Mommie Dearest, The Real Story

My mother has always been somewhat of a drama queen, even when I was a small child.

I remember watching the movie "Mommie Dearest" with my family at home, and distinctly feeling like I was watching somewhat of an autobiography.  Watching Joan Crawford completely lose control over her daughter's wire hangers was eerily familiar.  I felt very similarly watching movies that involved a controlling mother and her two daughters, against the world - films like "Mermaids" and "Gypsy" were dead ringers for my upbringing in more ways than one.

I woke up one night at about 2 AM to a banging in the bathroom.  We lived in a small, ranch-style home that had the bathroom in the center, so any commotion in that area would be difficult to miss.  My mother was up, throwing things out of the medicine cabinet.  The light was glaringly bright at 2 AM; in the mountains of Colorado, the middle of the night meant pitch black outside, so I had no other lights to help adjust my eyes to the rude awakening.

"Can't find the things that I need, can't find the things that I need, I can't find the things that I need, can't find the things that I need," over and over and over again, this mantra was being repeated in frantic tones.  I was terrified to move or let her know I was awake.  I wasn't the only one.  I knew my sister and father must also be awake, yet we did nothing.  She was crying, openly screeching out these words, getting louder and louder, banging the cabinet doors, throwing things on the floor.

To this day, I don't know what she was looking for.  But it still haunts me.  As I've gotten older, I can now imitate her exact tone, which terrifies the friends that I have retold this story to.

This was sometime in 2000, maybe 2001.  And it only gets worse from there.  I hope through this blog I can help share my story, and encourage others to do the same.  Mental illness is absolutely real - and while my attitude has shifted some since my first blog post here, it is morphing.  My mother's illness has continued to decline into what I fear is true psychosis, and a condition I cannot do anything about.  I cannot get her help because she refuses to acknowledge there is a problem.  I cannot face her, because I finally have to protect myself.  And, as it is, I have to protect my soon to be born daughter.

This is the story of a survivor of a parent with mental illness.  You are not alone, and you, too, will survive.