When my second kid was an infant, I had a nervous breakdown.
I look back at the blog entries for that time and it’s not really there. I thought I was revealing myself, and in the posts, the crazy is obviously there, but the gravity of my situation never made it on the page.
I mentioned my parents moved to my town because I was losing my mind. I had infected hardware in my skull, two surgeries, a three year old, a newborn with acid reflux, and no outside help. What’s not in those blog entries is that I was exhausted in a way I’d never been in my life before or since.
I had lots of breaking points that year, but one I feel comfortable telling you today is that I was so sleep deprived and depressed that I thought to myself, “I need help. I need a babysitter. I don’t know any babysitters. I don’t have the energy to find one. I don’t have the emotional resources to figure out where to look…. Maybe I’ll call the police. They help people. I’ll call them and tell them I need help and they’ll know what to do.”
That chain of ideas took several hours to put together. In the end I didn’t, because I was too scared to ask for help, and I had the back-of-my-head warning system that maybe it wasn’t a great idea. I knew I was doing life wrong and anyone taking half a glance would know. What would an authority figure do if they saw how badly I was handling things? It was a horrible place to be.
I managed to call my dad*. I’d lost my higher level functioning and couldn’t really explain why he needed to come out. Instead, I asked him to drop his whole life and help me. My parents came right away. A few months later, they sold their house, moved across country, and spent the next few months rehabbing me.
And here’s the big hook for me: My mom said, “Get a house keeper. Get a babysitter. We will send you the money.” And I said no. I couldn’t accept that help. I needed my parents.
*I did post about that, and here it is, in all it’s cringe-inducing glory. It’s clear to me now how completely alienated my father and I were from one another. That phone call came from a desperate place, but it was also the start of reconnecting with my Dad.
***
The last few times I’ve spoken with my mom, this cold dread fills up my insides. She’s saying the same stuff she’s been saying for a year now, and I’m not sure what’s changed, but I feel it. I think I feel it. That piece of me who was so exhausted and stressed eight years ago perks up. It’s like that part feels the kinship of end-of-the-line desperation.
It unnerved me so bad I spent the morning ferreting out day care options for Dad. I just (felt like I) knew it was time to step in, that things were headed down a dark path with no help of changing without outside influence.
I found a place that seemed pretty good. Called Mom with the info that afternoon. She gave me ten different reasons why she couldn’t put Dad in day care. No, no, no. No outside help of any kind. Not yet. …But would I come up to visit this weekend?
On the surface, her reasons for refusal kinda made sense.
Scratching the surface revealed nonsensical (or at least making no sense to me) logic – Dad can’t see a doctor because they don’t like their new GP, and that makes it impossible to call for a referral. Dad can’t go to daycare because have you seen the people in daycare? They have dementia – he’d have nothing in common with those people. (Um… what? Also, since when has Dad ever been interested in other people even when he wasn’t demented?)
When I tested her again, she got angry and eventually said, “This is like a puss pocket. You can keep poking at it, but until things are ready and the time is right, all you’re going to do is cause pain with no results.”
I am so mad at her. I hate that she’s willing to ride this into a catastrophe before taking the slightest step towards helping herself. I feel like she is hanging off of a tall building ledge, and I am standing on the cement below with one of those old fashioned firefighter’s nets, trying to help her when she needs it.
But as this goes on, my arms are getting tired, and she’s dicking around up there, unwilling to climb off the ledge or let go already. I hate that she says, ‘wait until I think the time is right’. I feel like a bad person because when I was so sick and needed help 9but said I wouldn’t take money for housekeeping or a babysitter), she did my way. If my mom judged me or thought I was insane, she kept it to herself. She never second guessed that I knew the best way to heal myself.
I’m struggling with my options. I don’t know if I can keep watching my mother do this. I don’t think I have any real power to stop her. I don’t know if I dishonor her by trying to undermine her plan, or if it is my duty as a human being to keep telling her I think she’s not thinking clearly.
***
Thank you for the feedback on last post. Your replies surprised amazed laughs out of me! Have never considered myself a character to you. What a bizarre level of meta to realize there is evidently no way to break the fourth wall of the computer screen. *Pounds fist, yells “I am a real girl!” to no effect*
Yes, you can do this. It won’t be easy, but you will get through it.
I’d love to have solutions for you. The magic words to make your mother understand what you are trying to do, or even the right thing to help you deal with what your mother is doing.
OMG. In college, we used to sit around and think of horrible combinations for the Wonder Twins. My favorite was “turkey with an ice kite.” Or “mosquitos with an ice fan.” What the hell are you going to do with THAT??
And that question kind of applies with trying to get our parents to do ANYTHING. You can see what’s happening to your mother but she can’t. What the hell are you going to do with that?
Sometimes I think it is better to say something “wrong” than to say nothing at all. So I will say that I care. I have no words, but maybe it will help in some dark space to know that someone cares. Someone you have never met, and likely never will. But a caring someone is out here.
I cannot help with your reality…. but the book you are writing is DELICIOUS!
What about sharing what you wrote (not literally) with her. “Remember when you told me to get help and I didn’t and you had to move here…I’m telling you to get help now.”
I did not sense that you were that low — although I had some unpersonally-grounded wonders about post-partum depression — and as a semi-professional counselor (and personal semi-breakdowner), some alarms went off at the time. No matter; you dealt. I checked your archives to renew my memory, but you quite wisely made them private. Go forward from now. (If I, who have an unfortunate memory for others’ issues, don’t remember, I doubt few others do. I just remember some selfies of your waistline in pajama pants.) This is not actually relevant to your not having wanted to accept your parents’ help. I think you should continue to try to push your mother firmly but gently. Do you or any of your siblings have any power of attorney agreements, health decisions, etc. as backup to your mother? Those may be very important, although difficult to pursue at this point.
I picked up on some breakdowny vibes. Something about the way you wrote about the husband wanting a third and you were not sure, AT ALL, made me feel like there was something traumatic that had occurred. But I was in the thick of my own trauma and following Dooce and probably just projecting so I’d have ‘internet friends’ that got it. I don’t know, whatever. I remember the surgeries/infected stuff and thinking what the fuck. How do you luck out with that? Sucks! And I remember the waistline selfies. They gave me hope of some kind at that time. I guess that my belly would go back to normal-ish….
So, having overcome all that, I have faith you can overcome this, in time. Blah, blah, time heals all, or just forms scars tough enough that it doesn’t hurt so bad anymore. Making mom see, I don’t know that you can. This shit give you tunnel vision, and it’s thrust upon you, with no permission, life spiraling all out of control and you’re grasping onto something you can control, something to focus on to forget about what’s coming. Hell or high water, she’s doing the caretaking. Mental, emotional or physical health be damned, she’s doing it. All of it, until there’s nothing. And then where will she be? Which is kind of the problem when you throw yourself whole-heartedly and unselfishly at something that has an expiration date. Keep talking to her. As maddening as it may be (and frustrating and draining for you), she’s going to need you at some point. She probably doesn’t realize she’s alienating, but trust me, she’ll need you at some point. Medical trauma/drama usually results in the loss of friends and family who don’t get it. And what you need most are people who get it. So stick with her. My two cents, and a novel. Sorry. Sucks balls. If nothing else, can you speak to her doctor/pastor about your concerns for her well being?
Good thoughts and healing vibes.