Epilepsy: my peace lily

Anyone who has been to my house probably can tell that I love houseplants.  I have had some of my plants since I lived in Boston, thirteen years ago.

My mother hated plants, or complained about them at least, and all that they needed (water, soil, sunshine...how high maintenance!).  She particularly disliked the peace lily.  It is always droopy, she would say.  I couldn't disagree more.  If it were not for my peace lilies and their communicating abilities, I might forget to water my plants altogether.

I've never believed in blaming the messenger and, while my mother was quick to toss out the messenger along with the message, I've found this particular messenger to be very helpful and has helped me keep my plants for as long as I have.  And, further, I have thoroughly enjoyed having my plants for all of these years.  I would have missed out on something had I thrown them out the minute they needed water.

This week I have spent a lot of time being angry with my epilepsy.  "If it wasn't for my epilepsy..." fill in the blank.  It is getting in the way of life.  It stands between me and my fully actualized life.  These have been my thoughts this week, since my most recent seizure last Saturday morning.

But here is the thing: I have had this feeling for a while now, if I was to really be honest with myself, that I have not been doing what I need to do.  Nothing monumental here, no huge lifestyle changes, just feeling removed from that voice of wisdom that we all have (and probably all could stand to listen to more).  Like when I look at my two year old who is melting down and I can realize that engaging with her on her tantrum topic is not the point, she is overwrought and tired.  What she needs is a hug and rest.  When offered those things, she usually forgets her tantrum anyway.

There are times when I am tired and overwrought, but I don't allow myself outs like I do my toddler.  I have trouble rising out of the details and seeing the bigger picture in the moment.

For me there is a delicate balance between connecting with that wise self, getting guidance and visionary inspiration and the doing of life.  The doing of life comes at you quickly, and ever more quickly once you add children to the mix.  It takes a lot of energy to do the doing of life too.  Energy and time.  If I'm not careful, whole days, weeks or phases are eaten up with endless doing.  Tasks and details and to do lists done, but am I still operating out of the wise place that I hope those tasks and to do lists originated from?  Sometimes I don't know.

You could have an incredibly enlightened, wise and thoughtful origin, but in the time it takes to operationalize this and make it happen...turn it into a meaningful school project for your child...turn it into a new ritual at home...you have lost connection to the peaceful wisdom and gotten attached instead to another thing on your to do list.

I don't expect enlightenment at every turn as a parent, a graduate student, a spouse or a friend.  But I do want peace.  I have to provide fertile ground for the enlightenment and wisdom to grow.  And for me, that fertile ground is peace.  Lots and lots of peace.

Perhaps due to my brain chemistry, perhaps due to my dysfunctional childhood, perhaps due to just being a mom of two little kids, I crave quiet calm moments.  I am realizing I need to cultivate more of these in my days and in my weeks, even if it means limiting activities and changing the way I currently do things.

I don't know if my epilepsy was telling me that I have too much on my plate, or that my three glasses of wine the night before was too much, but it seems to be telling me something...and that something it seems to be telling me is something that when I am truly honest with myself is something that I know I need.

I need to unplug.  I need to find peace.  I need to be present.  I need to get rest.  I need to let go of my to do list, even if it means letting people down from time to time.  There are worse things, despite what my gut tells me.

So I wouldn't necessarily say that I am thankful for my epilepsy at this moment, but I am trying to hear what it is telling me, maybe if I listen I could be even better for it.

When the social workers call...

I warn you I am not feeling insightful today, which isn't to say that I always spout great insights, but to the extent that I am privy to them in general, they feel far from me today.

I am just having a day, a not great day, not catastrophic day, but a day where I really should be working on my seemingly endless to do list (to be accomplished in a very small amount of hours in my week), but need to take a few minutes to deal with the persistent irritation gnawing at me this morning.

I swear my mother knows somehow when I am having a bad day.  Either that or I anticipate her contact and begin to have a bad day...regardless sometimes I am left with a creepy and unpleasant feeling that we are still somehow connected.  I know.  It is probably just a coincidence, but sometimes man the coincidences are uncanny.

