My mother loved us. I know she did. And, I guess love is enough in this case.
My mother was not well. For as long as I could remember, she was a nervous wreck. She was also a hypochondriac. If she wasn’t anxious, she was depressed. After my parents divorced, her mental health obviously deteriorated. She could barely hold a job. My mother did bookkeeping for a restaurant, and when that fizzled out, she would book keep for another business.
As part of his revenge plan, my father refused to provide us with health insurance. He also gave her $100 a week, for 2 children. Which, even in the early 90s, was not adequate. If we were with him, he’d spend money on us. But because he did not have sole custody, we paid the price.
So we were on Medicaid, welfare, food stamps the whole package. We also received donations from local churches. This bode well in our all white, middle to upper class town.
My mother enjoyed making crafts, and sold wreaths and flower arrangements for extra money. She was ill, but she did try for a while. Like I said, she loved us.
My mother couldn’t do it all. She couldn’t work, and cook/clean. She just wasn’t built for it. Now, as an adult, I get it. She was a single mother, dealing with her own mental illnesses, with no family to help her out. Times were tough.
Many days, she did not leave bed. As I became older, I took on a motherly role. I would help her style her hair and put on her make up. We’d go shopping and I’d pick out her outfits. I cleaned the house. I reminded her to do things. I became the mother. I did this all while maintaining a facade of normalcy for outsiders.
My mother was always on a myriad of medications. Once we had to travel across the country for a wedding. Her brother paid for our airfare, his daughter was getting married and he wanted us to be there. My mother was so stressed, she left all of her pills home. It was her worst nightmare.
You Only Need You 