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| Yup, that's me. |
He'd like to come and meet us
But he thinks he'd blow our minds
There's a starman waiting in the sky
He's told us not to blow it
Cause he knows it's all worthwhile
He told me:
Let the children lose it
Let the children use it
Let all the children boogie
- From Starman by David Bowie
When I was a child I could often hear my mother yelling in the other room. There was no one else in the house but me. But she’d been screaming at someone using an ugly, angry voice. Sometimes she’d yell directly at me, although she was really just yelling in my direction. I was only rarely the target of her ragings and never for anything I’d actually done. I’m pretty sure that I didn’t exist to my mother during her psychotic moments. I would plug my years or turn on my record player or the TV full volume. Today I’m hyper vigilant and noises of all kinds bother me. Mom would sniff a lot and never seemed to blow her nose. Now when I hear people sniff it drives me up the wall.
The insanity stopped the second my dad or my big brother would come home. It wasn’t until my early teens that she could hold it in no longer and would rave regardless of who was home. I’ve told people this and many have been highly skeptical about my claim that from my earliest memories until adolescence my mother could turn her insanity off as simply as a spigot. Facing that skepticism has been one of the worst things I’ve gone through in my life.
My mother was schizophrenic, although never formally diagnosed. To the best of my knowledge she never underwent a psychological exam nor talked to a counselor. Ever.
I’ve successfully blocked out a lot of the particulars of my mother’s insanity. But I’ve never been able to shake how it felt, the overall terror. It was a constant drumbeat. Growing up I was used to it and at the same time every second of hearing her ravings was like being slapped across the face. I was formed into an adult living in that dichotomy. I was a happy child, I was a miserable child. Everything was great. Everything was terrible. My mother put me through hell, but my dad was an angel. Emotionally I clung to my father. He was kind and loving and fun. Nothing was enough to make up for what my mother did to me, but dad did his best. Yet in my teen years I rebelled against him and most of what he stood for. After all it was the Sixties and change was everywhere and living in Berkeley I was ensconced in the middle of so much of it.
Lullabies, look in your eyes,
Run around the same old town.
Doesn't mean that much to me
To mean that much to you.
I've been first and last
Look at how the time goes past.
But I'm all alone at last.
Rolling home to you.
- From Old Man by Neil Young
When my father realized the truth about my mother he was, not surprisingly, devastated. His perfect world was flipped upside down. But one of his responses was to take extra care of me. This was no mean feat for two reasons: he was already a superstar father and I was doing things like trying to grow my hair long, opposing the war in Vietnam and listening to rock music. In all three cases quite the opposite of what he would have wanted. Still our bonds were firm, especially because of sports. He not only came to all my soccer games, but he came to all my practices. Meanwhile he took me to sports events of all variety: football, basketball, baseball, track and field, boxing, soccer and ice hockey. He was my best friend. My mother was my worst enemy.
I went off to college at 17 and in no time at all I was using and abusing drugs and alcohol. The booze, in particular, kept me sane. I had a lot of hurt stored up and it was bound to manifest in strange ways. The booze was a social lubricant that allowed me to be fairly normal in social situations and downright charming when I wanted to be. Sobriety I could handle provided I knew when my next drink was. Of course there were times when I took far too much of my medicine. In my sodden mind getting too wasted or suffering a hellacious hangover was always a small price to pay for the benefits of being high.
Even before I got sober there was trouble brewing in the form of panic attacks. Lucky me suffered (make that suffers) from a particularly virulent strain that is to the regular panic attack what the atomic bomb is to dynamite. I wouldn’t wish these ten megaton panic attacks on anyone no matter how awful a person they be. I am fortunate that none have ever occurred when I had a ready means of suicide at my disposal or I’d be long dead.
While I was drinking, the panic attacks, and the much more frequent problem of the fear of them, could easily be treated by alcohol. Once I ended my relationship with liquor the panic attacks became a much greater and more frequent threat. Enter pharmaceuticals. Since my condition was (is) so rare it took awhile to get me on the right medications. And when I say awhile I mean over 25 years. In the mean time I went through a cornucopia of meds. Some were not effective. Some were highly effective but with unpleasant side effects such as feeling like a zombie. One of the worst side effect was from a med that gave me horrible rages. This is not good look for a middle school teacher nor for a father. Fortunately I was off the stuff quickly before I did too much damage. (I did make one daughter cry during a rage and went way overboard scolding a student and got written up for it.) In addition to disbelieving accounts of my mother’s ability to turn on and off her rages, people have questioned my panic attacks. Many dismiss them as normal experiences, even enlightening ones, that I certainly need not take meds for. Others suggest I exaggerate and still others say that they’ve had many such attacks themselves. In 12 step groups I’ve been accused of trying to make myself different, a sure path to slipping back into using. These comments have frustrated, depressed and angered me. It is difficult not to be believed or having your pain dismissed. Rarely is one’s physical torments similarly dismissed, but when it comes to emotional anguish, everyone fancies themselves an expert.
No one knows what it's like
To feel these feelings
Like I do
And I blame you
No one bites back as hard
On their anger
None of my pain and woe
Can show through
- From Behind Blue Eyes by The Who
I still deal with the aforementioned hyper vigilance. My most effective means of dealing with it is by having headphones with me during my commute. In addition to sniffing, gum chewing, people yakking on cell phones and many other sounds drive me up a wall. While the hyper vigilance is almost certainly a direct result of my upbringing there is less certainty about depression. I’m bi polar, although in the past three years I’ve spent far more time depressed than normal or manic. The depression has been a constant companion, which is odd because it was never invited and won't take my broad hints to please leave.
Yes I see a psychiatrist. I’ve seen various shrinks since I was 16 with decidedly mixed results. Fortunately the doctor I’m seeing now is probably the best of the lot. And yes, I have benefitted from a 12 step program too.
My life has not been easy to live. But I here hasten to add that I am enormously lucky, grateful and satisfied with it. I’m proud that despite my ongoing psychological torment I’ve had a successful marriage that is now 30 years old. I helped raise two daughters who are excelling as human beings and who I couldn’t be more proud of. I am — if barely — a functioning member of society and have been a teacher for 33 years. And while my emotional state has been a constant source of trouble, my physical health has been excellent, as evidenced by my recent ten mile run, and the regular clean bills of health I get from my physician. On balance I’ve done okay.
I still think about my mother. Several years ago, after decades of loathing the woman, I forgave her. She was not at fault. I’m sure at no point did she ask to be schizophrenic for purposes of tormenting her youngest son. Nonetheless I still re-visit those horrors of childhood (generally not on purpose) and mostly I think of that poor little kid I used to be. Whether at five, eight or eleven. I want to hug him and tell him everything will be all right. I want to tell him that it’s okay to cry, even if it’s just once. I want to reassure him that mom’s insanity is no reflection on him. I want to tell him to remember in the future to take it easy with the medicines of his choice. I want to tell him that someday he’ll meet and marry the woman of his dreams and it will be wonderful. More so than he can possibly imagine. I want the poor kid not to suffer. I want to protect him. Rescue him. Love him. He didn’t deserve to be exposed to a schizophrenic mother. He got a tough break to start life. What I really want to do is tell him I’m proud of him. He’s tough.
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