Six hands for lifting: on my mom, mental illness, fear & hope
Eight years ago, I had a conversation so excruciating, mere memory of it causes me to tremble as I perch at rusty floodgates barely holding back a billion more tears.
Eight years ago, my sister, brother-and-law and I sat on my mom’s front porch and urged her to consider voluntary psychiatric commitment.
When I envisioned the summer of 2003, I thought about the joy of being free from law school for three whole months. I imagined all the adventures I’d have with my siblings. Best of all, I pictured the lovely bride my just-younger sister would make on her wedding day.
What I absolutely did not picture as I boarded the Greyhound bus to Oregon was spending a summer watching my mom’s long-time “colorfulness” devolve into full-blown mental illness. I didn’t expect I’d spend many awkward hours listening to her talk about how her neighbors were poisoning her, Conan O’Brien was doing experiments on her, or how her children were “in on it” with the University of Oregon and the Cheshire Cat.
A thousand times over that summer, I found myself wanting to call my mom and seek her support. A thousand times over, I felt my heart torn into millions of imperceptible fragments, realizing not only that I couldn’t call my mom for comfort . . . but that I couldn’t even find her. I could look into a face that resembled hers in physical structure, but I could see none of the light or humor that defined my mom outside the colorful moments I realized far too late were more than just eccentricity.
Before August 7, 2003, my siblings and I pursued involuntary commitment. The caseworker handling our case determined not only that my mom was neither an imminent threat to herself or others (a requirement for involuntary commitment) but also that, since she seemed reasonably lucid when he visited her, we were probably just trying to get her out of her house so we could get our money-grubbing hands on it.
The caseworker wasn’t swayed by our godmother’s involvement. Perhaps he figured we’d just agreed to give her a cut of the proceeds on house. That’s not for me to know. What I do know is that an already endlessly discouraging, heart-wrenching situation was thus made worse.
Where on earth were we supposed to go for solutions or support?
Urging our mom to consider voluntary commitment was our next step. On August 7, 2003, Rache, Nick and I began a conversation for which our hopes greatly exceeded our expectations.
I wrote about that conversation the next day:
Yesterday was a tough day. Rache, Nick and I were probably more nervous than we’ve ever been in our entire lives. We’ve all dealt with pre-test nerves, with performance nerves, with all the kinds of nervous moments you encounter in the course of life, but this was something new. What are you supposed to say to someone in this situation, especially your mom? “Yeah, we really don’t think you’re quite right…” She was running around the house trying to find things to hand us, sure her neighbors were going to take her out at any moment, before we got her to sit on the porch. Nick said we needed to talk, but then fell silent. None of us were quite sure what to say. So I eventually spoke. And she saw it all coming, every bit of it. “Other people know better what’s happening. They believe me and they support me. They know.” She kept saying harshly, “I understand your position, thank you. I know you mean well,” and in some respect I think she did, but I also think she knows what is happening and is deathly terrified of what is happening to her. (It is clear in everything she says, and does; but she also knows she can’t tell us, because then it’s really, unavoidably real.) As we walked away, she said, “Other people are helping, people who care more about me.” I turned against the sun and said, “It’s not possible for them to love you more than us, Mom…” before she shut the door. I know she heard, but I don’t know if she believed it.
As soon as the door closed, Rache and I burst into tears. (Nick commended me for being so composed, but though I can put on a show, I feel every bit of it.) I knew it wouldn’t be that easy, but I had hoped it might just be that magical, that she’d just get in the car and go with us. We’d hold her hands from either side and let her know we were there to support her through this.
Revisiting these moments is as soothing as going for a barefoot stroll on the sun. If there were no benefit to my doing so, I’d lock these memories inside a thousand nested, impenetrable boxes and never stray nearer than a couple solar systems away from them.
Something I read over the weekend jarred me into revisiting them. That “something” was the powerful author’s note following Sonya Sones’s Stop Pretending: What Happened When My Big Sister Went Crazy.
In her author’s note, Sones describes her sister’s struggle with mental illness. She talks about asking and receiving not only her sister’s blessing but her full support to write the book.
If you’ve never experienced mental illness, either that you suffer or that suffered by someone deeply beloved by you, you might be wondering why Sones’s sister took this approach. Isn’t mental illness a personal flaw to conceal?
In short, no.
Mental illness is exactly that: an illness. It’s a sickness that impacts the brain’s functioning.
Its core, then, is the same as illness of the kidney or heart. A specific biological sub-system isn’t operating optimally.
The expressions of mental illness can be deeply discomfiting to behold. These expressions vary based on the specific illness assailing the brain–depression, bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, etc.–but have in common their root in the brain.
Unlike many other illnesses, those who suffer mental illness often face not only the terror of knowing their body’s engine is malfunctioning . . . but also the fear of facing that illness alone. As one blogger recently shared, she was reprimanded for airing her dirty laundry when she tweeted exuberantly about a breakthrough she’d had in facing her depression.
