mutual avoidance

Chicago, late January, the cold of predawn and the incessant mist (well it at least seems that way) that shrouds this city’s mornings falls over Christmas lights no longer purposeful other than to remind us of a joy/anticipation we felt—or at least reminded of us of something we once felt. The forgotten lights are falling from the slight branches and twigs they were draped on, only to be caught by other twigs straining with weight and further straining those around them. There is weak resemblance to the well placed display that once stood. Out-of-place and half shorted strands occasionally glimmer where they were once draped in intentional patterns, too precise to be random. And I cannot help but think of my mother. The only evidence, other than a rare glimmer of her former self, that she is the woman I am recalling is biological. Deep creases of something between pain and anger line her once radiant, reassuring face and there is nothing I/we can do. The smile that once brought joy has been forgotten by its giver. Instead of anticipating the sound of her voice on the answering machine, I dread it. The fact that she only calls when she knows I won’t be home is crushing yet somewhat of a relief. You can hear it in her voice that she isn’t my mother anymore, but someone else. The pod people got her.

She seems to know nothing of the stress she puts on those around her as she falls, but I also believe that she doesn’t know it is she who is falling. She constantly blames her brothers, her father, my father, my sisters and me. We are all out to get her. What is worse is that she manages to fool the majority of people around her. There is a pattern we enact around certain people—almost a scripted conversation with the people at church, neighbors, and such. She knows it and uses it to her advantage. There are people who really seem to believe my father is a bad person and my sisters and I should let up when she’s the one throwing glass ashtrays, iron skillets (this used to be a joke…long story), and anything in her grasp—and sometimes it is without any warning—she sort of just snaps and hurls something across the room, target or no target. Sometimes, it is as if she reverted back to being 13—smack in the middle of puberty and throwing tantrums—when she gets mad she will turn and stomp her foot and make fists—a freakin’ temper tantrum. Then she throws things.

My father ( along with 10 cats, 5 large dogs and 5 puppies) is the only one who lives with her and he refuses to leave—at least until she is herself again. He loves her and believes in the sanctity that was once marriage. My sisters and I would not blame him if he left. He knows this, and wishes we wouldn’t be mad at mom. But I am scared for him. The week before Christmas he was repainting the bathroom when she arrived home. Apparently, one of the **** dogs peed on the floor and he didn’t clean it up. So the rational thing for her to do was storm into the bathroom and slam the door against him repeatedly, blackening his eye and bruising him. He didn’t retaliate. He won’t. I think she encourages him to just so she can call the cops. I am trying to acknowledge that I can’t fight Dad’s fight for him. This is his battle. This is his decision. He isn’t leaving. She won’t take medication or go to the doctor. They can’t keep her against her will at the hospital—at least not long enough to be of help. After a few days/week, she would just be angry enough to do something really bad when they released her—really bad. I try not to look ahead into the future.

Oh, and yes, that is a lot of animals. She thinks she is running a shelter—in the house—but she isn’t stable enough to do it. I might discuss it later. Everyone is fed, the cat boxes are kept clean—it’s the dogs that piss everywhere (one actually has the equivalent of Down’s syndrome) that make everything gross. /

So I guess what I am getting at is that Mom wasn’t always like this. She was the greatest mother growing up. And when I see her, it hits me hard every time that my mother isn’t here anymore—it’s like going to a funeral—the body is there, the person is not. No, that isn’t it—the wheel is turning but the hamster is dead. That is more like it. Or maybe I should stick to the pod people theory? It’s also a crushing blow to sees how nice and normal she acts around everyone else. I know it would be just that—acting—but it sure would be nice to feel that warmth—that genuine acceptance that a mother can give--that feeling i once knew. But we can't really even talk anymore. She thinks i am against her (I am against what she has become--I want her back)and I think she needs help. It always ends poorly no matter how hard i try to just keep my mouth shut. In a way, I wish she had never been ok. Then I wouldn’t know what I was missing—and then I wonder how I could possibly even say that.