Processing...in real time
I received what should be some more upsetting news a few nights ago; and I'm not sure if it isn't more upsetting because of who it involves, or because I haven't processed it, or because my conscious and subconscious have decided my own personal shit takes precedence over the issue at hand.
Monday night, my mother was checked into a mental care facility for a 72-hour involuntary psychiatric hold, showing symptoms of, best case, hypomania related to bipolar and, worst case, some form of dementia.
My mother has done her level best in the past few years to alienate everyone close to her. Whether that was a conscious and intentional decision is hard to say. She, like me, has struggled with mental illness for as long as I can remember. Depression, bipolar, probably undiagnosed narcissistic personality disorder. She has seen therapists and psychiatrists in the past. However, I have also seen some of those same therapists and psychiatrists, and...like...yikes.
It seems like a trope nowadays, but things really came to a head sometime around COVID-19. She started acting impulsively, dangerously almost, with zero regard for the impact on those around her. She got mean to my dad and little sister (those living in her immediate household). She THREW herself into hobbies that none of us recall her having before, despite her protests. She bought multiple bicycles and a dirtbike, all but forced my dad to build her a bike shed, then kicked him out of the garage woodshop he so lovingly built in his retirement and forced his lifelong hobby into the bike shed. She would disappear for hours on end, sometimes taking grandchildren with her. She has continued to emotionally and psychologically abuse those around her while playing the victim card.
All this to say, and I know this is a luxury that only comes with living in another state, but I have taken steps to distance myself from her.
So when the news hit...I mean, initially, it is hard to feel much for someone who took steps to blindside the entire family to kick you out of the house. Empathy doesn't come easy for those who have been abusive for decades, even if...best case...it was unintentional.
Besides the obvious of "she is my mother," I keep having these imaginations of a human, with perhaps some rare moments of lucidity, being equally (or, let's be honest, more so) scared and confused as the rest of us. What must it feel like to consciously realize your brain is failing you?
I've also, for better or worse, also felt somewhat of a kindred spirit to my mother. I know my siblings did not get off scot-free in the mental health department, but I also think I got more than my fair dose of it and from my mother. ADHD, depression, anxiety, and a misdiagnosis (ugh, thank you aforementioned psych providers) of bipolar. And despite the misdiagnosis, it was an identity I lived with for over a decade, and that doesn't shake easily. All that to say, even though we are often taking the brunt of the abuse...sometimes I get it, Mom. I get it. I know what you're going through. I may think you are mishandling it, but deep down, in the dark and quiet parts of our brains, I know where this is stemming from. And I also wish I didn't think, feel, or act this way.
There's also the flash of, "what if the last time I said goodbye to, or spoke to, or hugged MY MOM was a hurried goodbye on Christmas?" Or even, "what if the last time MY MOM recognized her only son was a hurried goodbye on Christmas?"
What if this is also my future? What is my brain is destined to fail me one day? What if I am also to see my memories wither away, one by one, until I can't tell you what day it is, the names of my partners, my favorite color, my favorite pet, the day of the week? The bad brain genes run strong on that side of the family; I have mental illness from my mom, addictive tendencies from her brother.
No one on either side of my immediate family has really lived that long to know what our brains do in old age. Both of my paternal grandparents died before my dad was 30. My maternal grandmother died of cancer. My maternal grandfather hung himself in the garage (what if I also inherited that gene?). My mom's eldest brother died of AIDS in the '90s. My paternal uncles, thankfully, are still sharp as tacks, if not a little right-leaning. My mom is the eldest of her family and the outlook seems bleak.
I think even after all of this, there might not be a conclusion. I'm just as conflicted, and scared, and worried, and distant as I was when I started typing this. As of the last update, she seems much more lucid and is responding well to treatment. So I may not even need to process this now...however, we know that we are just kicking the can down the road. Sooner or later I will have to face the mortality of my parents. And despite my fraught relationship with them, I don't think it'll be an easy road.
vaporwave
blakekathryn
stormborns
