Diary from 11/13, the beginning
So, this is the beginning. Yet, the beginning seems to come somewhere in the middle, or maybe at the end, of my story. This will be the way my tale unfolds. My journey is going to be haphazard, at best. As I try to put my story into some kind of order, I realize that somehow, the years have turned and folded back onto themselves so many times that the concept of ‘time’ itself now becomes irreverent. Sometimes I pick up a thread of a story, only to lose it as it becomes enmeshed and tangled with all the other memories I keep locked away. So, to say I am standing at the threshold of the beginning may be a bit over simplified, but it is a start.
Today was the first day with the new therapist. Funny, he said I was fairly insightful into my ghosts and issues, and that I should wade out of these murky waters fairly quickly. I had to smile a bit. After all, if someone has a good idea on how to manage the chaos of life, they are normally not the kind to find their way into the office of a psychologist. But on the upside, I guess it is good to know that I am well adjusted for a crazy person.
Here I am, writing to myself, and yet I cannot seem to get the words in the correct order. Everything seems so easy while sitting in the therapist’s office, and then when you are left on your own at home, it becomes hazy. I was told to ‘learn to be more open’. What a simple, easy idea. What a foolish therapist. Hmm, so learn to open up… My first response, is ‘why’? How would any good come out of bearing my soul to everyone I know? Really, the idea is quite silly to me. How would the ghosts of my past have any measures on the lives of others?
But, yet I begin today. I begin on a path that causes me to chuckle. I feel silly for talking to myself as I write. Silly for assuming my words would have any effect on others anyway. But, still… I begin.
The Beginning
Mental Illness. Bi polar. Mania and Depression. These are new words I am adding to my vocabulary. This is my journey, and it is a simple affair. I am not a medical professional, I have no training in psychology, and I do not possess any deep insights into the human psyche. I am just me. A woman who always thought knew that my life had spiraled out of control. Yes, I knew the normal person did not deal with what I did. The normal woman did not face each day with a nameless fear and dread. It is impossible to decide when your life fails in comparison to ‘normal’ when you have no clue exactly what normal is. My life was in shambles, which I knew. What I never understood was the ‘why’.
So, I invite you to come with me. Wade through the shadows, the pain, and the voices of my past as they echo to me. This is a journey I start blindly. I have no idea what I will find as I begin to pull back the memories. I am terrified about what I will find, and terrified that I will find nothing at all. Yes, a contradiction in terms but let me explain. I have just been told about the bipolar condition of my mother and my brother. I received the diagnosis that I have Post Traumatic Stress. So, on one hand, I may have the answer to the ghosts that haunt me. But there is another part that fights the counseling and treatment. What if, the doctors find there is nothing wrong, and I am just a nutcase? I am excited for the answers, but afraid that the answers will not enough to bring me peace.
I will start somewhere closer to the beginning. When I was younger, my brother was diagnosed bi-polar. My family did our best to wade through the illness, but my brother refused to admit he had a problem and refused medication. I knew my family was dysfunctional, but I did not have the tools to figure out exactly where the dysfunction was. My brother found a great cure for his illness in the shell of a .357 hand gun at the beginning of the year. So, yes, my life is in shambles. I lost my only sibling, and my mother? Well, I just thought she was temperamental, and hard to manage. I was wrong.
My mother was misdiagnosed with insomnia about 16 years ago, and put on a psychotropic drug for it. What a surprise, her insomnia treatment masked the fact that she was severely bi-polar. Earlier this year, she decided to wean herself off the ‘insomnia’ meds as she was ready to retire. If she was sleepy, she figured she would take a nap.
It was about six months of pure hell before the diagnosis came. My mother figured she was addicted to the sleeping pills. Of course, all the behaviors of the mania would easily be described as withdrawals. So the guesswork began. The first script for the withdrawals, the second script for the nausea… The tremors and night sweats will fade, but here is something in the meantime… Headaches, here is a pill for that. Anxiety? Got you covered… I quickly lost count as the pills began to grow. As soon as I learned to pronounce one med, they would change it to another. She was ‘addicted’ to this, ‘addicted’ to that… The drugs that were tried, or switched, or tapered, read like a pharmaceutical shopping list. And still, there were no answers.
No one thought that maybe the behaviors and symptoms were not a result of stopping an insomnia drug that she had been prescribed, but something so much more serious. When the delusions began, I knew there was something wrong. Then the paranoia, illusions, and the complete break from reality came. Towards the end, she began talking a lot to my father. She would jump when he called me, because she was worried I was telling him ‘things.’ He was always angry with her, and he was spending a lot of time at my home. She would call me, and beg for me to intervene with Dad. All of this sounds like a loving wife, desperate to hold on to her marriage, except for one small technicality. My father has been dead for about two years now.
