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.
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