Dirty laundry? Really? When I had tonsillitis, I didn’t feel I was airing my dirty laundry by saying as much on Facebook. I didn’t feel ashamed for my body’s inability to vanquish the virus before it could manifest itself. Yet, where mental illness is concerned, fears lurk and linger as if the Dark Ages concluded just yesterday.
It’s OK to be afraid. I’d be lying if I said I’m not afraid.
I am.
Every day, I look in the mirror and fear I’ll follow my mother’s steps to schizophrenia. It was hard enough to experience schizophrenia second-hand. How much harder would it be to face that in myself? My mom’s fear in rare moments where she revealed awareness of her own worsening illness felt–and continues to feel, in memory–like a sequence of powerful back kicks to my stomach.
Daily, I must remind myself not to let my actions be determined by fear. I can live my life in the shadow of that fear or I can do my best to embrace this moment, now, with gratitude for all its beauty. I can use the hardships I’ve experienced to remind others not to let themselves be defined by their own fears.
Mental illness isn’t contagious. By sparing a moment, a kind word, or an embrace with someone who is suffering, you may be a part of a changed world in which no one says these heartbreaking words:
I wish I had cancer, so people would talk to me about how scary this is.
Whether you’ve been coping with mental illness for decades or don’t know anyone who is openly struggling with mental illness, I urge you to read Sones’s Stop Pretending. No matter who you are or what your experiences have been, you will find poignant, heartbreaking insight into the many sorrows surrounding mental illness. You will also hopefully find yourself inspired to reach out to people who fear you’ll spurn them for their own illness, and to be a rock to them in hard times.
Please don’t let fear be the end of your journey toward understanding mental illness, or reaching out to those who would welcome your understanding. Challenge your fear. Conquer it with information.
Put the energy you’ve spent fearing or disdaining into loving. Embrace the many wonders in your daily life, and reach out your hand when you see someone needs it–whether they’re suffering from HIV, cancer, mental illness or the loss of a loved one. In doing so, you’ll be a part of creating a world in which people will spend less time worrying about being stigmatized and more time seeking–earlier and without fear–the help they need to shine with their full brilliance.
If you’re struggling with mental illness, please know that you are not weak. You are not alone. NAMI is a powerful starting point toward finding the support you need, whether you or a loved one are suffering.
Every day, I will say a prayer that you will find peace–in practical support, in medicine, in therapy, in love. As I do so, I will not be alone. For each of the countless people who have walked or continue to walk this painful road, there are two hands that would reach out to lift you were they only near enough to do so.
six hands for lifting
A tough decision taken bravely. Salute!
Thank you
Deb, thank you for sharing your experience in this beautiful, amazing post!
Thank you so much for sharing your thoughts . . . and for sharing this entry! Truly, your comment came when I was still asking myself, “Did I do the right thing by posting?” Now it’s eminently clear I did; your comment was part of what it took to get me from there to here.
What courage it takes to share your experience.
Thank you for commenting. That courage was, in part, due to the kindness of spirit showed by the bloggers with whom I’ve connected over the last few months. I’m so glad to be part of this community, because that courage has translated to a peace I didn’t even realize I was missing.
Good for you, Deb. You know there are others out there who can relate to your life story. This will help them have a voice. I hope you, Nick and Rache find strength in sharing and helping others. I know your Mom has since passed, still — she remains with you. What tugs at my heart the most is the picture you shared. The three of you are so young. I can’t explain it – keep sharing, though. Thank you. ~ Lenore
You know my thoughts since I’ve shared them in email, but I’ll say again here–thank you. You are, as we used to say in Warcraft, teh uber.
Thank you for sharing this, Deb. You manage to write about such a gut-wrenching experience and let us all feel what it would be like.
Thank you. I hope I’ve done so in a way that leaves a sense that hope really is still possible, even if it’s not easily obtained.
I’m so grateful for the supportiveness of this blogging community, because posting this has left me feeling weightless. I didn’t even realize I was carrying the weight before, but now that it’s gone? I feel like I could fly.
this is your absolute best written post ever. so poignantly beautiful. <3
Thank you. ♥
Amazing post! A wonderful call for compassion if I’ve ever seen one; it’s something sorely needed and sorely lacking in today’s world unfortunately.
I find it funny that mental illness is stigmatized how it is, when it is virtually guaranteed that ALL of us will have a brush with it, either in our own lives or in the lives of loved ones. The tendency is to blame the person for their illness, especially with something like depression. I think people don’t WANT to believe that it can’t be helped, that it’s the luck of the genetic draw. I’m not sure why; maybe because they feel that it could happen to them. Or it could simply be the systemic lack of compassion in our society. I don’t know.
I loved your entry from the evening I posted this. I hadn’t even thought about it as a “call for compassion” until I read your words, at which point it hit me–that’s exactly what it is!
My mom had a messy house when we were growing up. She didn’t teach me much about things like budgeting. What she did teach me was the importance of empathy, and that’s a lesson I’m grateful for every day.
