Name That Psychosis

One of the most wonderful attributes of my mother and family is that they provide endless material for commentary. I always learn new things, even if they are an assault on my intelligence and reality as I know it. I have now crossed from simmering anger to conventional concern to genuine alarm. Something is quite wrong. It never fails. Then I need to take a moment and examine my deepest memories after I am firmly told the opposite of what I know to be true. It is like a noted scientist affirming that the world is flat and if we are not careful that we may actually sail off the edge.

During the course of a bizarre conversation with my mother, she claimed that she had never, in her life, ever set foot in an OTB betting parlor, and that during the 25 years that she made her way back and forth to New York on the bus, that she had actually held a job. She also made a series of other claims, but this is the one that disturbed me the most. I don't mind if she believes that people mistake her for being thirty-five years younger that she actually is, or that she is being vigorously pursued by online schools to enroll in their Ph.D program, so great is her ability and intelligence. I don't mind if she believes that she has interviews scheduled for jobs that don't exist, or that the sweepstakes officials are on their way to her to present her with a check for millions of dollars and put her picture on the front page of the newspaper. What I do mind is the constant altering of the reality that directly affected me and her belief that a blatant lie out of her mouth transforms it into the truth.

I firmly remember the soiled shopping bags that she returned home with, filled to over-flowing with racing forms that she had written her "picks" on. I remember being woken up at 2 am, along with one of my brothers, to get dressed and walk her down a stretch of dark lonely road until we reached a major intersection roaring with tractor-trailers, where a Martz-Trailways bus would pick her up and carry her off into the night. I remember having to get up a few hours later and get ready for school, after having walked several miles in the middle of the night with little sleep.


There may have been brief interludes when she may have held a job, but it didn't last long because OTB was calling. I know what I know. And now I am supposed to ignore what I know and believe in a totally fabricated history of what has happened in the past.

I can't do that. A lie has speed, but the truth has endurance. The truth will outlast all the lies that are or ever will be. A lie is here today, but gone tomorrow. Don't allow anyone to try and alter the truth. It can't be done.

Still.

Andi

In Here

I currently have five chattering girls camped out in my living room, Their regular hangout, (the attic upstairs) has become too cramped for their morning activities, therefore, they must spread out. My daughter, the mistress of ceremonies, really knows how to keep a party going. I have warned them that this is my cleaning day, (isn't every day?) and that they need to vacate the premises no later than 1:00 pm. I have managed to sneak in a tender moment with my husband, and now I am ready, as much as I can, to take on the day. Cleaning, shopping, and holiday baking...perhaps an hour at the gym?


Today I feel like an ordinary citizen, with the most ordinary of lives. I take comfort within my own four walls. In here, I am impervious from the storm that is my mother; from those who wish me harm. You probably think that there is a bit of raging paranoia in that statement, but trust me, I know what I am talking about. In here, I can breathe easy, and do as I please. In here, I am my own woman.

In here, I answer to no one, am blamed for nothing.

The morning marches on, and one by one the girls make their way home, only to return much too soon. My daughter, who has really not slept, makes her way back upstairs, dragging her blanket behind her.

Such an ordinary day. How wonderful!

Andi

Bitter Harvest

Two days ago I mailed a money order to my mother. The plain white paper that I wrapped it in bore no greeting. although I believe the message was clear. Given the circumstances of our past, you may wonder why once again, ( after swearing that I wouldn't) dug deep in my pocket and rushed to her aid. Christmas is upon us, and my only real concern is to procure the awe-inspiring gift for my daughter, and have it safely nestled under the tree on Christmas Eve.

The truth of the matter is that although she is still as demented and destructive as she was fifty years ago, I have no choice but to feel sympathy for this aged, pathetic woman. Don't get me wrong, my extreme abhorrence of her is great, particularly when she calls me feigning concern for my family. I know it is only a prelude to the inevitable question. Could I possibly..... and always the promise of prompt repayment. That has never happened, as I know it won't. It's not even the point.

The point is that out of six children, the one she took delight in abusing, is the one who comes to her aid in times of need. You may think that this is an attempt on my part to gain her love and favor. I do not need, want or desire it. She is incapable of those emotions anyway. I only want to have a clear conscience. We are supposed to feed the hungry and tend the sick, even if they are severely mentally ill, as I believe she is and always was. It does not in any way excuse her behavior. Even though I was stripped of my sense of self, and joy of youth, I still have warm blood running through my veins. I have tried to do right by her even though she did not by me.

There will come a day when we will be faced with the reality of what to do with her. A lonely and bitter senior, who squandered her prime years chasing unrealistic dreams, blaming others for her dismal failures, and crushing the light of her only daughter. It is sad in so many ways.

My husband tells me always to be the bigger person. He says you have to fight evil with good. He is a wise man, and he tells me these things to help me cope. Sometimes my anger is so great, it actually makes me violently ill. I have recovered somewhat over these past few days. I must learn to hold on. There is still much to do. I have not yet found that perfect gift.

Still.

Here.

Andi

The Real Me

I have spent a large part of my life growing into the person I am. I have not always been me, but someone else, a me in the making.. Even now, I battle to remain the person I have become, and not the insignificant nobody my family believed I was.

I have found that in the interactions with my family, I am often told that I am mistaken in my memory of events, that they either never happened at all or that I am perhaps "confused" as to the outcome. Years ago I realized that this was just a cover, a ploy, a simple way to remain blameless in spite of the blinding facts of the truth. For a while I questioned myself, my sanity, my memory. Could it all have been nothing more than mere embellishments on my part, making a mountain of out a molehill?? But then it occurred to me that I was, after all, correct in my memory, because my body and soul told the truth. The soul has a memory all it's own, the body, a link to what has been heaped upon it, over and over again. Even if I chose to close my mind to the sins of what had happened, I would still remember. Like a survivor of some terrible war, the trauma is relived over and over, in dreams at night, and often over lunch during the day. It doesn't matter how many times you say you never did anything to me. Lies have no power here.

My soul remembers. And I will never forget.

Still.

Here.


Andi