It all came to a head when I received a call from the sheriff’s office. She had gotten into quite an argument with my father in the waiting room of a clinic. Except, there was no one there, she was screaming at her delusion of my father. Needless to say, I had no choice to check her into the behavioral hospital. That has by far been the hardest thing I have done. As I fell sobbing in the reception area of the hospital, one of the counselors sought me out. He told me I should try writing, to get the jumbled mess of ideas on paper. So, this is my attempt. We will see just where it takes me.
Diary Entry from 11/26. The Ghosts Whisperings.
I personally think that Hallmark has it wrong. ‘Season’s Greetings’ may drive up card sales, but until they expand their line past the traditional warm and fuzzy messages, I will never understand it. I do not need a ‘Happy Holidays’ card, I need an “I’ll see you in therapy” or a touching “Go to hell, I never really loved you anyway” card. Now, that is one card I could see myself wasting postage on.
It has been Thanksgiving weekend. I feel this year, that I have simply floated over it. Somehow I remained in a nice, safe bubble, just out of reach of anything sharp or caustic. I kept just a thin, sheer layer of protection around me, allowing the holidays to push me to and fro, yet keep close enough to watch my family mingle. My saving grace was that I also remained just far enough away to be untouched.
Once again, I think that I choose the middle of everything to ‘start’. It is hard to decide exactly what I am reacting to. It is hard to focus on learning to use an ‘open and rational mind’ when the ghosts and insecurities insist on clinging to the edges of my memories. I hear the ghosts, whispering, planning, and ensuring to themselves that I know they are still there. If our memories do not speak out to us, there is a chance they will slowly be forgotten. Once grieved, a loss is not longer held close and cherished. Once your past is carefully examined and tucked away, one may be free to move forward.
But then there is me, and those whom like me, listen to their own ghosts. How scary this life would be without the past to cling to. I can cling to my past long after the comparison is made to a child holding her security blanket. A young child may hold her blanker in one hand while the other hand slowly, cautiously, reaches forward. For the child, the blanket is only a security tool until the child realizes that the world can be an enchanting opportunity and that it is not so scary after all. At that point, the blanket can be shed and left behind.
However, I am not a child. I cling to the past. I wrap it around me, swaddling me, immobilizing me… Unlike the child, I cannot see the world through fresh and curious eyes. To me, the world is an unstable and a cruel teacher. The past stabilizes me. If I keep the daily reminders of past hurts around me, maybe I will be less likely to encounter them again. We can see the scars that have a physical cause. Once burned, the skin can heal. One healed; however, you still retain the memory of the hot stove. You can see one’s physical past in the lines and scars on the body. Yet the scars on the physical body are often seen as battle ribbons. Like how the skinned and bloody knees become a boast of riding the bike without training wheels. The grass stained legs for stealing home base for the first time. The scars from falling from the monkey bars you climbed, and then fell. As we age, we take the knowledge we gain from every scar, and tell the stories to our children. Every scar or wound will become a tribute to man’s ability to heal and preserver.
Yet here I am. My scars tucked safely in the corners of my mind. This is why the past is wrapped around me. There is no pride in the stories that left these scars. The abuse remembered years later is not worth the scars you are left with. No, I prefer to keep these memories close to me. If I remember that there is always a risk of pain, maybe I can avoid the pain in the future.
So, these past hurts become the ‘ghosts’ I talk about. They whisper to me, guide me and sooth me when I am discouraged. The ghosts tell me it is safer to keep everyone at bay, and their logic seems sound. How can a trusted friend betray you if you never allow the risk of them getting close? How can a lover leave you if you never allow one to stay? My ghosts keep me guarded, safe. As long as I listen to them, I can avoid pain. There can be no grief if one chooses to not allow for any loss. With no loss or grief, then one cannot morn. My ghost has taught me well. I have survived the pain of my childhood and flourished safe in the arms of my past. Now, over the holidays, the ghosts whisper the loudest. When family’s gather to rejoice, then I can count on my past to remind me to keep the possibility of getting hurt at bay.
However, there is a new, small voice now. This is a voice I struggle to hear, and I must listen carefully. Yes, it tells me, the ghosts keep me safe, for I allow no one in. Yes, my ghosts keep me strong, for I ask help from no one in my struggles. I am safe, protected. Alone.
Yet the little voice persists. If one lives only with the ghosts, then is one really ever alive?
Diary entry from 11/29
Today is my brother’s birthday, or would be, if he was still alive. I guess this is a good place to let the story unravel. My brother had his own ghosts growing up, but his were different. They were not just the lingering memories of places and events. They were vicious, mean ghosts. They lingered and spoke to him until they eventually had full control. They tormented him until they drove him insane. He was diagnosed Bi-polar when I was a young child. I never really thought much about it growing up. I just knew how one might feel if the woke up somehow lost in the story of Jekyll and Hyde. I never knew which face my brother would be wearing.