As we share very much the same history in relation to our mothers, yet with different endings, I couldn’t have put into words as brilliantly what you have in this post. I, like you, wonder often, almost daily, if I will also face schizophrenia, as our mothers do/did. I think it is this acute awareness of the disease that will hopefully allow us to receive help, should that dreadful day ever arrive. Thank you for sharing.
I think you’re absolutely right about this: “I think it is this acute awareness of the disease that will hopefully allow us to receive help, should that dreadful day ever arrive.” I would love to spare anyone else the pain we’ve experienced.
The good news is, but for a question on this very subject many years ago, it’s not certain our paths would ever have crossed! My life’s better for having you in it. Love you, Liz.
Hi Deb, I’m sorry I haven’t been on here like usual. I’m having trouble finding free time lately. I wish I were there to give you a huge hug in person. Dealing with a mental illness, both the stigma of it and the lack of good mental healthcare providers, is a stone cold bitch. My daughter’s bipolar symptoms manifested with a psychotic episode. We were all clueless as to why our a bubbly, even-keeled, intelligent 14 year-old was fine one day, and telling me, along with a whole myriad of other abnormal things, that her friends were plotting against her and that her birth father had AIDS the next. My first thought wasn’t mental illness, I thought she might have a brain tumor because she was acting like my aunt who had died of brain cancer. Our family doctor was no help. (He’s no longer our family docto.r) Our hospital’s emergency room was no help. It took forever to get someone to do a brain scan to reveal no tumor. By this time she had slipped into a nearly catatonic state of depression. I took some time off of work to seek help for her. Coworkers who had seemed like friends shied away when I told them her symptoms. They speculated external sources to be the problem, making me feel like the worst mother in the world despite the fact that I’d always made mothering my top priority. I waited weeks for a psychiatrist to fit her in. Once we were there we waited four hours in his office. He spent two minutes with us and suggested hospitalization. I had read Girl Interrupted, I couldn’t put my 5’1′ 90 lb, very innocent daughter in the mental hospital that he suggested. FINALLY, my ex-husband admitted that there was a family history of bipolar disorder in his family. He was able to get her in to see their family psychiatrist. At first, he diagnosed her with depression, but after nearly a year of observation, medication and many appointments he settled on a diagnosis of type 2 bipolar disorder. He placed her on Lithium and within two weeks she was nearly back to her old self. That year was hell, as were the two years that followed. The psychotic episodes that she experienced caused brain damage. Her short term memory was terrible. Her ability to concentrate was poor, and although she attended school her sophomore and junior years of high school, I had to spend each evening reteaching her and getting her caught up with her class. She lost a few friends who couldn’t understand her change, but the friends who stuck by her through it all are still her dearest friends today. Finally, by her senior year her memory and attention span returned. She’s still a sweet, bubbly young lady, but her attention span is slightly short and she can’t handle more than 12 credit hours at a time because she’s a slower worker. Her life is good and normal with medication, and although I know that bipolar disorder is a beast that will always hide in the shadows of her life, I know with love and support that she will have a wonderful life.
I know what you went through with your mom had to be so painful, and I know dealing with the stigma associated with mental illness is beyond painful. People fear and avoid what they don’t understand. I’m a NAMI member, as well and have found great support through my local chapter. My whole experience with mental illess has taught me to slow down and appreciate life and people so much more. It’s also taught me to go way out of my way to be kinder to others. I didn’t mean to write such a long, rattling post! Thank you for your book suggestion,and your beautiful post.
Thank you so much for writing this long (but not rattling!) eloquent, illuminating comment! It’s true that it’s hard for everyone, the different hardships may vary so much.
I can’t imagine what it would be like to witness that in Li’l D, with no idea what was going on. I mean, the me of now would have some ideas, but if I’d had Li’l D at the same age my mom had me, before my mom had her serious break? That is a terrifying thought.
In your comment, though, is an understated but profound commitment to your daughter. I’m sorry you went through what you did, but I’m so happy that your daughter had you (and her true friends) to see her through–and that, as a result, your both positioned and prepared to take any hard times yet to come. I hope they’ll be few.
My whole experience has taught me to slow down and appreciate life and people so much more.
I’m going to let this be the thought I carry with me after I click “Post Comment.” It’s a great lesson–and a great reminder . . . although if you saw what I was doing now, you would likely cluck and tell me to live it, not just thinking about living it! I’m going to get right on that. Have a great weekend, you lovely lady! And thank you again.
The more that people are open about mental illness, the more we can break down society’s barriers. Thank you for this poignant post x
You said it so well, and so succinctly! Thank you.
You’ve expressed this so elegantly, Deb. This essay, and your experience, is truly a gift. Really.
Thank you. ♥ For reading, for commenting, for these words.
Thank you for sharing this story. I can’t even imagine how difficult it must be to deal with a mother who suddenly doesn’t seem like the same person you’ve known all your life. I’ve had nightmares about this kind of situation.
