You’re Just Like Your Mother

Growing up, my father would constantly use this statement as an insult towards me. As if being like her were the worst thing in the world. Sure, she was mentally ill. It was difficult for her to multitask and she was extremely codependent. But, she was also extremely intelligent, funny, and beautiful.

One day, after another session of berating me, I turned to my father and said “good, I hope I’m like her, she’s amazing.” He never said it again after that day.

Despite my rebuttal, this still effects me everyday. When I’m too emotional, I question if I’m acting like my mother. I’m constantly comparing my life and hers. It’s an awful process, and there is a lot of guilt involved. The truth is, I’m terrified of becoming “like my mother.” Towards the end of her life, she was prescribed Thorazine to get through the day. She couldn’t work, and she was living in a rented room. I would like to think I have her best qualities.

Angry

Since I’ve stopped taking an SSRI, I’m a completely different person. I wake up angry. I cry constantly. I wonder if the medication was helping me to suppress all of these emotions. I’m on a different medication now, and I’m not sure if it’s even working.

Everyday has been a struggle. It takes so much effort to get out of bed. All day I am talking myself into saying and/or doing things. I come home exhausted, and obsessing over all of my actions of the day. Was I too emotional? Was I nasty? This is no way to live.

I’ve been in therapy most of my life. I’ve been on an anti depressant since I was a teen. This is a test right now, and I need to prove that all I need is myself, to get through this rough patch.

Raising My Mother, 1

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.

First Separation

When my parents separated, I was 5. My mother rented a beautiful 3 bedroom house. She was thin, and she had a great job. She was happy and she took care of us. We had beautiful clothes, toys, and we were comfortable. She was doing it-being an independent woman (who made her own money) and a great mom. She cooked and cleaned too. I went to kindergarten and I had a ton of friends. I remember Halloween and walking around our cute neighborhood. We finally had peace. There was no more fighting, no more hiding out waiting for the battle to be over. It was wonderful. I had a normal, mentally stable mom. I wish it lasted. It came crashing down, when my mother lost her mother, she was a mess.

I don’t know why, but my father came over to comfort her. He consoled her, and they decided to give their marriage another try. I guess they forgot about all of the vicious fights they had. Or, maybe they actually forgave one another? I don’t know. But after they got back together, my mother was never the same.

Parenting Isn’t For All

Many people want to be parents, but it doesn’t mean that they should be. My mother always wanted children. She didn’t need to say it, I could tell. She was 28 when she had me. My father was 24. He was not ready to be a parent. He once told me that loved her, but he wasn’t ready to marry her. But, she got pregnant, and his parents forced him to-I think. Anyway, he was definitely not ready. He was handsome and had a lot going for him.

My mother was attractive too. She lacked self esteem. I know she was heavy growing up, and she was bullied. Her mother was physically ill, and she was left to do a lot of chores. Otherwise, she seemed to have a pretty normal childhood.

I think she got pregnant on purpose. My mother was textbook codependent. Her happiness came from others. After her divorce, she dated anyone.

My father was very angry after their divorce. I could see why he was bitter. He married a woman when he wasn’t ready, bought a home, and created a good life for his family. He became an adult too soon. Then, the woman he married left him, and took away his children. He knew she wasn’t mentally fit, but the court decided she was. After that, he made it his life’s work to destroy her…and eventually he did.

My mother was fragile and needy. She would do anything for the man of the moment. Once, she woke us up at 2am on a school night because her boyfriend needed to make an emergency trip to Manhattan. Once my father found out, child protective services showed up at our school. My mother loved us, she truly did. Her love is probably what got me through all of her bad decisions.

When my mother would do irresponsible things, like taking us to a shady NYC neighborhood at 2am on a school night, my father would retaliate. That would usually come in the form of consistent bad mouthing to us-as if two little girls could do anything about the situation. Or, he wouldn’t give her child support (which wasn’t much anyway). Again, not really great outcomes for two little girls.

So, as you can see, parenting isn’t for everyone. I often question why my mother wanted us so badly. I know part of it was because she lacked so much in herself. She was an intelligent and beautiful woman, but she did not go to college. Did she purposely get pregnant because everyone else was? Society expected her to? She once told me that even though she was smarter, than her brothers, her parents would not pay for college.

I get so angry at both of them. Why did they have us? Why did they bring us into this world, give us a crappy childhood, and then die young? Leaving us to pick up the pieces. I’m still very angry. So I stand by my statement, that parenting isn’t for all.

Depression is Work

I don’t choose to be depressed. I list out all of the things I’m thankful for. I’ve had a rough life, but I always remind myself it could be a lot worse. Anytime someone asks me “Why are you depressed?” I feel like slapping them. You don’t need a reason to be depressed. Do you ask people “Why do you have diabetes?” No, you don’t! You don’t ask, because it’s not something they could control. They didn’t ask to be sick. I didn’t ask to be depressed. It just happens.

Weekends are a time where I can act like my true self. I don’t have to get dressed, put on make up, and pretend I’m happy. I can stay in bed all day. It’s exhausting to get yourself through the day when you’re so down. Depression is more work. First, I have to talk myself into getting out of bed. Then I have to talk myself into getting ready. When I get to work, I have to convince myself to do work, and “act” happy. No one can know how miserable I am. Even if they did, it would not change how I felt. So, the weekends are a time when I can just be, depressed. I don’t have to fight it.