When my brother was young, my mother could always make sure he had is medication. But one is not a child forever, and one cannot force the actions of another. As the years passed, and the medication faded, the violence and confusion set in. My brother was not a violent man, but the disease was. Somehow, the man I loved and cared for became lost in his personal hell. His grip on reality became unstable, and the ghosts in his mind began to take over. That is when he was violent. The closest I can describe is to stand in the mid-west plains, and watch. Watch as the weather becomes violent. There is no power on earth that will equal the tornado you know is coming. Just as you hear the sirens, you already know the truth. This is gonna be bad. Now, you wait. You watch. You pray to the gods that you are not there when the tornado touches down.
But my brother was not a storm, but my only sibling. One I loved. One I feared. He was my own personal tornado that would drop down in a frenzy to rip my proverbial house of the foundation. Then, in a flash, the stormed cleared. There was never a rhyme, never a reason. Just a period of waiting between storms. Last New Year’s Eve, the storm raged for the last time. It ended with my brother’s single shot from a .357 hand gun. There were no tornado warnings this time…
The Storm
I never knew I was living with mental illness. I was told that the illness affected the individual, and it was a dark and personal fight. It never occurred to me that I may have been living with a problem so large that as a small child it was out of my control. All I knew was that I must be the one to protect everyone. Sometimes that would be protecting my brother from the world; sometimes I protected the world from my brother.
That was my job, my life. When the storm began to rage in my brother, I became his weather watcher, to keep with the same analogy. I got pretty good at predicting when his violence would hit, and when it would be a surprise calm. I remember as a young girl, hearing my brother was fired, no surprise, for anger. He was about 17, making myself about 11. My mom panicked, and her first reaction was for the general manager. My mother knew my brother was in a ‘temperamental’ mood, and it would be all the fault of the general manager. My brother was a teenager, hormones on fire, and totally out of control. My mom was able to track my brother’s boss down at home, and let him know of her fears. They were founded, and my brother was charged with assault when he confronted his ‘big’ boss. Welcome to normal at my house.
As I work through my own problems, I am having a hard time explaining to my own confused husband this ‘normal’. Now, with my brother gone, I am left with just the waiting. I expect him to come flying through my front door. But is he coming with flowers for his little sister because he missed my birthday, or is it in a violent rage. It never mattered what form of my brother I got, at least it was a release from the waiting. There would be a peak, then a blessed release. After the release of tension would come the most cherished thing I had. Calm.
Now, sitting here on his birthday, I will never have that gift again. There will be no calm. The violent, awe inspiring storm of my brother has passed, but has left me with a strange sort of anticipation. Years of waiting for my brother’s moods to peak have left me unable to cope to a world without him.
{Another Step Forward{
I just finished the second session with my mother’s psychologist this week. In order to understand my own issues, fighting with this bi-polar disorder, it is important to understand where my mother’s own ghosts and demons are coming from. A dysfunctional time capsule, so to speak. So, with the analogy in place, I wander back in time.
I knew about the childhood my mother had. Although my grandmother passed when I was a young adolescent, her personality fascinated me growing up. God, she was a beautiful woman. She was not beautiful in just her looks or dress, but in the dynamic way people who truly know their appeal are. Simply, she owned it. She reminded me of a great wild cat. A leopard maybe, something sleek and sensual. An animal that would pace with restlessness, muscles taunt, ready to pounce. So many hours I would watch her. She was hard to look away from, even while hurting those you really loved. She had such a style to it.
My grandmother loved me. I mean that as a totally surprising fact. To her, children where a nuisance; wild and poorly behaved off spring to be shepherded away. My grandmother barley tolerated her own children, let alone the grand-kids. She was never the grandma you ran home to after school to be spoiled and loved. My grandma, you tread carefully with. Never knowing when the cat would pounce, what harsh word or cruel slap would be used. I do not know what the memories are of my cousins, but I had a special place to my grandmother. I was her favorite. This would be a great place for the average child. But for me, it just meant I sat on her lap and watch the hell she spurned, instead of being the victim of it.
My mother was different. She was the one who cowered when my grandmother started to get restless. The wrath and abuse I watched my mother suffer scared me deeper than if my grandmother hit me herself. The quickness of her temper, the vengeance of her punishment, the absolute instability of her moods… But for whatever reason, she loved me. I think I reminded her a bit of herself, at least, that is the only logical explanation I can think of.
Even though I loved her, I knew she was a wicked woman. One of my clearest memories of childhood came from my grandmother. I remember listening at the door to the kitchen of her house, as she venomously ripped my mother apart. She was sitting with my two aunts; I was staying with my grandmother while my mother worked. She told my aunts how worthless my mother was, and that her attempt to go to college was a sham. I remember the laughter, the jeers, and my grandmother making my aunts promise not to tease my mother, too much, when she returned with her ‘tail between her legs.’