Also, that quote about the cancer? I know how that feels. I’ve been struggling with an eating disorder for a few years now, and I’ve often had that nasty little thought of wishing I had something worse so that I wouldn’t have the stigma of a mental illness attached to me. It’s hard to deal with, but I think that on the whole, we’re getting better at understanding that mental illness is just like any other in that it is not entirely within our control.
I read this beautiful entry about recovering from eating disorders: How to Recover from An Eating Disorder. As I read it, I thought how well its wisdom can be applied more broadly to mental illness. I wish that entry would be mandatory reading for everyone, everywhere. It’s such a positive, compassionate and honest portrayal of the process, including its very understandable fears.
I also found a blog entry earlier with an image showing 28-year-old twins’ brain scans side-by-side. I forgot to bookmark the image, but I’ll have to hunt it down later. The differences between the dark regions on the scan are huge. Sometimes I feel like images are harder to run from the truth of, so that’s an image I want to have close at hand at all times.
Thank you so much for your comment. I hope you’re right about us getting better, and that your struggle becomes easier with time. (Is it weird that I want to conclude this with a hug? Because I do!)
See…this post and ones like it are the reason that I’m being able to move forward, let go of my fears, to stop regretting and punishing myself for things I’ve done and didn’t do, and write about it freely with no shame. Because we all have a story to tell, and not all of them are going to be pleasant ones. Life sometimes hurts. It hurts to live it, and hurts those we love. When you write about it, others going through the same identify with it, and can begin to heal themselves. I know about mental illness. I’ve seen the milder side of it, and the harsher. I understand. You my friend are brave for looking it in the face and stating firmly, “You can’t hurt me and I won’ t let you have power over my life!” I think your mom was more than richly blessed by those six, young hands, and three, large hearts.
When I emailed you, I really did think I’d have more to say than, “You made me cry.” But I’ve just reread your comment and the end result is the same. Your writing is so raw, honest and insightful, I’m left nearly speechless in its wake. I’ll miss your daily posts, Lou, but damn–if you really have any doubt people are going to want to read what you write away from the blogosphere? You really, really shouldn’t. The words reflect the heart, and you have a heart many people are going to want to hear a lot more from.
Your honesty is inspiring and your story is actually uplifitng. Families can be our salvation at times.
Thank you for this comment, but especially for using the word “uplifting”–that’s what I was striving for, despite the sadness inherent in the subject! And you’re not wrong about family. Thank goodness!
Wonderfully written and insightful. You have a beautiful and strong family, as shown by the picture you posted. You all look peaceful holding each other. And, yes, we cannot live by fear. One day, or even one moment, at a time, though, we can live our lives to the fullest. Thanks for sharing.
Thank you for sharing this part of your life. I know it can be scary looking for clues as to when your breakdown may occur, my husband used to do it all of the time. My m-i-l had several breakdowns when he was young and it is scary to watch. Keep going.
Thank you so much for all your wonderful comments! It will take me a couple of days to reply to them, but please rest assured I will.
Thanks for sharing, what a tough thing to face you’re really brave! Stay strong!
Thank you! I’ve felt like it was settled for years–straight till I revisited the actual moments. Now I feel a million times stronger, having revisited them and done so, in the end, in a way that didn’t involve hiding them away for later. That’s a really fabulous feeling, turns out!
Deb – Thank you for sharing this story. I cannot even imagine the horror of losing your mother while she stands supposedly “well” in front of you.
I hope some day, mental illness is viewed like any other illness. I have a very good friend with OCD, and she still refers to herself as “crazy” and blames herself for acting that way, although it’s getting better.
Two of my friends have/had schizophrenic parents, but from when they were young. They don’t have many (if any) “happy” memories to counteract the mentally ill influenced ones. They don’t know how to tell what is their parent and what is the illness, because illness is all they know.
The only (small) consolation I can think of (which is cruel as well) is you knew your mother before, and know she was a wonderful person.
I know it doesn’t help. Not really.
How is she today? Did she ever get treatment?
Thank you so much for dropping by, for these words and for the heart underlying them!
It was amazing how hard it was to revisit all of this almost a decade later. The good news is the otherwise unbearable hardship was made easier by the loving support of my siblings, and those around us. Nick’s mom, for example, loaned us her car, which was better equipped to meet our best-case-scenario needs.
I, too, hope that mental illness is someday seen like other illnesses and not perceived as either failure or flaw, internally or externally. One of the things that struck me about Stop Pretending‘s author’s note was the sense that Sones’s sister had made some peace with the fact that she was truly suffering from an illness. I wish I’d included an excerpt earlier, but here are two sentences that were especially moving to me:
She says she hopes the book will be used to open up discussions about mental illness. She wishes people had a better understanding of this disease, so they would treat its victims with more compassion.
What you talk about with your friends’ parents also hits close to him. Rache and I got to see more of my mom before her “eccentricity” started becoming more pronounced than did our siblings, which some days felt more like a blessing and other days more like a curse. In the end, I’m definitely calling it a blessing; throughout her illness, the overwhelming power of her love from my early days was what I remembered of her. It’s something I carry with me still, all these years later. Like Maya Angelou said, “I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Man, did she ever hit that nail on the head.
