REST IN PEACE JUNE WRIGHT

A HALF CENTURY CYCLE OF MENTAL ILLNESS/SUFFERING ENDED THIS WEEK

June Evelyn Wright, my mom, died this week in her 80s. She had a long, tortured life of extreme mental illness.

I guess at age 55, I realize no life lived is particularly easy. But my mom had a needed a lot from all of us -- my younger brother and late father -- to survive. I lost count of her suicide attempts...and that's just the ones before I was old enough to drive. My life, from about age 6 till I went to college, was one of daily terror when my mother told me she was going to die young and I would be flung into an grimy orphanage with 10 roommates in a tiny space where they "stuck a dirty sock down your throat" if you were not perfect every moment of every day.

My school life was one of rarely, if ever, going on a field trip because of my mom's obsessive-compulsive fear of germs. It made me the biggest nerd and outcast instantly. If she read an obit in the newspaper of a person in our town with the same surname as one of my classmates, I was kept home from school the rest of the week -- I failed quizzes, tests or assignment deadlines, because I was afraid to tell the teachers why mom kept me home.

We had a big back yard, but playing in it was never easy. I had to walk every inch of it (took more than an hour) and report any dead birds, dead mice, dog poop or even feathers -- all signs of death and disease in my mom's mind and cause to keep us from playing in the back yard for at least a week until my dad made it home from work to bury the offending poo, feathers, body. She would treat the ground with Lysol and throw away the shovel.

Coming inside from a rare day of play in the summer sun was a 90-minute ritual of bagging my clothes (for decontamination), stripping (terribly embarrassing in front of mom as I grew older) and scrubbing with a harsh brush (to knock the supposed germs off of me.) Then multiple showers, then a bath in something that burned my skin. Usually, I would miss a step which would result in a verbal outburst (I was a terrible son, she never would have brought me into the world if she knew how horrible I would be) then a brutal beating. If I put my hand up to deflect a slap or punch -- I was told I'd "taken a hand to a woman" and my dad would come home and beat me till I was bruised.

Possibly worse, was when my mom perceived I was somehow bringing in germs or communicating with the dead. She would pick something I cherished, then make me beg for hours to keep it. And she would always judge my argument insufficient and either tear my beloved thing apart bit by bit -- or burn it in the back yard while I cried. Books, baseball cards, trinkets my late grandfather had brought back from trips to Florida, stuffed toys when I was little -- all were ripped from me and ritually destroyed...and a bit of me melted out of my soul.

I do not share these (and this is about five percent of what I endured) as contempt, anger, venting or some way of embarrassing my late mother. I just share because it feels like the right thing to do. If you are hurting, seek help. If you know someone who is hurting, help them find help. I find zero shame in mental illness. I know life will be a bottomless pit of tragedy – if a family member does NOT get professional, expert treatment for mental illness.

CRAZY CAT LADY

AND DAMN PROUD OF IT

by Heidi Johnson-Wright 
(from the EarthBound TomBoy files)

A multi-level tower greets those who come through my door.  Toys made of foil or fluff are strewn across my floor.

You might call me a crazy cat lady.

I suppose I am one. And a bit of a novice, too. While I’ve loved animals my whole life, I was certain I was a dog person. Until two fuzzy feline sweethearts came into my life three years ago. Two kitties -- a mother and daughter – who lived on the streets and needed a human mommy.

It didn’t happen overnight. There were many days when I admired them from afar. 

Then my husband and I tendered some kitty treats, and a bond began to form. 

We weren’t certain if either of us had allergies. So we started out with the rule that we wouldn’t allow them in the house beyond the front room. Then the rule quickly changed to “in the house but not in the bedrooms.” That rule didn’t last long, either.

Now three years in, the only forbidden zones are the cupboards containing household cleaners and the stove top. (OK, the inside of the refrigerator is off limits, too.)

So why the change? How did I become someone who never imagined being a cat mommy to a woman who does hours of online research to find the best cat harness?

Perhaps it links back to my disability. I developed severe rheumatoid arthritis back in grade school. The disease quickly became a juggernaut of severe joint pain and destruction. It has since resulted in two dozen major orthopedic surgeries, followed by months of torturous rehabilitation.

Do you know what it’s like to spend months on your back – your body aching from constantly maintaining the same position -- forbidden to enjoy the simple luxury of rolling onto your side?  

I do. I know what it feels like to lay in a pool of my own sweat collected under my lower back, unable to get air against my skin to evaporate the moisture.

It may sound like a small thing, something you could simply distract yourself from noticing. I assure you it is not. Because when your whole world consists of you in a hospital bed, you literally ache for the simple pleasures we often take for granted.

And I remember all of it: every miserable detail, even the sleepless nights from 40 years ago. Nights and days when I thought: “If only I could roll over for five minutes. If only I could lie on soft sheets. If only I could have a few moments of relief from these aches that never end.”

Perhaps that’s why – if you visit my home – you’ll see comfy cushions and baby blankets throughout my house and soft dish drying pads lying around my patio. I understand such things may label me a crazy cat lady. I proudly cop to that label. 

But don’t forget there’s more to the story. That cushions and blankets and pads symbolize a reduction in suffering. The reduction in suffering that tantalized but evaded a frightened young girl in a hospital bed. The reduction in suffering that I am determined to provide to my fur angels.

Am I a crazy cat lady? You’re goddamn right I am. 

http://earthboundtomboy.blogspot.com/