Most children, I suppose, would break into tears, deny what they heard, or not even bother to listen at all. After all, I was only 8 or 9 at the time, and adult conversations were so dull, right? No, I listened. That was the day my ghosts were born. At the time I had no idea what mental health was, I wouldn’t have gave a damn. What I remember was the overwhelming hate that was created. I don’t think I cried. I was methodical; I listened till the time was correct. A little pause in the conversation, and then I stormed in like a wildfire. I confronted both my grandma and my aunts. I yelled, I screamed, I stood in the face of the abuse and fought back. The look on the face of both my grandma and my two aunts was my reward.
Then I fled, but not in fear or shame. I knew every part of that land, and I was quick. I was safely stowed away, hidden, under the front stairs of my grandma’s trailer. There was a rotten board I discovered, and kept carefully in place, so that whenever I needed a shelter, I would have it. The view from my hiding place was great. I remember laughing as my grandmother searched in vain, screaming my name. That was a feeling that I remember so clear, the vindication. Simply, I won.
She was not quite the well groomed, svelte feline she was accustomed to being. She was a bitter old woman, and I am sure I was the only one to ever stand up to her. Watching, I saw her composure crack, and for the first time, thinking back, I remember panic. Searching, screaming, panicking… I watched it all.
Maybe that is why I was treated different. Grandma had a large weeping willow in the front yard. I remember the switches being cut by various cousins, always a ready punishment for some ‘terrible’ childhood crime, but never me. My mother moved myself and my brother away shortly after that summer, but the sense of empowerment the memory of that gave me had always remained so clear. I got the best of the caged cat, and that was the day, I vowed I would never allow anyone to hurt my mother again.
Memories of my grandmother scare me, though. She is not the voice of any of my ghosts, but I think of her with fear. My ability to be so cold and detached, sitting there, listening at her door. Remembering the thrill of watching her panic, and relishing the feeling of it. The way I could toy with her and my family over the years. I actually love my fucked up family. They entertain me…
My grandmother worries me, because I see glimpses of her in the mirror. I admire her so much for her tenacity. Her behavior may have been wicked and evil, but so have the actions of every dictator on earth. That does not mean I cannot admire a woman who had so much control over her own domain. I cannot shake the image of her as a great caged cat. One who may feign injury to have her cage opened, only to pounce at one bringing aid. And she would have enjoyed it.
Like a bored cat, her violence and brutality came around mostly when there was nothing more to distract her. Simply put, when she was bored, she needed to prowl. Looking back, I wonder how many of the family fights were caused simply because my grandmother grew bored. But I admired her, even if at a young age I realized that she was not the ‘normal’ grandmother other children had. And sometimes, I actually miss her.
Maybe it is just the flow of the holidays, the hustle and bustle with the demands of the season, but I feel like my ‘healing’ has been put a little on hold. It feels a bit strange, but there is actually a bit more confusion in my head than before. Maybe, the beloved ghosts of my memories are doing a little redecorating, so to speak.
It is a bit harder tonight to put a tongue-in-cheek, sarcastic, spin on my family and I find true honestly a bit to surreal. So, I guess that leaves me a bit lost for words. No, that doesn’t seem quite right. The words are there, the delivery is off. I sit looking at the blinking curser, and feel a bit taken back. Normally, the words and story pours out of me, and my fingers fly against the keyboard to catch up. I admit to feeling a bit euphoric after, a bit rushed. I feel the tremendous release of freeing myself of the ghost of my past one memory at a time. The ghosts are not as cooperative tonight. No flood of memories coming to my flying fingers. I feel a bit fragmented, like the ghosts are whispering, but there is static on the line.
I have spent my life avoiding the ghosts. Tonight, there is a change. Without my brother to be a catalyst, and with my mother on the proper medication, the ghosts are not being prodded by my relationships with others. I don’t feel like my memories are as raw and on edge, but more….. Sleeping. So yes, tonight there will be a change. I have hid from the ghosts for years. Now, I will go find them.
Maybe I should start at the beginning, or at least a closer approximation of it. If I was asked to sum up my happiest time in childhood, I would laugh and say ‘bullfrogs’. The absolute confusion in your face would also make me laugh. But really, that is the answer.
My early childhood, was to say the least, idyllic. I was raised on a farm, at the apex of where the proverbial ‘end of the world’ or ‘middle of nowhere’ crosses. A simple childhood filled with critters, and dirt, and country roads. And of-course, bullfrogs. There was a little stream just down the hill from my house, and that was my favorite place to escape to. I know now that it was a run off area for the irrigation water, but to my child’s mind, it was a wonderful frog filled swamp. It makes me smile to try to count how many of those frogs were carried home to my house and taken back again. My mother, maybe, was a bit indulgent. I never remember being reprimanded for whatever critter wandered into our house. I guess frogs in the bathtub are kinda normal in the country. I remember having a bummer lamb in my bedroom, and he quickly chewed on my curtains. Early childhood lesson learned. They eat anything.