The details of my irritating morning aside, as I'm sure we can all imagine just such a morning, I receive 2 calls from my mother in the midst of it.  They go straight to voicemail, as all calls from Massachusetts do these days.

Did I mention she is in Massachusetts?  Well, yes.  After my last post, my heartbreaking day with my mother and the homeless shelter, my mother got traveler's aid to take a one way bus to Boston.  She called up an old neighbor indicating that she was coming up for business and could she stay with him for a couple of days.  "Sure" he said.  Little did this poor guy know, she was moving in with him.

A few days later I got a call from the first hospital, Brigham and Women's.  The social worker was amazing.  Really got it.  It was a great call, at least for me.  But, of course, even when people get it, she can elude services and so, nothing came of it.

Last week I got another call, from another social worker, from another hospital.  I tried to repeat the conversation, but this social worker didn't get it as well, or was overwhelmed by my information, or shocked by my flat affect on the phone.  People call me up, understandably, and say "Please don't worry, you mother is okay, but she is in the hospital here..." and I think it throws them off when I don't show any signs of worrying and at this point probably don't sound like I care (and truthfully, when I know she is in the hospital I know she is getting meals and a bed and baths, so I may even sound relieved).

Well, now my mother is out.  She wants me to send her stuff.  She wants me to know how she is working on her "alcoholism".  She loves the alcoholism diagnosis.  It is a diagnosis that somehow fits for her and can garner enough sympathy and provides an endless group of AA participants who will buy her story and give her a couch...until they also realize that what she has goes beyond alcoholism.

I write today just to share and say that the endlessness of this sometimes just makes me fatigued.  I'm not even involved, really, aside from the occasional calls from social workers and people who say "you do know her car is in an impound lot?!" Well intentioned people for the most part, but I just don't even have the energy to call back sometimes.  I am seriously considering a form letter than can be emailed/faxed etc to the next social worker or enabler because this whole 30 minute synopsis of my mother's diagnosis is exhausting.

And now that she is out of the hospital I am frankly just wondering when the next call will come.

Waves of Crazy

Last Monday was a dark day for me.  The weather almost mirrored my emotional sequence: heavy, blinding rain followed by hours of fog.

The details: my mother remains delusional, but sober...and scared.  God it kills me.  She is at a high volume inner city homeless shelter with 6pm curfews and large rooms with cots for all the women and children.  When I pulled up to drop off her suitcases, she was standing huddled under the awning looking out for me (back story: we have these because she was MIA last year and the woman she was living with was going to throw them away otherwise...still not totally sure we are glad to have gotten this stuff...even though we did salvage family photos and birth records, but I digress).

She came to meet me at the car, we hugged and both wept.  I couldn't do this in the rain.  Whatever "this" was, it couldn't be done in 1 minute in the pouring rain in front of this depressing place.

I told her to get in the car and took her to breakfast.  We sat and I ordered food so that she would too but I couldn't eat anything.  In fact, until dinner, I couldn't really eat at all.  (I considered looking on the bright side and turning this into some sort of get ready for summer cleanse, but instead just made up for it with wine and chocolate later that night).  

I could discuss what we talked about, but it is more of the same, although this time we were not angry, either of us, just profoundly sad.  After lunch I drove her back.  Dropping her off, with her suitcases was one of the hardest things I have ever done.  

What followed for me was a day sinking into an emotional abyss.  I imagined my office turned into a room for my mother, I imagined how we could reallocate our not unlimited funds and pay for an apartment for her.  Like puzzling over a rubiks cube, my mind kept turning and twisting and trying to make fit this horror into my life that would make it better for her and not undo me, my husband, my kids, in the process.  I puzzled over it so much and wept so hard that my head ached and my eyes are still sore today from the crying. Needless to say my graduate class I attended that afternoon was not awesome and my head was FAR from in the game.

The next day I did no school work.  I had to get in front of this wave so that it didn't take me for more of a ride than it already had.  