In Hiding

The neighborhood that I grew up in was and still is predominately white. Everyone was white, catholic and Irish and/or Italian. We weren’t. I guess that’s what made me start to hide our realities, starting at a very young age. Our reality was poverty. We were on welfare. We received Medicaid and food stamps. My mother was mentally ill. She needed massive amounts of medication to function. My father was so angry and bitter about their divorce that he did not provide her with much child support. It was difficult for my mother to maintain a job. We were Jewish, but my mother loved Christmas, so we celebrated that, maybe she was into hiding too?

How did we hide? I would clean our entire apartment. I would organize and redecorate. I would spend my babysitting money on anything to improve our apartment: new curtains, tiles, artwork, paint, and more. I would hide all of my mother’s pills. I would drape a blanket over the couch and arrange our throw pillows. I staged a “normal” home. I made our outside look “normal” too. I’d make my mom bring me to buy flowers, bushes, and gardening supplies. Then, I would spend hours gardening. I started “staging” our life when I was 9 years old. Have you ever seen a 9 year old use hedge cutters? I did.

This facade wasn’t just physical. I would lie when anyone inquired about my religion. I would insist that my mother was catholic and my father was Jewish. My mother didn’t care, she was so depressed and anxious, she’d do anything I told her to do. She knew I meant well. Keeping up this facade, was so exhausting. I didn’t have time to be a child.

I’ve only admitted to myself recently, even after I put myself through Catholic religious classes and received sacraments, that I am actually Jewish.

I’m not sure I have a religion, but I’m happy I was finally able to admit who I really am, 35 years later. I’m done hiding.

Bad Week

I wish I could have written more this week, but it’s been rough. I’ve been crying for no reason, practically on cue. I Googled, and it’s a symptom of my severe depression. Someone gave me a compliment the other day and I cried in the car. I thought about how far I’ve come, how I’ve had to do everything on my own, and how I’m actually proud of myself. I thought about how I had the task of “raising” my mother. I thought about how I tried to hide her mental illness. How I spent my first paycheck, on re tiling our kitchen floor, so that it looked like we lived in a “normal” house. How I hid in a corner when she paid with food stamps at the grocery store. I thought about how we hid that we were Jewish. It made me cry to think about all of these obstacles I had battled and overcame, and how I received a compliment, a really nice compliment. Something I wasn’t used to receiving. So I cried.

Now Depression

I’ve always thought I was just lazy. I start things and don’t finish them. I hate any sort of exercise. I take the elevator and escalator whenever possible. I know I’ve dealt with depression before but lately this is on a whole new level.

It’s beautiful outside, I should go for a walk, or ride my bike, but I can’t move. I just want to stay in my pajamas and read or watch TV. This happens often, and it’s getting worse. I have an excuse for everything, even for avoiding showers. I put tasks off until the very last minute. The once hypochondria I suffered has completely turned itself around. I avoid doctors. EVERY task seems arduous and exhausting. I just want to be in bed or on my couch.

I’m amazed at how depressed I’ve become. Once I do get outside, I say to myself “remember this feeling, remember how wonderful it feels to be outdoors.” I say this so that maybe next time it won’t be so difficult for me to get going. But it doesn’t matter. Every time, I have to talk myself into getting up, getting ready, and getting out the door. It’s a chore. Living has become a chore. Sometimes, to motivate myself, I’ll seek out a documentary for motivation. People who’ve had it worse than I have. If they can get through their trauma so can I. It’s invigorating, and it makes my feel thankful. Eventually, like everything, it wears off. Then there’s the guilt.

Why now? Maybe it’s because my life isn’t exciting? Maybe I’ve finally let all of the stress, sadness, anger-take over.

Anxiety

My first anxiety attach occurred when I was 8 years old. I think. I was at a restaurant, and I remember feeling strange. My heart raced, I couldn’t breathe. I told my mother about it, and she insisted it was an anxiety attack. I had already been in therapy, so it was just something else to discuss with the therapist. Why do children get anxiety?

I remember my father blaming my mother. She had been anxious in front of me, so some how I caught it. HA! Yes, there is some truth in that, based off of my Google research. Children are taught these behaviors, but there has to be a pre-existing genetic link as well.

My anxiety is rough. My psychosomatic symptoms should win Academy awards. I have felt physically ill, on so many levels. Besides hyperventilating, I have had feelings of dizziness and sensations that I am on a roller coaster or falling. I’ve had phantom pain, practically everywhere. When I was in 5th grade, my father told us he was moving far away for a while. Rather than sharing my sadness, I had intense headaches for weeks and blurry vision. For a time in high school, I had a fear of urinating on myself. So, I had bladder pain. I can go on and on. My psychosomatic symptoms have tricked me into visiting the doctor many times. It wasn’t until recently that I’ve become tired of them, and actually started to avoid the doctor.

My anxiety turned to panic when I was 15. I had just started my 2nd year of high school. Maybe it was hormonal, but I could not sit through one class. I would start to panic, my hands would tingle, my vision would be blurry. I had an urge to run. I had to leave. I would ask to go to the nurse. I had to get out of the situation. I would later learn that my fight or flight response was broken. My panic button was pushed on-always. I started missing school. I lied to my friends and told them I had mono. I would try to go to class, and end up in the nurse’s office. She grew tired of me, fast. She got nasty too. My mother would end up picking me up from school, everyday. I was missing class, tests, assignments. My life was falling apart.

At the time, I did not think it was anxiety or panic. I was convinced I was dying. I stopped eating. We began going to doctors. My bladder pain was so intense, my mother took me to a urologist. We went to 4 different specialists, I had sonograms, bloodwork-of course everything was normal. It took about a month of this charade at school for my mother to realize, this wasn’t physical. This was completely mental.