I really do not remember when my brother started to have the first signs of being bipolar. I can tell you, my life was very much divided into ‘before’ and ‘after’, but not because of my brother. When I was 8, I remember the signs that there was something wrong with me. I began to stumble, a lot. I would try to walk through a door, and miss, only to run into a wall. My hands trembled, and then, they would no longer hold still. I remember sitting on my hands at school to keep them from ‘wiggling’ too much. It was embarrassing, and kids would make fun of me for it. It slowly just got worse, until I fell into grand mall seizures, and was rushed to the hospital… but that is another story.
I was diagnosed with chorea and rheumatic fever, just begging my life long story of being in and out of the hospitals. So, why include this now? My mother was young, she was single, and her daughter was dying. I was not supposed to live through the night, let alone, the year. And my brother, well, he never forgave me.
That is not quite fair. I am sure it was not that black and white. My brother was 7 years older than me, and was 15 when I fell sick. Puberty, for my brother, was when his illness was triggered. Just as the disease began taking over his mind, I was deathly ill. In his mind, he held me responsible, and hated me for it. Recovery was slow for me, and memories are hazy. I remember the slow change in my brother, but the attention was always on me. Rushed from doctor to doctor, ending up in one of our nation’s top children’s hospitals. Somehow, I think the ghosts began taking hold of my brother then. I cannot remember how old I was when he was diagnosed, but it seems the ‘medication fight’ with him was constant. One child very physically sick, one child mentally ill. My mother did the best she could.
I remember missing the bullfrogs. I was not able to walk, and was confined to my house. I do remember, sleeping on the couch in the afternoon, I woke up to a disturbing feeling. Something moist, wet, and clammy; and a strange shade of…? Yup, there was a brownish green frog, sitting there on my chest, and the sound of my brother laughing. That was in the beginning of his disease. When there were long moments of the charming, loving young, and only brief ‘episodes’. I still could trust my brother to love me, look out for me. And when I was down, he would bring me a frog.
My brother helped me learn to walk again. He would hold my hands until my muscles grew strong and remembered what to do. He was patient, but I could begin to see the monster with in him. He was easily frustrated with me is I stumbled, and I tried so hard to please him. My mother began taking classes at the community center, and still worked full time. So, at home, it was my brother and I, and the ghosts were beginning.
He would get so angry with me, and I began to be wary of him. I would never admit to any pain, and just bore through it, anything to avoid being weak. I tried not to cry, tried to be stoic, and tough. This is a habit that does not help me nearly as much now. I began to be afraid of my brother, and to hide from him. Horses always calmed me, and I would hide in the stables with them. Horses are very sensitive animals, and I think they felt my brother’s tension. He made them nervous and jittery, and he avoided them. I spent longer and longer times with the critters, away from the house. I always felt calmer when I could touch nature.
The more upset I became, the more I craved this natural solitude. I had no idea this solace would soon be gone. My mother made a decision one day, kinda out of the blue. She sold the house, and moved us all up to Logan, to return to school. She told us that housing would be figured out when we got up there. So, off to the city. This little country girl was suddenly in a metropolis. My rolling, open spaces became city blocks. No more horses to sneak veggies to, no more lambs to play with. Although the rooster was an ornery thing, I liked feeding the chickens. And the silly frogs, gone. I left it behind, and moved.
We ended up in an apartment in student housing. Now there was no escape for me when my brother lapsed from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde. When my mother was working or in school, it was once again just he and I. I could no longer escape him, so had to learn, fast, how to handle him. I became a master at his illness. I learned to read him, anticipate him, and predict when and where the violence and anger would come. I became his keeper.
The darker his illness became, the more violent and polarized his moods became. He began to swing to the extremes. I was always on edge, wondering what direction he would come from. He began to really rebel against my mom, life, anything he could fight with. His anger was no longer focused just at home, but spilled into society. He moved from a tormented young man to a thug and delinquent.
I actually begin to lose my memories here. My mind goes from hazy, to grey, to blank. I really have not poked too hard at the missing memories. I need to, but not till I am stronger. I am sure it will be dark and painful, and a journey for another day. I am not feeling the strength to deal with those ghosts today.
To this day, I cannot handle being upset in doors. There is a place in the local canyon, which has a clear view of the valley. It is a good little hike, but well worth it. My own little spot away from anyone, or anything. This is the place I go to think, to clear my head of the ghosts, to heal. This is where most of my diary has been written. I stay very still, and I normally have company. Last time, I shared the hilltop with three deer. They didn’t seem to mind.