During my breakfast I told my mother that I am not trying to "school her" on her choices, but I have to guard my resources, emotional and otherwise, so that I will not fall apart.  Part of her illness is, I believe, never being able to really know another person fully.  She seemed shocked by the toll this has taken on me.  She then told me a story about when she was in her 40s and felt drained by her mother and was crying so much a neighbor came to check on her.  My mother went on to say that she always told herself, "well, at least my daughters will not have to go through this." 

I get a chill thinking of this.  Thinking of my mother telling herself similar things that I tell myself about my children.  

How much control do I have about this?  How in front of this wave of crazy can I get?  I think my mother did want and did try, in her way, to shield us from what she felt, but she did so in a closeted way.  She acted as if problems didn't exist.  As if she could will them away or by ignoring the monster looming it would just disappear.  I think she really believed that if she just got all her external ducks in a row, the internal would either heal itself or be quiet enough that she could just ignore it.  

So, I am swinging in the opposite direction.  I am choosing openness.  I am airing my dirty laundry so as to hopefully purge the toxins from my heart.  I want it out there so that it does not fester and turn into resentment, bitterness and loneliness.  

I am still in process, but, like being an alcoholic, I feel like I will always be in process.  Even if certain things are better, or crises pass, I will be in recovery always and need to tread carefully.  As much as I would like to move past this and be done with it.  Check it off.  Done!  It is just not one of those things. I am working to accept this.  

Emotional Seepage

I have been waiting for an insightful moment, a profound thought, a realization or a definitive change of heart before writing again, but I can't rush this process and, yet, I need to share.

So there we are.

The holidays were rough.  No matter how strong my boundaries, no matter how clear my mind, knowing my mother is homeless over Christmas sucks.  I tried not to dwell on it, and for this issue, I am trying to compartmentalize.  I have to, or the emotional seepage will take over and I fear it is even with attempted compartmentalization.

So I say my mantras to myself about being at peace with a lack of peace, accepting imperfection, knowing what is in my control and what is not, and allowing the good things to take a larger place in my heart, mind and life.  However, when I then find I am having concerns about my child at school, my response feels huge and I wonder if emotional seepage has, at least, in part fueled the fire.

I wait before speaking these days, or I try to.  I wait before emailing (most of the time).  And I try to see if both the feelings and the sheer volume of the feelings is appropriate to the situation.  There are times when I am not sure, however, and, well, I am sure I make mistakes.

I am sure to act the things that I do care about, but sometimes it feels like it comes out like a flood of emotion.  I wonder if this is because I am unknowingly channeling my grief and lack of control about my mother into this other arena.  I try not to do this, but it happens from time to time.  I know we all probably do this in some ways or another, but I feel like the huge despair that is my feelings about my mother could drown me and my whole family if I let it and I fear the floodgates opening.

For years now I have worked on not letting those floodgates open in the direction of my children, but it is the rest of my life that is more confusing.

When is my inability to let something go a sign that it is worth the fight and when it is it a sign that I am seeking control over things that are, and perhaps should be, out of my control to somehow heal these other areas?  My child's schooling is one of these issues.  Kind of my jurisdiction, kind of not. It is his first foray into a social and ordered world outside of the home that he needs to learn to navigate.  When do I help him rise to the situation, and when do I try to change the situation?

While I struggle with this, as many parents do I'm certain, I am hearing from my mother via email that she is in a homeless shelter that used to be a jail and is full of mothers and children and a fair share of child abuse, and she wants....from me.  She just simply wants from me, anything and everything.  I am left asking myself: do I help her with her situation or do I let her rise to the situation?  I think sadly about how my husband may be dropping off some winter clothes (she only has one outfit right now) and how I will go to target and get her a toothbrush and toothpaste too.  It nearly makes me cry thinking that this where things are.  I can't see her as I fear a hive-ridden anxiety response to seeing her there.  But I am trying to think of an appropriate "homeless shelter care package."  No one prepared me for this.

