Hi,
This is an image of the teeny tiny back brace my mom wore last month after recovering from emergency back surgery after falling walking from her bathroom to her bed, while a resident in a mental hospital in Texas. I had to take this picture in order to have a record of it as we were getting into the car leaving this facility, only to bring her to the next facility, back in Los Angeles.
I am a natural born communicator and I’ve felt the poison of secrecy spreading through me in the last year, as my mom has been sick, and as both she and my family members have insisted on hiding much of the severity of her illness. I feel like I’m going to burst, though. I feel like a soda bottle thats been shaken and the cap just screwed more tightly on. I feel isolated in nearly every way - family, work, social world. I’ve barely shown up to events or followed through on social commitments all year. I am always tired. I am often angry. I am desperately sad about my inability to make “art.” I am trying to exercise, to talk with those closest to me, to go to my own recovery program, and to not completely fall apart…all the time.
I am starting this blog - I can’t believe I just wrote that sentence - in order to have an outlet for my experience. I have no idea who will see this. And I am terrified of upsetting my family members with anything that I write. I’ve been told, this is not your story - this is her story. And yet, this has become my life. Everyday, I receive messages from my mom’s friends and family, doctors, social workers, admissions people, and so on, needing something from me. Nearly every night I have nightmares. When I am with her, I become strong, clear, her protector and when I leave I feel adrift and angry. She has refused to communicate with anyone but myself and my brother for nearly 6 months.
Last October, my mom fell into a deep depression. Her second major depression in her life. The first one was when I was 8 years old. She was hospitalized for 6 weeks and recovered with the help of SSRIs. She had a stable and rich life for the subsequent 30 years. As lockdown restrictions began to lift in 2021/2022, she began to slip. The metaphor I’ve been using lately is of a basketball that she was dribbling. She lost control of the ball and it began to roll down the street, and off a cliff. She couldn’t recover herself - and neither could we.
In some ways, I feel I went down with her - but in others I don’t think so. I know that what did happen was, my brother and I became her parents. As best we could - without being legal guardians - we took over her finances and her healthcare. We have had to work together like never before. We have fought more than I knew we ever could. And I have felt his strength and hopefulness through it all.
I hope that this “blog” will find its legs as my own creative expression - not for anyone specifically - or maybe for caretakers and the adult children of parents with mental illness.
thank you
Cara