As far as I know, my mom never got treatment, but that’s not to say she didn’t. She wouldn’t talk about her mental health, even when she started letting us back into her life bit by bit around 2008.
In July 2009, she was diagnosed with neuroendocrine cancer. We were hopeful she’d get both the physical and mental help she needed, but in February 2010, Rache let me know Mom was really, truly dying. I flew up to Eugene and spent the next couple of weeks with my siblings, my mom and my son. I left a few days before my mom died. It was heartbreaking, but it wasn’t all heartbreak:
http://deborah-bryan.com/2011/05/16/the-myth-of-perfect-people/
Like my brother-in-law summed it up when we were emailing about this post yesterday, we got a much happier ending than our selves of eight years ago could have dreamed:
“I’m still just thankful we were able to reconnect before the end. <3"
Thank you for sharing this, Deb. *Hugs*
Thank you, Dana. ♥
Amazing post. I know a few people very close to me who have mental issues. Most are medicated. Very touching story. I have a similar story.
Thank you. Right now, I get a lot of people talking about how–as a motivated individual–I’m undoubtedly going to push my son to be successful. Because of a long family history of mental illness, I say, “I’m going to push him to be happy.”
Amazing post considering we have just met. I find you to be an extraordinarily strong, courageous and compassionate spirit. I have resisted using the word strong in describing you in the past, because somewhere inside you must say…why do I have to be THIS strong? I am amazed that you show no signs of feeling the victim, and you have accomplished so much in your life. I deeply respect your journey and the words you use to deliver what you have “endured/lived/survived/known to be true.”
Thank you for your beautiful words. Your comments in our brief acquaintance have played a huge role in my not only posting this but in actually writing it. The compassion, warmth and support you’ve conveyed over these last weeks have bolstered my confidence, so that when I finished reading that book and went, “I feel like I ought to share my experiences, in case that helps,” my next thought wasn’t, “Yeah, right.” It was: “I bet if I did that, I’d feel better (a) for having done so and (b) for the support that’ll be opened to me by doing so, even apart from the hope that sharing my experiences will ease someone else’s suffering.”
Turns out I was not wrong! I feel so freakin’ good. Tired as a result of other stuff, but good.
Wow, you’ve shared so much with beautiful and inspirational words. I love that you have chosen to embrace each day and moment. I imagine that your mom would be very proud of your attitude and determination. Your honesty and optimism are contagious. Thanks for writing this.
Thank you so much for this comment–its words and its sentiments. I’m still busy making mistakes, but I’m trying hard to make amends for them, and to live in a way that would make my mom proud.
I remember a few times my mom would stand poised to lecture me, then pause, sigh and say, “You know, you’re making much better choices than I ever did. Keep on doing what you’re doing!” Here’s hoping “what I’m doing” involves better and better choices with fewer apologies needed.
The comments I received on this post not only eased the anxiety I had when I posted it, but also underscored–even for me–the truth of what I was trying to share: that there are so many hands willing to lift, when given a moment and a chance. Thank you for helping prove me right, and for being part of the peace that’s filled my heart in the couple of days since I posted this.
Thank you. A beautiful post about something which is far from that. I lost my mother to alcoholism so I do know a little about what is is to grieve for the mother you had and have no longer before she dies. It hurts like hell. I hope you are able to forgive yourself and treat yourself kindly.
Thank you for sharing your experience, and support. It does hurt like hell, but . . . the hurt is day by day being replaced with the feeling of love that preceded it, and follows it this very moment.
Your comment about forgiveness is so spot-on. We felt so much guilt, my siblings and I, especially in the beginning. We felt it was our responsibility to make sure things went OK, and that our failure to make OK actually happen was just that: our failure. Over time, it became easier to accept that it wasn’t our responsibility, and to brush off comments such as those uttered by one of my mom’s neighbors: “It’s a shame you kids aren’t doing more to help your mother.” How could she have known what we were doing to help our mother, having never stopped to ask?
Thank you again. I’m grateful.
Thank you for being so brave–and vulnerable at the same time. As more and more tell the tales, maybe the stigma will lift and help will be more forthcoming. You and your siblings are remarkable and are doing all you can–take care of yourself. Thanks for sharing!
Thank you so much for your supportive words, here and elsewhere. Knowing that I wouldn’t be greeted with laughter and ridicule but instead by words like these is what prompted me to write and post this.
I was so closed off and acerbic when I was younger. I felt like the things that were wrong in my life were mostly my fault, and that the only way I could avoid drawing attention to that was by being silent or abrasive in turn. I’m so glad I learned to see that the consequence of sharing isn’t ridicule, but healing. Thank you!
Thanks for sharing this moving piece. It is hard to watch a loved one slowly decay from mental illness, but all you can do is stay strong and be there for her.