So there it is.  Yesterday I called said homeless shelter and left such a strange message.  It went something like this "Hi there, I have two things I am inquiring about.  First of all, I have lots of toddler toys I would like to give away and thought of you all, please let me know if you could use them.  Second, I thought of you all because my mother is currently staying there and I am hoping to speak to her case manager to give some background information."

I haven't heard back yet, but I realize my response vis-a-vis the toys is in direct response to hearing there is child abuse in the shelter.  I feel like this is a good place for our toys, whether her assertion about child abuse is true or not, and whether or not toys would mitigate any stresses mothers would face in a shelter or not, but I feel like part of my motivation is to improve her situation, even in a round about distant way.

One more bit of trivia that I will leave you with is, in a state of emotional despair/hope I applied my mother for the show Intervention in December.  The producers have been calling and would like to do a show about her, but I just don't know.  I don't know for so many reasons.  I worry about heading down a path of trying to control this unwieldy and dangerous situation in any way.  For fear that it wouldn't work and would undo me in the process. But, I haven't made my mind up completely yet.  If any of you have any thoughts about this, I would love to hear them.  And for the record, I have no desire to actually be on TV, particularly in this way, but thought perhaps she could get better (and funded) treatment that way.

As always, thanks for reading.

Committed

I have talked to my mother 3 times in the last 2 days and it is somehow about 5 times too many.

She was just released from the crisis center, again, and is off with a new person, sure to call/email/harass me in 1-4 weeks time about what a shitty daughter I am, how I need to "man up," how I need to take care of my family--after all, it is my responsibility.  All of these I have been told (and often repeatedly, for the record) and am now at the point of grimly anticipating it as I hear the name of the new person and think, soon this person will think I am the enemy and find ways of disturbing my peace.

But the thing is, it is my mother who is disturbing my peace.  These people are misguided and, though some have their hearts in the right place, they don't know what they are getting into when they say "sure you can stay with me for a week."

My mother's delusional world is, in some ways, quite impressive.  It is astounding how it is impervious to reason and even fact.  In her world fact is not the fact of my world but a manipulative that we all have interpretations of.  In some ways talking with her about even the events of the day is like having an intense philosophical argument...what is reality?  Except, she cannot and will not entertain your notion of what it is.  Contrary notions of reality are only presented to her to "be mean and hurtful."

What pained me yesterday, to the point of somewhat hysterical laughter, was how lucid she sounded in the midst of this period of homelessness, pennilessness, and drug and alcohol addiction.  I hear what she is saying and see how ridiculous it is in light of what has actually transpired over the years and yet I also hear what she is saying as I would if I didn't know her.

Her story actually sounded plausible and *could* possibly land a person in the particular maelstrom of crap she is currently in.  Which brings me to my second point, which may be over before it begins...

I am in the process of contacting probate courts to see about involuntary treatment.

Putting aside the incredibly emotional and painful exercise this is for me, her daughter, I am now wondering exactly how possible this is going to be.  When she is not intoxicated, she can still sound, on the phone at least, like she was the unwitting victim of this recent string of bad luck.

Is this how she sees herself?  Does she actually buy it?  Or is it a straight up manipulation?  I used to think she just saw things like this, but she has shown cracks at times, acknowledging alternative perspectives and then deliberately choosing to put the rose-tinted glasses back on.

I am now doubtful that my court method will work.  As a family member said, she is very ill and the worst part is, she doesn't know she is ill.  Her illness is killing her, slowly, graphically and exhaustingly and she doesn't see it.  I either need to do something to stop it or turn away completely because I cannot watch.

Allergies

It has been many months since my last post about my dealing with having a mentally ill mother. There are several reasons for this:

1. I wanted to distance myself from this thinking for a bit and felt free enough to do so

2. I engaged in more EMDR to help with my processing and wanted to give it time to do its thing

3. I lost my password to the blog and inertia got the better of me.

okay, so now that the air is cleared, let me catch up on what has transpired in the last few months. While I got through Mother's day and the Summer mostly unscathed, I started feeling doubtful about my course of action as I reached the one year mark with my mother, or she-who-shall-not-be-named (as I like to call her these days after reading my son Harry Potter).