{
Diary entry from 12/12
I think I feel a bit more stable tonight. I still have not heard back from psychologist about setting up the next appointment, but I guess there is always tomorrow to make a phone call. Mom’s medications have been switched, and honestly seem to be working this time. She seems to be more on an even keel, and I guess that is lowering my stress level.
The Family
Like I have written before, my mom’s illness is a dew diagnosis, but my brother’s illness was something that our family has struggled through my entire life. I had no idea that I was the only person trying to function in such a disastrous mess of mental illness. It is nice to have a reason why I have always struggled to understand why my life seems to be so much more chaotic. I knew there was a terrible problem. I always thought it was me.
I guess that the doctors have lots of labels and diagnosis to hand out. Apparently mine is ‘post traumatic stress’ from my childhood. Here I was, just a child, trying to be the buffer in a world that never made any sense. I was always being pushed between the two, trying desperately to discover when the next attack of insanity would come from. The more I look around myself now, with the benefit of counseling, I can see how the instability has crept its way into almost every member of my family. My aunts, my mother, and my grandmother as well, no one is left untainted.
Every day had been a painful awakening. I went to therapy over my brother’s suicide, to discover, it was not his suicide at all that had been haunting me. The ghosts chattering in my head came long before. The first suicide in my family happened when I was much younger. My mother and I were living with her sister, and my cousin was my first taste of suicide surging through a family. I was 14 at the time.
I realize now that I was a horrid young woman. This was the house of the same aunt who I overheard sitting calmly at my grandmother’s kitchen table, verbally attacking my mother. I saw the same wicked woman who hurt my mother over and over again. Here, again, I believe I am jumping a bit into the middle of the story. Maybe I should wander my way back to the beginning of the chapter.
I hated my extended family. I had no way of knowing then what the problem was, but I knew my mother would be hurt by these people. My mother’s childhood was horrific, beating after beating; the stories about the abuse would get so hard to heal. But they never happened. Hell no, not in my family. If you never spoke about it, you never admitted it, and then you never had to deal with it. No, we were the perfect fucked up little family.
And I hated them, every single one. My mother was so desperate to be loved and accepted, that she would put up with any of the pain and abuse dealt out by her older sister. I have come to see that my mother’s oldest sister had just as much a hand in her childhood as my grandmother did. But I am wandering a bit…
So, we would go visit my family. And once again, my mother was never good enough, pretty enough, bright enough… The little jabs would start, and then get worse. I felt the hatred grow inside me, and I nourished it. Ever since the day that I confronted my grandmother that long ago summer, I had a plan. As long as I could keep the family focused on me, my mother would be ‘safe’. It was the only way that, as a child, I could help my mother. If my family was kept of kilter by my actions, at least my mom was not the brunt of the abuse. My mother may have been the proverbial black sheep, but I was the devil incarnate.
I was on a mission. Every skeleton, every family secret, every ghost or demon my family had, I searched out. I crept on the perimeter of my family, always looking for another weapon for my arsenal. Every taboo I broke. Coming from a very religious family in rural Utah, religion was my favorite. Every religious doctrine I broke, contradicted, tore apart. And I loved an audience. If my aunt was being hostel to my mother for not living up to some standard, I loved to remind her that my uncle had a long affair, and only married her when she tracked him down, pregnant. Looking back, yes, I was horrid. I was mean, vengeful, hateful… I was only a child.
But I didn’t care. I always thought that I was tougher than my mom, and more stable than my brother. I could take it, I hated them anyway… So yes, there we were, living with my aunt and her family. I had a cousin three years older, and then another older than me by about a year. I was just shy of 15 when the younger one took her own life. That is the day I tasted the deepest, darkest hate a heart can have. My ghosts were there in my mind, but they began to feed on the hate, and directed my life from that point on.
The three of us were supposed to be cleaning the bedroom. My mother and I were moving, not understanding what was directing my behavior, and my mother decided we could no longer stay there. The two girls were ‘helping’ me with some packing and cleaning; at least, only one of us was doing any work. The younger of the two cousins tried in vain to illicit help, but there was too much giggling going on. My aunt heard it to, and came bursting into the room to lay down the law. The youngest cousin was about to say something along the lines of ‘see mommy, I tried.’ She never got the chance. My aunt smacked her across the mouth with the wooden spoon she was holding. She was hit so hard her lips and gums bled and the spoon splintered. She was just a god damn child.
Sitting here, all these years later, the hatred is still there. I am sickened as I thing back. To this day, the way my deceased cousin is remembered, is almost… Creepy. Dinner plates still set out for her, and the light is left on over the front porch. Her death had never been discussed, and my family refuses to speak openly about her death. They deny it happened. It was just an accident. In every family celebration, they include a picture of her. At a recent wedding, her picture is being held in the wedding line, and a place was set for her at the reception. She has been gone for 19 years. Yes, mental instability did not stop with my mother and brother.
