GETTING SOME THINGS OUT IN THE OPEN

As I look back on the fall of 1980,  I realize the days I spent with my mother during the last three weeks of her life gave me an opportunity to reflect soberly on her circumstances, and my own response to them.   I’ll concentrate on that in the next few postings.  

More than thirty years have passed since that three week period, and I think it’s time to get some things out in the open.  It may not all be pretty, and I’m not going to do some kind of “tell all” confession, but I want those who come behind me to know what it was like to live with a family member who suffered mental illness. 

I ask no sympathy for myself.  I’ve had a wonderful life, and I don’t think it has irreversibly plunged me into some kind of emotional downward spiral.  All people  face some kind of challenge when they’re growing up.   Under the best of circumstances, there’s a certain amount of difficulty in making the transition from  childhood to adulthood.   Had I been choosing my home environment, I don’t think I would have elected to have a mentally ill parent, but I think it beats having an alcoholic parent or a physically abusive parent. 

I’m glad I grew up in a home where both my parents believed in marriage “until death do us part.”  I’m also glad I grew up with people who trusted God.  My mother was not out of touch with reality all the time.    When she was in control of her thinking, she exercised a strong faith.  I had many advantages during my “growing up years.”  I refuse to be a victim.  I sometimes say, “I’m like a cat.  You can throw me down, but I'll land on my feet.”

That being said, there were challenges, and discouragements.  Certainly, my outlook, my response to life, my priorities, and my social interaction were significantly impacted by her 35 year battle with mental illness.  I don’t have much patience with people who claim there is no such thing as mental illness.  There are clearly those people who choose to respond to life in a dysfunctional manner, and excuse it on the ground that they are maladjusted.  I do not believe my mother was one of them.  I’m certainly no expert when it comes to psychological disorders, but she suffered from a clinically verifiable mental illness.  It was as real as the cancer that killed her.  It certainly affected her quality of life, and probably influenced the direction I took with my own life.  In the next few posts, I’ll reveal some of the difficulties that go with such a condition.