind runs away for a little while. I will cherish this weekend, even if it was one of the worst of my life.

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      • Mandi, that makes my heart smile through tears. Sometimes tragedies have that one silver lining of bringing love to the center of everything. So glad your mom’s still your mom.

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  26. OMG that is so awful. Especially the different stages. I can’t even imagine. It should be comforting that you had a good mom for any amount of time, but it’s not. Not now. There are no good, no simple answers. I wish I had any words to help you. And your family. I hope you find a peaceful way to live and love through all of this.

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  32. Oh this just GRIPS my heart and wrings it over and over again so tightly I am gasping for you…

    Does she have a diagnosis? Bipolar perhaps. I hate that you pick up over and over again… I would encourage you to really protect yourself when she is in the cycles that pain you. You don’t deserve that treatment, and that really isn’t your ‘mom’ that is calling to verbally abuse you. It’s her sickness talking to you. The value in your relationship isn’t measured by you picking up that phone, as much as I get your precious heart and obligation to your mother. The well mom would probably advise you to detach from the sick mom as much as you possibly can.

    I grew up with a raging alcoholic mom- and SO much of this speaks to my heart. I get it. The abuse, the crazy talk, the incessant needs and demands… and the relentless love that us daughters sacrifice because they are our “mom”s.

    I wish for you to be able to take care of yourself, and although I get that you need to be connected to your mom and dad- I really urge you to let go of so many of the damaging and destructive interactions you allow with her. Nothing good will come from that- as I’m sure you crumbling each time is evidence of that. I speak out of total love and compassion- because i too have been there! I allowed WAY too much abuse and i wish I could go back and detach sooner than I did.

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    • So many truths in what you say. I separate well mom from sick mom because well mom would never say the things that sick mom says. I recently learned a great deal about her childhood that was quite telling and explained so much of her behavior throughout my life. Since I wrote this post, I’ve stepped way back. I do answer when she calls, but not every time. I do listen to her abuse, but not ever time. And I worry for my dad because he’s just there loving her wanting her to get better, and more than any of us, he’s in the most denial.

      I’m sorry to hear you are familiar with this kind of cycle. It’s horrible and heartbreaking and awful and everything that is bad. Funny that you mention bipolar. She is currently in a hospital where they’re treating her for symptoms consistent with bipolar 1, but they have not diagnosed her with anything. The only partial answer we got was that she has the symptoms and that she seems to be responding well to the medication. Still though, no diagnosis. It’s exhausting. All we want is for her to live the highest quality of life she can, so we will continue to seek answers and rally on her behalf.

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  33. This is brutal. I’m so sorry. If it’s any comfort, you told it beautifully. The amount of love/respect/compassion you have for your mother is staggering. This is a tribute to your relationship with her, and how devastating her condition is to your family. Well done…

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    • My biggest fear when I wrote this was to try to keep her dignity in tact while telling my side. It’s a relief that you can read the compassion because it’s there even when she hurts my feelings, even when I get angry and frustrated with her. I will always be committed to respecting her. No matter what sick mom does to me.

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  34. Heart-wrenching and beautifully written. Thank you for so eloquently expressing what it is like to love someone with a severe mental illness. I especially appreciate your perspective for I live with bipolar disorder type II, and it helps to see how my illness may affect those I love. Luckily, my symptoms are well controlled with medicine and therapy. Not everyone’s mental illness responds well to medication and psychotherapy. My heart goes out to you, your father, your siblings, and of course to your mother. God bless you for your compassion and your honesty.

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    • Oh how I wish my mother would embrace her medication as you have. She needs it but often refuses to take it. They are exploring the idea of Bipolar 1 with her but because she’s in her 70’s and onset is typically during the teenage years, they think it’s a loose possibility. On the other hand, growing up with her, I never knew what was wrong until in college I learned what BP is and immediately thought my mother exhibited those symptoms. I shared this with her doctor, but she still isn’t convinced that my mother has BP. I just want a diagnosis so that we can come up with a possible treatment plan. It’s so frustrating to keep walking around this circle and never get an answer.

      Thank you for your kind words and for reading this. It’s a huge relief to hear that you respond well to your meds and your psychotherapy. I really hope to report one day that my mom is doing the same.

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      • The hospital where she is now is treating her with antipsychotics and a mood stabilizer. Or they were. She had a reaction to the mood stabilizer, so they’ve changed her meds..again…and taken her off of that.

        She sounds bipolar to me, too, but neither am I a psychiatrist.

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  36. Oh wow Mandi. I had tears building the whole time, but the last few lines pushed me over. I only tell you that so you know how powerful your writing is, how powerful this story is and how powerful your love is. I’m sorry you have no answers, but despite the ugliness of the situation, this is a beautiful tribute to the love of a child for their parents. Very well-deserved of being FP.

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  37. This reminds me of the time my dad told me he’d had a dream that he’d lost me, and all I wanted to say was “Please, please, pleasssssse realize that’s the truth.” He didn’t, ever. That experience of just wanting your real parent to show up – breathless. I have had that feeling.
    I’m so sorry hon – having a parent with mental illness is such a rough experience. Wrapping you up in so much love, SW. ❤

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      • You don’t need to say it, I promise. I played a very small part in getting your amazing writing to the right people. Right messenger in the right place at the right time. I’m just pleased to have been successful because LOOOOOK – so many people’s hearts you’ve spoken into. This is wonderful.

