My Mom's Story is My Story (Part 4)

"We may not know how to forgive, and we may not want to forgive; but the very fact we say we are willing to forgive begins the healing practice."

~ Louise Hay

My mom did recover from her mental breakdown, but it took almost a year and a half of continuing small successes before she was back to her normal self. As much as her mental illness took a toll on her, it took a toll on me as well - mentally, emotionally, spiritually and physically.

One of the biggest mental, emotional and spiritual tolls came from my family.

I had always been so proud to be a part of my large family - they had been the source of so much joy in my childhood. As I grew into adulthood my sisters became my best friends. My brother, H., the one I had battled against the most while growing up (I'd have "dibs" on the t.v for cartoons on Saturday morning - there was only one t.v. in our family back in those days - and he'd turn the channel, take the channel-changer knob off - no remote controls back then either - and dare me to try to get it back, I'd try and get knocked down in the process) was, by the time I got to college, like my other half - we were best buds.

As we all grew older each of us went our separate was - all but one spread wings far and wide. It was a rarity that we were all together in one place at the same time. In thirty years, I think my father's funeral was one of those rare occasions.

I had a falling out with my closest brother, H., my best bud and the one I had lived with when I had moved to the resort town he called home. But when he decided some small thing I did was going to be the end of our relationship I wasn't surprised that it was my "time" to be on his bad side. He had, at one time or another, in a fifteen year period, been on the outs with just about every member of our family (he didn't speak to my parent's for ten years!). It was hurtful, but he lived so far away and I knew in my heart that if I hadn't been there for him during his darkest hours he never would have met, fallen in love, and married the girl that was perfect for him. I knew I had fulfilled my purpose in his life and now he had someone else to take over that role.

But when you grow up you become your own person and even though they were still my family, they now had families of their own. They were still my world, but I wasn't necessarily theirs.

Sometimes, a year or so would go by without me seeing my brothers, and talking with them on the phone was almost as seldom. My sisters were different. I saw them at least once a year and talked with them a hundred times more than that.

But when my mom had her breakdown things dramatically changed. My brothers and sisters were constantly calling to talk with me about my mom's health and recovery. Being so far away they couldn't possibly understand what I was going through (especially after my mom's month in the mental ward was over and she came home to my care) but they all had opinions (which they readily expressed).

It was understandable that they should have opinions; it was their beloved mother that was under such mental duress, but they weren't the ones day in and day out, in the "trenches" trying to give her the best care, live in her insane world and try to stay sane myself. They weren't the ones taking her to doctors appointments, giving her her medications, cleaning up her "messes." They were going about their normal lives, when mine was anything but normal.

But the one person who did live nearby, my second oldest sister, K., the one person who was close at hand, who did have some inkling of the hardship I myself was enduring at that time, was the one person who I was least likely to think would stick a knife in my back. But she did and this is how she did it.