I remember countless times her being pushed aside. Just like my grandmother before her, my aunt chose one daughter over the other. The favorite petted and loved, the other, pushed to the edge, and then over. I think this was the day that really changed my life. To this day, I have horrid flashbacks to the time living at my aunt’s house. There should have been some way to stop my aunt. There should have been some way for me to save my cousin. Her death weighs on me, like it was my responsibility. From that point on, the members of my family would never be allowed to touch my mother.
…Now that I understand her decease more clearly, I can see how the mental illness of both her and my aunt triggered he reaction in the other. Now, I can see my behavior for what is was, and realize that there was no way that a young girl could control her mother’s bi-polar illness. My mother was ill, and I was angry, and there was no one to explain to me what was going on around me.
Now, the hate is beginning to dissipate. Now I am left with sorrow. A sorrow so immense it crushes me, making it hard to breathe. Anger has left disrepair so great it consumes me. And the grief. At the lost child that was me, and the missing childhood I never had. My cousin gave up her life, but I am realizing there are many forms of death. Mine has just been a slower process. I never knew one could die alive.
Diary entry 12/14
It is quite late, but I cannot sleep. I guess there is a bit too much whispering with the ghosts in my head. Home life it a bit tough right now, and really, tonight I am very jealous of my brother, and I really hate him right now. He left me to deal with everything, and tonight it is a bit too much. Countdown to the holidays, and all I have is the responsibility of keeping it together.
My mother is really having a hard time, and I am really searching for the strength to be there for her. I know, adjust the meds, see the doc, they promise the drug choice will be right this time. Yes, the refrain has been played before, and the notes still sound sour. There is no fix, no cure, and just varying degrees of totally fucked up. Maybe it is the holidays; maybe it is the fact that the weather has been so overcast and grey… I am just really struggling to find strength to meet another day.
I realized, last Christmas, my mother asked me to go with her to see my brother over the holidays. I can’t remember, but I think she went on Christmas day. I was so angry with him, so emotionally drained, that I refused to go. I had not spoke to my brother for quite a while, and really, my main thought was that he could go to hell for all I care. I may have gotten my wish after all. Here I am, almost a year has passed, and that is the last thing I thought of. I was angry, I was tired of all the lies and pain he caused. I was tired of always picking up the pieces of the lives he wrecked. And so I would not go. It was only a week later when the police called. They were at my mother’s home, and I could hear her sobbing in the background. And I knew. I even surprised the officer; after all, it is not rocket science. I knew how my brother slipped into a mental illness so dark; I believe he was beyond help. I knew as soon as I heard my mother sobbing. I knew before the officer had a chance to introduce himself. I don’t know what was worse.
The fact that I knew, or the fact that I wasn’t surprised.
So her, almost a year later, I am still not sure if it is guilt, anger, or complete indifference I feel. I think I should be sobbing, a gut wrenching outpouring of grief and hurt. I keep waiting for it, hell, hoping for it. Because, the ghost tell me, if I was a normal person, that is what grief would look like. A normal person would be wrapped up with the memories; a normal person would feel a loss so strong they would compare it to death itself.
But here I am. My eyes are teary, but I grieve more for the loss of grief itself. I wonder, if I could grieve, would the ghosts go away? But I am afraid that one day that the ghosts will stop listening. A childhood that was raised in dysfunction and mental illness, my life was consistent with chaos. As strange as it may be, the idea of a ‘normal’ life is scary. What would become of me if there was no storm in my life? What would a calm and tranquil family bring me? I feel as if I am going crazy, but in a normal world, I am afraid I would lose my mind. Crazy, I can handle.
But it is late at night, the house is quiet, and all I can hear is my past fears and hurts. The never ceasing ghosts and I cannot sleep. I am looking for normal. I am praying to any gods who listens for peace and tranquility, but I am not sure I would know what to do if I found it. Would I even recognize it, and if, I chanced to wander upon it, would I look at it and see any value?
A Surprise Support
Funny, the one person who I have been the most worried about opening up to over the death of my brother was my own niece. Would she see the ghosts the same? Could she possibly validate their existence, and maybe understand the things that they would whisper to me? Or there was another choice, and it filled me to panic at the thought of opening to her. There was a chance the ghosts did not speak to her. What if she not only refused to validate the ghosts, what if, she said it was all in my own head? Here I been pouring all my fears and delusions out as the story unfolds , and I am afraid to bring it to the person who holds one of the main keys.
But the time was right to try. A tentative attempt, from both of us, until the proverbial damn broke, and somehow, it was a story neither of us was controlling. The ghosts spoke for both of us, or perhaps, we have inherited the same ghosts. The basic premise is the same; validation.