Thank you for commenting. My mom passed away early last year, and I feel blessed to have had a chance to reconnect with her at the end. It doesn’t undo all of the pain that preceded it, but there were some moments whose sheer, quiet beauty are the ones that come to mind first when I think of my mom now. I’m so grateful for that.
My sympathies are with you. My mother has recently suffered a huge breakdown that saw me having to go through similar things to you and it was frightening and scary and something you should never have to see. I share the same fear as you “what if it happens to me?”. I am always aware that other people know about my mums break down and feel that I have to watch what I say and do just incase they think Im heading down the same path. You are incredibly brave to share this with people, I seem to have internalised all that happened. xxx
Thank you so much for commenting, and sharing your experiences. It’s a terrifying thing to do, but . . . pushing through the terror can lead to such beautiful consequences.
If there’s ever anything you want to say that you’re afraid might sound wrong, be misinterpreted or be hard to say . . . I hope you’ll consider sending me a note, and know there’s a 0% chance I will read into it anything beyond what is there.
Thank you for adding your voice to a very difficult conversation…
My love and blessings to your family….
E
Thank you. I’m constantly amazed how much compassion and warmth you can convey with so few words. It’s a gift I’m happy to be recipient to.
Thank you for sharing your story. I can’t imagine how hard it must have been to write this post and I am amazed at your strength and bravery in the event itself and in the telling of it. My thoughts are with you and all those who suffer/know someone suffering from mental illness. You are completely right when you say that we must learn to make it accepted and understood, rather than something to hide.
Usually it takes me about 20-30 minutes to write a post. I go through once or twice afterward to check for typos, then post. This time, it took me about four painful hours, full of tears and the memory of how it felt at the time. After a while, I became so accustomed to talking about my mom’s mental illness as an eternal fact that I forgot what it felt like when we really did learn of it. It was so hard, but I felt better after I’d written it.
Still, I revisited it over and over, anxiously wondering what madness would prompt me to post such a thing. That’s part of what had me posting it earlier than I intended: the need to get it off my chest, and let happen what would. Of course, what happened was beautiful; I’m so glad I posted it, and even more glad for the supportive words that have been shared in response. I feel so much more at peace now than I did three short days ago . . . which you are a part of. Thank you.
Holy cow! That was a very touching post. I really empathize with you, as my family as been touched by it as well. I know the fear. I hate it.
Thank you for writing this.
Thank you for commenting! I hope you also have experienced a lessening of the fear with time. I wish I could say it’s gone away fully, but I’d be lying through my finger-shaped “teeth” if I said so!
Deb: I just found you today after you found me. I have some experience with this myself, as I have a mother who probably has a dx. I have a pretty good idea of what it is, but she will never go and seek the kind of help she needs. And my father loves her “warts and all.” Even after she killed the rabbits. But that’s another story.
That said, I hope you feel good about sharing. Sharing this stuff can be scary, but it can feel good. So I hope you feel supported here in the Interwebs of the Blogosphere.
Just started following you, too. 
Thank you so much for commenting. I’m following you now, too, thanks to Sprinkles. (♥)
I feel great about sharing! I was anxious beforehand, but of course . . . my fears proved unfounded. I haven’t yet gotten the kind of antagonistic email I’ve been informed as inevitable. If I’m lucky, that will come in response to a less sensitive post. I’m generally comfortable with being called colorful names, but there are times where it stings a little–no matter how quickly I hit the “delete” key!
Thank you for sharing your story. That must have been very difficult to write.
I lost my first husband to mental illness. I’m not ready to share that story, but I can see from yours that you understand. I’m sorry your family is going through this. All the best to you.
It was difficult to write, but I feel so much better now. It’s funny how I didn’t realize how heavily that still weighed on me . . .
I definitely understand. It took me eight years to write the wrap-up, instead of just showing fragmented bits and pieces. I hope there is peace ahead for you; in my family’s case, Mom passed away last March, but we were blessed to have a few weeks to be with her in our childhood home and reconnect. Those younger versions of ourselves that sat on Mom’s porch eight years ago probably wouldn’t have believed we’d get such a chance. For that I’m thankful, though part of me will always wish things could have been easier all around.
Thank you for sharing and I commend you for your frankness, honesty and bravery. In any situation, you’re right to say that it is fear that cripples us from dealing with the situation in a constructive manner. You’ve very brave … and you’ve written your experience in such a vivid way that it will touch the hearts and minds of others.
Thank you so much for your words. I can’t remember the exact quote, but whenever I’m afraid, I think of the idea that it’s not bravery if you’re not afraid. Bravery requires fear, and then–no matter how strong that fear–proceeding anyway. Of course, part of that bravery is knowing that there are people to help deal with the aftermath, no matter what that aftermath is. For that I say, again, thank you!
You write your painful story with love and grace. “Six Hands for Lifting” paints a lovely word picture of family helping one-another toward hope and acceptance.
