It's been a long, long time friends. I wouldn't say I've been perfect or had nothing to say for the past few years. I've just been so busy. And tired. I don't have much left at the end of my day to write about much. And it's a shame because experiencing motherhood through the lens of my own childhood leaves me breathless most days.
When your parent is mentally ill, you are almost programmed to wait for the other shoe to drop when things are good. And things have been good for a while now. Too good. Too quiet. I confess I've been stalking her online blog (purely because she sent me the link once) and it's felt better to know she's alive rather than fear she was dead. It's full of bullshit and gibberish and hallucinations and all of her conspiracy theories -- all of which I hate reading -- so I usually just look for the date of the last published post and move on with my day. I was thinking about her, I check it, I see she's alive, and I continue on. Her last post was last December, and she is a prolific writer, so I've been on edge.
I hate when I'm right.
My brother told me last week that he had heard from a doctor in a hospital, and that she had appeared in a city where she hasn't been in decades. They presume she took a train to get there. For some reason, she wandered into a police officer and said her leg hurt. And then somehow that turned into her being admitted to the behavioral health wing. The doctor found my brother's phone number and filled him in.
She's admitted.
She's being medicated.
She's eventually going to be discharged.
And my brother has found out she was evicted from her apartment, her stuff is all gone, and she effectively has nothing to her name but the clothes on her back and whatever she had with her.
Shoe drop.
I'm proud of myself for handling all this news as well as I have. It brings up so much of the old anxiety but it feels duller. Less painful. Less chaotic. Thank god for all that therapy and 20 years of grieving for her already. Would I survive this otherwise?
Things we have decided: we don't want to be involved. But we don't want her to be homeless. My husband pointed out there's no way to prevent and I know he's right. I have been careful not to dwell too much yet on the image of her wandering streets and being a bag lady. I am hopeful that she might get lucid enough for someone to get through to her that she doesn't have to live that way. That there are some limited options. Despite the political climate, I am hopeful there are enough social services left to help her find housing and food...
But no, I don't want to talk to her. I don't really want to see her. And I don't want to be responsible for her. She is a grown-ass adult and needs to handle her own life. I have my own children and my own life to live.
I often wonder what the social workers and the doctors will think of me. If they will judge me harshly. I hope not. I really am a good person -- I just can't go back to losing my own sanity for the expense of helping someone who doesn't want to be saved. She has spent 20 years on an unmedicated schizoaffective bender and I can't fix her.
Fuck. She's back. FUCK.
