There is a function on Facebook in which it shows daily past posts. It allows FB users to jog down memory lane, and maybe to repost the original share. Today, this item reprinted below popped up in my memory feed. I remember vividly the day I shared with my virtual friends what I was going through with my mother.
I remember, mostly, the responses that were received, including from people far and wide who were not part of my FB friends. It struck a chord. I was so full of emotion reading the support from everyone.
Looking back in time, two years later, I realize that I had already written a piece for my blog. I think it is well worth resharing one of my most intimate moments in the virtual world.
Last week was my mother’s 80th birthday. We celebrated by making a big tapas style brunch for 20 people. This weekend, she has spent the whole time in the hospital. Why? Because she has a cold. Big deal, right? Except that my mom has a whole bunch of medical conditions, one of them being a heart arrythmia. She has refused to take all medications for the last few weeks, under the impression that they were making her sick. And why she would think that? She was diagnosed 47 years ago with severe bipolar affective disorder, suffering from delusions and hallucinations. So, my mother became tachycardiaque, along with complete dehydration and a 20 lb weight loss in 3 weeks because she also believed that eating gave her diarrhea.
My mother is the 6th child of a family of 7. Of these 7 children, 3 had mental health disorders. Of their children of my generation, many are affected by schizophrenia or bipolar disorder. This is the Great family Secret that no one dares talk about. But none of us have come out of this unscathed. We all had to find various coping mechanisms to face all of the emotional turmoil of being surrounded by our loved ones with these problems. The lucky ones managed to surround themselves with friends and strong support groups. The unluckier ones found solace in drugs, alcohol, or had food disorders such as anorexia or bulimia. Some ran away as far as the earth could take them, so as not to face these traumatisms.
As for me, I’m considered, believe or not, one of the normal ones. I, too, however, have not come out of this unmarred by my experiences. Some of my past coping mechanisms have been in many circumstances very unhealthy. I have had to do a lot of work on myself, many years of therapy to get to a relative peace of the situation. I have become, over the years, the de-facto caregiver, advocate, nurse and in charge of the finances. Rare is there a week where I am not called upon to deal with a situation and/or crisis. Funny, considering the fact that she thought I was the devil when I was a baby. When my brother and I were just tots, my mom was going to go off a cliff into the river with us in the car in one of her states of despair.
When I was 11 years old, I witnessed my mom’s attempt to commit suicide by slicing her throat. She was frequently catatonic from too many medications at the wrong doses or from frequent electric shock treatments, which, interestingly, officially she only underwent a one-time dose (ummm…. No. I saw her coming from the shock treatments on at least 5 occasions). When she wasn’t zombied out, she was in complete and total agitated states. My stepfather was overwhelmed by my mother’s state. She was a force to be reckoned with, and he found it easier to distract her by taking her on holidays instead of to the hospital. My brother and I would be held hostage for hours on road trips to Nova Scotia, or Prince Edward Island, when my mother would be raging. She thought she was Jesus. Or Joan of Ark. She would think that she was being followed. Or that all of household items were poisoned. She once threw out everything that was in the kitchen; food, pots, pans, dishes, utensils. I frequently had to sneak out in the middle of the night to recuperate personal items out of the multitudes of garbage bags she would put out. It wasn’t easy, as she didn’t sleep.
My mother is now on a dose of medications which manages to keep her relatively stable and functional. However, her baseline is not a normal baseline. She hyperfocusses on minor stuff. She has developed OCD along the way. She cannot reason out situations. She cannot understand the consequences of actions. My mother, who is one of the kindest people I know, is now a broken woman.
Why am I sharing all of this? Because I can’t help but wonder how her life would have been, if mental health disorders were not thought of as shameful. If she would have been diagnosed earlier. If she would have been given proper treatments, proper medications with proper doses. If she would have had psychological help as well as psychiatric help. If she could have been taught and given coping mechanisms for stress. If she could have been given tools to identify when she was starting to skid off the tracks. If those close to her had been given tools to identify triggers, and how to deal with the situation. If we, as children, had been given help. If we, as children, would not have been put in the position of being collateral damage. If we, as children, could have been properly explained what was going on. If we, as children, wouldn’t have felt that we were the cause of our mother’s mental health crises.
I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we, as a society, actually focussed on real preventive measures as opposed to being in a perpetual reactive state. I can’t help but wonder what would happen if we would stop giving token attention to mental health disorders.