Thank you so much for your kind words. I feel so sad for people who don’t have siblings and “adopted” family close at hand to help them through. I hope, in each and every case, they have hope enough to find other folks willing to lift them, in person or otherwise.
I know you have a lot of comments for this important post, but I still want to thank you, too. Whatever emotional problem my own mother had, will be forever unknown because there was no support in her world for that sort of work, that sort of seeking. There was only the expectation of cruel derision, and her ego would have none of that. She became one of the cruel, and focused on any trouble anyone else had. I sincerely hope that your voice and personal story helps in removing these societal stigmas. I tried with my post “My Two Cents About Mel Gibson” and although I didn’t expect a positive response (or any response at all, as it was early in the life of my blog) I hoped that saying something simple could help (although I guess openness isn’t really so simple for some.)
After my mother died and the struggle with with her ended, I entered another when I unknowingly married a man with Asperger’s (a high functioning form of autism which greatly diminishes EQ, not IQ) and after figuring it out and getting him to a psychologist who could help him cope, I was still facing a society that didn’t want to include people who were different, or suffering. We are much more than our suffering, and if society would just be open to the suffering being part of our lives, we could all get what we need and contribute our gifts, and make our world so much better. I’m glad you got so many responses here. I hope this dialogue helps.
Each comment on this post is a powerful reminder to me how many people have experienced or understand they may yet experience the effects of mental illness in their lives. Each comment is important to me, and received with love in my heart!
It’s awesome that you, too, posted about it–and I wonder if that’s an entry I read? After I post this comment, I’m going to check. I had a very hard time with the Charlie Sheen stuff. Occasionally a laugh would escape, but for and away more prevalent was my sadness with the situation. It cannot be fun to live in that head.
We are much more than our suffering, and if society would just be open to the suffering being part of our lives, we could all get what we need and contribute our gifts, and make our world so much better.
This is so, so beautifully put–breathtakingly so! I remember being out running one time late at night in law school. I thought about someone who’d just gone missing while out jogging. I thought how horrible that would be, but then . . . as my thoughts rolled along, I thought how unfair it would be that any person’s life be summed up by any one part of it, such as its violent conclusion or mental illness that occasionally made it off-kilter. There’s so much more to each of us than any one bullet point about us could ever express. The sooner we are comfortable embracing this, the sooner–I hope!–we will find more people sharing everything they have to give, because none has to be hidden away.
I, too, hope this dialogue helps, and am thankful you are a part of it.
How scary to witness what you have and how brave of you to ask your mom about voluntarily committing herself.
It was so scary. I feel, more every day since posting this, that facing those scary things is the source of strength. I suppose I’d much rather not be strong if that’s what it results from . . . but I’m glad there’s something from it. Thank you.
An amazing blog piece, totally moving & honest.
Think the blog is amazing, keep up the good work
Thank you so much for your kind words on my blog and this entry in particular. This entry was so hard to write and post, but . . . it was so worth it, for so many reasons.
Thank you again. Each comment on this entry feels like a gift to me.
Deborah dear,
Thanks so much for your honesty, your eloquence, and your courage. What a deeply moving post. And I love that beautiful photo of you and your siblings.
Thanks also for letting people know about my book, Stop Pretending. That book, my first, is so near and dear to my heart, and sometimes I worry that it will go out of print. That would make me so very sad, because then it would stop reaching truly generous people like you…
I think, in some ways, having this book out there in the world has redeemed a bit of my sister’s suffering…allowing her to feel like she has been able to help others who are experiencing the same pain.
And what incredible comments have been left here. This is such a supportive and wonderful community you are a part of!
xx,
Sonya Sones
http://www.sonyasones.com
Sonya,
Thank you so much for commenting. I meant to reply much earlier, but (in a rare turn!) couldn’t quite find the words.
Virtually the moment I finished reading Stop Pretending, I gave away a copy apiece on Twitter and Facebook. Granted, the Facebook copy remains on my computer desk until I meet its taker for a taping next week, but I look forward to passing it off.
Your comments been rolling around in my mind since I read it. It’d be a great loss if it went out of print. It takes a huge, complicated matter and expresses it in a way that’s so honest and relatable, I think it’s the perfect book to let folks young and old alike know (a) they’re not alone and (b) that there are resources out there. The keywords that have led people to this entry alone tell me how important that is, so I’ve been thinking about doing a blog giveaway as well, this time for a few copies. I suspect I’ll post about that on Friday.
I feel so blessed to be part of this community. I spent so long feeling so alone, when really, finding the words and sharing them frees everyone. There’s so much love and support open for the taking. There’s a lot of fear and anxiety, too, but my hope is that with more openness . . . that will become a thing of the past.
I’m so grateful to you and your sister for this book. I relate so deeply to what you’ve said about redeeming her suffering. What’s been suffered can never be undone, but if it can be used to ease someone else’s burden? That is a gift.
Thank you again, for the book and your words here.