        And I just scrolled past your comment to me when I first read this and suggested you submit it to that mental health blogging thing, and you said you were an infant blogger and probably not qualified…well GUESS WHAT! You’re qualified for EVERYTHING now 😀

        *HUGGLES*

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  41. Hey there. My heart and my prayers go out to you! As much as you tell yourself that her harsh words are not actually coming from her heart, they still sting deep down I am sure, perhaps not from the content that they hold yet from the evidence they show of this disease taking a hold of your mother. You should be so proud of yourself for being able to take a step back and understanding the situation for what it is …a really sucky situation! but not a reflection of who your mother actually is. You are the best daughter for being able to keep loving, keep patient, and keep answering that phone when it rings, even though you may not like what you hear. Thank you for sharing that ..your strength is pretty amazing!

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    • It truly is a “really sucky situation.” And it takes so much patience and a lot of denial not to believe some of the things she says, but I know that she offered me that same patience when she raised me, and the least I can do is support her and show her unconditional love…even when it’s really hard to do.

      Some days I’m stronger than others. If you’d seen me yesterday, you might use a different adjective.

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    • Well, you’re welcome. And thank you for reading and for offering me such kind words. It was really hard to hit publish on this one. It sat in my drafts for a while, and then a friend told me that I would be overwhelmed with support by people like you. She was correct, and I’m so grateful.

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  43. Mandy, you write beautifully about your struggle loving your mother. My father is in the early stages of alcohol-related dementia, but continues to drink even as he knows that is what is happening to him. Painful to watch someone you love deteriorate. My father was once an extremely bright and capable man. Now he constantly panics because he cannot remember.

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    • Kitt, you are such an inspiration. Your comments about your own illness and your fathers…I just know some days must be so hard for you. I admire your strength and your honesty and how you seem to persevere some very difficult challenges. You have a new fan. I know I haven’t commented, but I’ve been trolling around your blog this week, and I really think so highly of you. Thank you again for always offering me with such empathetic words. I’m so sorry that you’re struggling with a mentally ill parent, and I know if you can show me, a stranger, this kind of compassion, your father must be showered with it. Hang in there and stay strong. I would like to tell you that it gets easier, but I don’t like to lie.

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      • Honestly, I consider dementia more neurological than psychiatric. Perhaps the gap between the two disciplines should be narrower, but as someone with a psychiatric illness who loves a father with dementia and a son with migraines, I see a fundamental difference in the two even as both psychiatric and neurological illness are disorders of the brain and affect both thought and behavior. Can’t quite articulate the difference off the top of my head. But I do observe it.

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      • I know what you mean. I think my mother has both bipolar 1 and dementia and their working together just makes the disease worse. She only recently started meds for Bipolar, but as of now, she refuses to take them. The dementia tells her she’s well, which just perpetuates the Bipolar like symptoms. It’s exhausting and maddening, and doctors seem to just shrug their shoulders at her case. She has an appt with a Neurologist late July and a standing appointment with a psychiatrist, both of which are new to her, so we’ll see if the two of them can sort of put their heads together to solve what’s going on in hers.

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      • I pray that they’ll come up with a plan with which your mother will comply. Although my father is aware that he is losing his cognitive abilities, he continues to drink heavily. Compliance is a HUGE issue. It is painful to love an alcoholic, addict, or anyone in denial and refusing treatment.

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      • Oh, Kitt, the last few days have been pure hell. She’s anything but compliant, and she refuses to take any meds or see any doctors. We are looking at other options and potentially having her committed…again. It’s such a tough situation. I hate that you’re experiencing something similar with your father. I’m sure part of his reason for drinking is because so much of his life seems to be out of his own control. It’s so very sad and seems to be a familiar cycle.

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      • My father drank heavily my whole life. He just refuses to quit even against his neurologist’s recommendation. Yes, it must be difficult to go from being a highly intelligent businessman and investor to someone who cannot remember anything that has happened in the recent past.

        If your mother needs to be committed. Do so. Do so for her sake, for your father’s sake, for you and your siblings’ sake.

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  44. This is by far the most heart-wrenching prose I have read in a long while. I feel so bad that you have to endure this. Bless your heart. I am sure that people experiencing the same hardship with their parents can relate to this and it soothes them to know that they are not the only ones facing this brutal reality. Stay strong. Not just for your siblings, your kids, or your father, but for yourself. Bless your heart.

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    • I think you might have just offered me one of my favorite compliments that I’ve ever read by calling my writing prose. I strive to write my emotion into my words, and to hear that you felt “heart-wrenching” proves that I successfully wrote my emotion. Thank you for reading.

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  45. I worked over 15 years and many hours in Mental Health, I concluded the reality about this illness is society must realize that even if it is not in their families it is a real and extremely dangerous disease. I will tell you this, music, art and of course, family social interactions seem to help curve negative and in-cognitive behavior. May A great blessing protect you and yours.

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    • There is so little research on this disease, which is evident in that nothing seems to help her. She goes through her phases, and then one day, she starts to move toward normal. She’ll be “normal” for a few months, and it will start again. It’s an exhausting cycle, and all we want is answers and solutions. Instead, we watch our mother deteriorate with every episode. It’s maddening.

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  48. I read your post without taking a breath. The intensity of your writing made my chest ache. I’m so sorry to learn about your mum’s illness, life is such a challenge. We never know what is around the corner. I wish you peace.

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  50. My mom had what I called the “Closet Fairy”, where someone (according to her) had left a bunch of clothes in the closet which (she delightfully told us) fit her perfectly! But she also told my dad that he wasn’t her husband, that she wanted to “go home”, etc. We put her in a home when she was 92 and she lived to be 94. I don’t think she ever really realized that the same Alzheimer’s that hit her mom and both her sisters would also hit her. It’s a tough road. Hang in there.
    And, yes, having your own mom forget your birthday is a heartbreaker; doesn’t matter how “grown-up” you are.

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