As of August it was 1 year since I had seen my mother. I was deep in the throes of contemplating exactly what I was trying to achieve with my mother: Was I cutting her off as a way to somehow teach her to be more sane? Was I actually saying goodbye forever (without the actual goodbye)? Was I doing this out of self-protection and solid boundary creation with a very disturbed and mentally ill woman or was I secretly hoping that this would wake her up and make her better?

I believe that part of my heart continues to hope that she will get better. I have been told by countless people, therapists included, that I need to kill that hope. It will not happen, she is not getting better. Her disorder is actually one in which she is patently incapable of seeing herself clearly. I need to let go. But I continue to hope and it really sucks to hate one's hopefulness.

So as I reached the year mark I started thinking about what it would look like to have her in my life. Could I just say to myself "this is my mother. She is extremely mentally ill and often in crisis. She will not get better. She will often be worse than the last time. I'll have coffee once per month to show her pictures of the kids, talk about myself and tell her she is loved. And that is all." Could I do that? Would it be worth it to me? Was this the final step in giving up? I was trying to accept that if I ever want my mother in my life again I just needed to figure out where a disturbed person could fit in without wrecking everything. This was my thinking.

It was on such a day that she called my phone, it was my birthday, and she called from an unknown number and for some reason I answered. I hadn't heard her voice in 9 months. I told her I would consider seeing her.

I sent her an email the following week stating that I could not be part of her solutions and that I could not be a part of her logistics. I asked her if this was possible. If it was, I said, I would be willing to meet for coffee.

I heard nothing.

I gave a call to make sure I emailed the correct address. After all I had not contacted her in 1 year.

No response. Days later I told my sister. She tried contacting. She got no response too.

I was feeling unnerved, wondering what particular state of crisis I had found her in now. I had started this communication with clear intentions of not getting involved logistically or in my heart in her drama and here, with a lack of response, I was doing just that.

Fast forward 1.5 weeks later...(and my third week of my return to my phd program after a 2 year leave, for the record, so a sub-optimal time for me to say the least)

I find out she was in a crisis center again. She checked herself in hoping to get help for substances (which she still is claiming is her primary issue, not secondary issue). We find out that she has been living with an abusive, bipolar woman who has routinely locked my mother in the house and beaten her.

When she was discharged from the crisis center, she returned to this woman. She told me she was desperate to get away.

She emailed me and says that is her only way to openly talk with me. She implored me to call her and ask her to meet me so she can have an excuse to get away. I was working at a cafe, it was a Friday morning. I had 3 hours before I pick up the kids. I called her. She met me at the cafe.

I could go on about how she was, how the littlest details of her off appearance seemed to disturb me the most, how it felt to see her after all that time, but I won't. I will say that my feeble attempt at engaging with her on my terms failed epically.

That day I agreed to help her with a moving truck and logistics. Fail Fail Fail. I could almost see my therapist shaking her head at me.

2 hours later, the itching began. I thought I got stung by mosquitos and lots of them. That night we went to a party. I thought my dress was terribly itchy. That night when I got home and took it off we realized I was covered in hives.

The hives lasted for 5 days and ended up in 1 and almost 2 emergency room visits and 2 calls/visits to the doctor. I was in bed, shivering and in pain until my doctor cranked me up on steroids for one week. Thankfully, they then went away.

There is debate about whether the hives were a reaction to a medication I had been on for 1 month or whether it was a psychological reaction to stress. I concede that it could have been a combination of triggering causes, but in my bones, I know it was a reaction to seeing my mother and getting sucked into the vortex of her disorder.

I wrote to her and told her that I could not be involved. I was sorry she was in such a terrible position and I really hoped she can get what she needs, but that I cannot do it. Even thinking about it made me terribly sick.

Since then she continues to implore me to contact her and I have not. I can't handle her because handling her is handling her illness and I am, frankly, allergic to it. She'll never see her illness and therefore never get the treatment she needs for it, so I don't know what to say to her except nothing.