Maybe there was another hill crested, with a little better look at the view ahead. To have someone else as close to my brother, understand and accept the demons I am fighting, gave the fist sense of relief I have felt for a long time. How wonderful the simple words ‘I understand’ can be. Today has been a bit different. The idea that maybe I am not in this alone make the ghosts so much easier to take.
I will not pretend that there was been a breakthrough. I cannot pretend so. I stood at the mall earlier this month, tears streaming down my cheeks as I held the perfect gift for my brother. I wanted so badly to buy it, but was terrified at the reaction of my family. Or, maybe it was the ghost whispering that my family would not understand. Sometimes, I really do not know who I am actually fighting against. Sometimes, I have no idea what makes the tears come, but come they do. All I know, I placed the gift back and left the store. Last night was the worst panic attack I have had in six months, and I have no answer.
It is hard to explain to anyone what I need to ‘work’ through, or what I need ‘help’ with. All I know, I am surrounded by pieces of my past, nameless fears, and whispering ghosts all around me. I have yet to understand where the pieces fit, and I have no idea what the finished picture is going to show. But, for the first time, my niece at least has given me a bit of validation.
Maybe sharing the essence of my soul with nameless ghosts of my past is not so strange. Maybe others sleep with nameless fears, and find the strength to face the next day in spite of them. Maybe I have been going about this wrong. Maybe the ghosts are part of me, and I need to embrace them instead of fleeing. Maybe I will never work through my past to the point that the ghosts will leave, but at least to the point, I won’t mind having them as roommates after all. Maybe that is more the ‘normal’ I am looking for. Normal enough.
Well, at last I can say goodbye to this holiday season. As the Christmas tree comes down, and the trinkets and notions are packed up, life returns a bit too normal. This has been the first holiday season with mental illness fully open and on the table. This is also been the first Christmas without my brother. But, there is a bit more to that. Six months before my brother’s suicide, we lost our father to cancer. This is the first time in a long time I have been able to think about dad. It is sad how the man I loved so much can have such a small part of my thoughts. Dad’s death just seems like a small part of my story. We found out about the cancer, and in seven weeks, dad was gone. He passed with both my mother and I lying beside him. “Sorry dad, I have been busy. I promise I will mourn you, as soon as I have time.”
I don’t know if the grief over dad’s death influenced my brother. Honestly, we were not speaking at the time. I was so angry at my brother… For all the doctor appointments he missed… All the chemo sessions he passed on… I was so angry that he spent all his time with his own ghosts, that he left me to care for our dying father, and I hated him. Looking back, I don’t think my brother really understood death. When I told him about the cancer diagnosis, it was like explaining it to a child. Cancer is a death sentence. It is scary, hard. It is forever.
But my brother never broke out of his own illness long enough for it to seem to sink in. I remember my brother coming to my parents, with his current ‘woe is me’ hard luck story. Dad had become frail at the time, and instead of being the son he needed to be, my brother was flying in a full blown manic high. He told my parents his wife kicked him out, it was winter and he was homeless. Of course, dad gave him the money for a down payment and first month’s rent on an apartment. Of course son, there is money in savings. I am grateful my dad passed before he knew the truth. My brother was not homeless.
His wife had been living in her own place for two months. The bank would soon be foreclosing on their home, but until then, my brother was living in his home without worrying about a mortgage, my sister in law said it would be months before the home was bank seized. He was living with really no responsibilities. I asked about the money, and she laughed. She gave me the number for a woman in New Jersey. My brother did not need money for rent, but a plane ticket for his mistress. The woman in jersey was very surprised when her loving boyfriend turned out to come with a wife and kids….
But that was his M.O. One more broken heart, one more failed marriage. When my brother would introduce another girl friend, or discuss more wedding plans with us, it would make me so ill. All I could do was think, ‘you poor girl, he will ruin you.’ My brother was so good about finding the most sweet, good heated girls. They were always ready to help him, or save him. When he died, he was seeing two women, and they both believed everything my brother told them. I am so glad my dad missed it. So glad that that he died believing he helped my brother find stability in a new apartment. My dad never knew how bad it was, and how many women my brother was streaming along.
My dad died in summer, and not a single promise my brother made came through. Thank god I have a great husband and two strong boys. Someone needed to keep the house, mow the lawn, and fix the fence that was always falling over… Over the next six months, my brother managed to take my mother to one doctor’s appointment, which left us both surprised. Later, that New Year’s Eve, he took his life.
It will be a year since he shot himself in four days. Funny, I still feel numb. I should be grieving, should feel shattered that my only brother is gone. I am taking his ashes up to the little mountain that overlooks the little town I live in. I pray there will finally be a release of emotion, but I am terrified there will not be.
I am still really concerned about my ability to grieve. I worry that I am either cold and unfeeling, or, one day there will be so much emotion that it will simply consume me. Either way, I worry about the coming anniversary of his suicide. I worry about how I am going to be, what my state of mind will be, on the other side of it.
