If I were granted one special wish, it would be that I could have known my mother. I lived with her for the first twenty years of my life, but I never knew my mother, not the person she was or could have been.
I knew her as a woman with mental illness instead.
Severely clinically depressed, suicidal and agoraphobic, my mother was literally afraid of everything. She didn't drive, rarely left the house, and was so afraid of being alone that my father gave up his job as foreman at an upholstery shop and opened up a shop of his own in the basement of our home.
In my childhood neither one of my parents had a car; we never had "Sunday drives" or went on vacations. My mother was afraid to travel. We always lived no more than one block away from a drugstore or grocery, and when my mother had the need to go to either, I was appointed her guide. On the occasions any one of us had to see the dentist or doctor, we took a bus or taxi downtown and went together as a group. It was my job to be my mother's companion and see to it that she was never left alone.
My mother had a wide smile and a deep, appreciative laugh, but neither was often expressed. Her emotional range swayed mostly between sadness and fear. The corners of her mouth turned naturally downward, forming a permanent frown.
Her three children delighted her, and she adored our father. She was compassionate and a fighter and cared about many causes. The times she campaigned for justice, or listened to my father's stories, or shone with pride at one of her children's accomplishments, she came alive. But most of the time she was morose, frustrated, and even mean. Anger ate at her as did worry, and a kind of quiet despair. She had an array of constant aches and pains, none with an identifiable source. She had very little enjoyment in life.
The truth was, I loved her-she was my mother. But I hated her, too. She was a sad and fearful shadow that followed me, infusing my life with fright and doubt. Hope scared her; she saw it as an invitation to failure. Crushing my spirit was her idea of keeping me from getting hurt. From a woman who saw the world as a terrible place, it was as loving a gesture as she could make. I called her the "Dragon Lady," although never to her face. I thought of her as the killer of joy, the slayer of dreams.
She made it clear to me that it was my responsibility to keep her alive. She was half in love with suicide. When she and my father retired and moved away, she wrote me regularly of her plans to do herself in. She joined the Hemlock Society, an organization that provided information on how to do it. She would send me the details of the various methods she was planning to choose.
I knew my mother wasn't "right," but I didn't realize she was mentally ill. Growing up as I did in the fifties, mental illness was synonymous with insanity-something only people in asylums could have, and only then because they were too "crazy" to cope.
I knew she had been to a psychiatrist or two, but she had never been in any type of hospital. And she might not have been the most stable of mothers, but she was feeding us and doing housework, and even keeping up a part-time job-a secretarial position in an office she had set up in our dining room.
We never spoke about my mother's secret. You didn't tell other people such matters. If you could manage, you didn't even admit it to yourself; it hurt too much having this thing, but with no name and no cure.
For years my mother lived not only as a prisoner in her own home, but imprisoned as well by a time and a society of little understanding, enlightenment, and effective treatment. Pre-awareness, pre-medication, her life was often a living hell. And because she couldn't help it, and because there was no help for her, my life was often hell as well.
My mother's illness so consumed her that the attributes that were truly who she was-a loving mother, a devoted wife, a warm and giving friend-were seldom displayed. Yet, despite it all, she had a loving marriage with my father that lasted 53 years. She raised her children. She was a community activist, a talented writer and artist, a sharp and intelligent woman. She opened her door and her kitchen to all her children's friends. She was a good conversationalist and an avid reader. The sadness of her nature was neither her choice nor her fault; hard as it was for her, she was strong.
She was my hero.
Mom died several years ago. After my father died she suffered a great deal of grief that further deepened her depression. She was in a nursing home when her depression was recognized, and at that late time of her life she was finally hospitalized and diagnosed. At last she had her label: she was finally understood.
She wasn't crazy. She was mentally ill.
It was just about that time that I learned something that changed my whole life and most of my previous attitude toward my mother. I'm mentally ill too. I am bipolar (manic depressive), obsessive-compulsive, and have anxiety, panic and attention deficit disorders.
But I live in a time of enlightenment, good treatment and available medication. With the assistance of a good diagnosis, medication and therapy, I live the kind of life my mother never had a chance to know.
I live with my illness with my head held high. I know that I have brain disorders that affect my behavior, judgment and moods. I've developed coping skills. I function well, hold down a job, maintain a good marriage, have raised a child and am active in my community. I have a sense of humor, and on my best days, a lot of hope for the future.
Most of all, I refuse to keep the secret anymore. Mental illness, occurring in the brain is as biologically caused as any other illness. It is common. One out of every five Americans has a mental disorder. Anyone can have it and at any age: doctors, children, teachers, custodians, dentists, teenagers, video store clerks, the elderly. It is treatable with chemical balancing through a variety of medications and appropriate therapy.
My mother gave me a present before she died-the opportunity to forgive her. She was hospitalized with a stroke when I stood at her bedside holding her hand and told her how I felt. We both cried and no other words were spoken. We knew how deeply we both understood.
May is Mother's Day season, but Mom is no longer here, so when it comes around I cannot send her a card. But May is also Mental Health Month. When I think of how they coincide, I like to believe that my mother knows I have a present for her, which I offer her every day. It is my pledge and my fight to defy the stigma against mental illness. I will shine a light upon it, upon my mother, upon me, and upon everyone who has ever shared our experience, and on all that have yet to ask for help because they are afraid of what people will think or say until no one with mental illness will hide ashamed, alone, and hopeless in their house again.