EMDR and welcomed connections

It has been a while since I wrote. I wanted to give some time and thought to the EMDR process before writing about it here. Now that I have had several sessions I feel I can comment on it and it’s effects. First of all, as someone used to therapy, it was odd to be in a therapeutic setting where memories and traumas were not discussed in the normal, talk therapy way. Amazingly, it was sort of refreshing.

I was a bit skeptical, but very intrigued. So, I did my best. I was told to think about the event that best sums up my childhood feelings with my mother and that I feel most upset about.

I gamely thought about my mother and me, when I was 8 years old and we were living in an apartment in Nashville. We had lived away from all extended family for the better part of 2 years by then, having moved away from family in Virginia when I was 6 and on to North Carolina for a year before settling in Nashville for 3 years (one of the most stable times of my childhood). My mother was weeping in the bathroom, lying on the floor. I went to her, cradled her, and told her everything was going to be okay.

Instead of later feeling horrified for using her trapped and isolated child to comfort her and issuing an apology, she later told me how great I was. And so confirmed my role of caretaker, smoother, fixer, enabler and thereby cementing my life long fascination with super hero movies. My powers felt greater than that of a child. I am a child who takes care of an adult, how strong am I? But it was false and too much of a burden on my little girl self.

As an adult, I cannot imagine doing that to a child. As a mother, I cannot fathom resting my weeping head in my son’s arms for him to pick up the pieces…alone. But when I thought about it I felt like, shaking my head…what is wrong with her? How could she do that?

To tell the truth, my event was not one I felt the most upset over. I truthfully could not engage with an old memory with feeling. I could engage in current issues regarding my mother, my children or my sister with feeling…with HUGE feeling, but these old childhood feelings? No. I thought perhaps this therapy would not work for me after all.

As I processed this somewhat numb memory in EMDR, I was shocked at where my mind went. As much thought as I have given to my mother and our relationship, there were certain meaningful connections that I never made until I was in that office, dutifully watching the red dot travel from left to right to left to right to left to right.

Engaging both sides of my brain, it slipped past my overthinking ways and got right to the core of the issue. I couldn’t feel sad or angry about that event now because I couldn’t feel sad or angry about it then. There was no room in our family for my feelings. And my feelings scared me…if I felt them, where would they take me. I just needed to soldier on and act stronger than I really was. If I acknowledged my mother wasn’t great, where would that leave me with 10 more years with her? I needed my delusion.

But emotionally I found what I needed. As my mind traversed the sometimes oddly connected memories I remembered a friend’s mother. She lived up the street and I regularly spent the night with them. My mother would go on dates and would not be reachable for much of the time I was there. I remember weeping in this mother’s arms, shaking, panicky about my mother. “Was she okay? Where was she? Would she return? What if she is in trouble?” My friend’s mother, unable to reach my mother, cradled me until I fell asleep.

And she had me back a second and third and more times and again I wept. And again she held me.

In EMDR, I remembered this and it occurred to me as clearly as anything what was happening. I knew that this woman, this lovely, beautiful woman, was capable of handling my feelings. She would not crash if I let them show. I felt safe there and safe with her. It was an important outlet for me and I think helped preserve a tender part of me.

I found out later that she was going through a rough patch in her own life at that time. I vaguely knew something was happening in their family, but the way it was treated in their home (or the way it seemed to me, at least), was that it was an adult matter, so the kids would not notice a disruption in food, electricity, safety, warmth, fun and play because of it. In my home all of the above was directly related to my mother’s mood, so I became damned good at safe guarding it.

As I write about this friend’s mother, I get teary, but in a good way. I want to thank her for what she did for me, whether she realized what she was doing or not. I keep this in mind when I encounter my son’s friends and I realize that you never know who you were meant to be an angel for. And I hope to be open, just as my friend’s mother was to me.

So, I will continue with EMDR a bit longer to try to reach some peace and closure on a few other triggers, and after this first cycle, I am grateful and calm.