~ Deb
I am finding it hard to write how much this post touched me. Your words are so true and go straight to my heart. Thank you for sharing your mom’s story. Mental illness is a large part of my life as well. My mother suffers from severe depression and anxiety that still remains undiagnosed to this day as she is in denial. She’s had several breakdowns. My brothers and I have staged several “interventions” pleading with her to seek help. Growing up, she was always in her room, not speaking to anyone for days, underneath this suffocating dark cloud of gloom that I couldn’t even begin to make sense out of as a young child. As a result, I often tell people my mom wasn’t “there” for me most of my life. Her anxiety caused her to lash out at me and my brothers and we lived walking on eggshells. And In the back of my mind, I have this nagging fear I’ll have the same tendencies one day. (I did suffer from severe PPD after my first child) Thank you for writing about your experience, you’re really given me inspiration to write about my own story.
I’m so glad that you commented, despite finding the comment hard to write at the outset!
I relate so much to what you’ve described in your comment. If you do write about your own story, I’ll be very interested to read it–and, more than that, to cheer you on. I do hope you write about it, even if it’s in a place where no one can read, because doing so has lifted such a huge weight off me. I thought it might just be temporary, but no. I continue to feel peace where before there was so much confusion and anxiety.
Writing this comment, I’m so glad I started blogging. If left to my own devices, I would have kept sitting and writing around the issues in my journal. Writing about them with a mind to really share the full experience with others placed me squarely in the face of details: leave them out or include them? Some of the story’s power is gone if details are excluded, so I opted to include some . . . which ended up being good for me. I always feel stronger after I’ve faced something like the details than before, when I’ve tried brushing them away.
Alas, I’m rambling! I’m glad my words touched you, and I hope that we’ll both of us (and our families) keep meeting greater peace as we walk through the days ahead.
You really have given me hope that one day I can sit down and write about my experiences. What’s strange about painful things is how easy it is to push them down and not even acknowledge them, to bring them to light again. They are buried so deep now. Maybe I’m afraid. Of what I really can’t say. My mom is like this giant block in my life, a crushing weight that was on me so long that it’s hard to bring myself to revisit it again, even though intellectually, I know it’s an important part in my healing process. But seeing you do it and knowing the peace you’ve managed to have in writing about your mom has really inspired me. Something tells me that my peace will be found in understanding my mother’s pain and what she went through and trying to come to terms with why she chose to reject me time and again growing up. Possibly forgiveness is on the horizon. Thank you so very much for giving me that little shred of hope that I can find that, it would mean the world to me to heal and to let it go.
Thank you for sharing this part of your life with your readers, Deborah. More importantly, thank you for being a survivor of life’s harsh realities. Your strength makes our world a better place. I’m glad to know you.
This comment lifted my spirits when it was first received, and again just now. Thank you so much for reading, and for sharing these beautiful words. I’m glad to know you, too, and look forward to seeing more of the world through your eyes as the days roll by.
You are the reason I have decided to pursue Psychiatry. Not only for the ones that carry around the illness, but for those who are affected by it. I have not experienced mental illness like yourself, however, I hope that one day I can do something to help.
I think the reason people see it as “dirty laundry” is because it’s something that not many people honestly understand. To them, it’s not an illness or disease. Illness and disease are words that are reserved for things like, cancer, kidney disease, tonsillitis, etc. Many do not realize that mental illnesses also fall into this category and are not something that is easily fixable. I think that education is the first step in helping others understand. Incredible post.
Was there any experience you had or something you read that inspired you to take this path? Regardless of that inspiration, I’d like to say, too, that your words here are already a help, and a voice for hope where there is still so much hope needed. Thank you.
I am so thankful I found your blog! You are an absolutely stunning, brave writer, and you express things that are extremely difficult to express. Bravo. I’m officially hooked. I have struggled with mental health myself, and have a dear friend who is going through her own struggles right now, and this was so, SO helpful. Thank you!
Thank you so much for your comment! Of all my posts, this is the one it most touches me to see be revisited.
I’m only sad to finally reply to your comment and find there’s no link back to your blog. I have my fingers crossed I’ll see you around these parts again.
All the best in your journey (likewise to your friend), whether or not our paths cross again! ♥
This was only too real for me to read. My heart cried for you as you described that you could look at your mother’s physical frame but wonder where she was. As the child we need our parents, no matter what age and it is hard when the balance of that relationship is out of kilter. Mental illness is still the ‘whispered’ ailment that you don’t discuss…someone elses’ problem. It’s only when you meet someone who has lived it or experienced it through a loved one that you can relax enough to really ‘talk’ (which is such a relief.) I will check out Sone too, thank you. Remember that you are never alone.
I am scared because I am that mom. My three daughters suffer like you because of me.
They don’t suffer because of you. They suffer because of your illness. I wish you the best in mitigating its impacts, and that I could offer more than wishes.
There is nothing left treatment – wise. I see no end to the isolation. Being suicidal nearly 24/7 is difficult to tolerate, and I think, even more difficult for others who are not in my head.
You need not offer anything-how many times will this happen before society conducts 60-mile-walks for ‘This?’