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Dear Mom
By bipolarlawyer | March 3, 2008
Dear Mom:
Brother and I owe you an apology– we have been indulging in a months-long fantasy that you’ve been OK, ever since you left here in November. We should have known that two breaks in two months was too much, and come out to visit earlier. But we’ve been hoping and wishing that you’d be compliant, and take your meds, and go to your shrink, and behave like a rational adult. Why we engaged in this mutual delusion, when you never took responsibility before you were diagnosed, I don’t know. But I’m sorry we let you slide for so long.
Instead, when you stopped answering your phone this week and disconnected the answering machine “because God told you to,” I had a sense of dread that This Was It. And then I got the call from Shrink that you’d missed a second appointment in a row. When Aunt got over there to check on you at Brother’s request, it wasn’t pretty. You answered the door stark naked. The toilet had overflowed, and there was a more than dubious puddle out into the hallway and into your bedroom. The management company had to tear it up.
To be fair to us, even after we discovered that your mania had allowed you to lie about med compliance in a calm and even tone, there were long periods where you seemed really lucid. You had normal conversations, recalled things from past calls, had no trouble recalling words or nouns, and didn’t drift off, mid-sentence. Your intelligence masked how far off the deep end you were—it was only seeing you in person that would allow the observer to see all the things you’d thrown away, and read all the stacks of gibberish God had told you to write.
When Brother got there, he was able to observe those things. He was also able to see how suggestible you were. We’re both worried for what this means to your bank account. And you refused to go for inpatient treatment. Well, your shrink doesn’t want you back as a patient, so if Brother can’t find you a new one next week with the help of the county social services agency I’ll be calling, we may be committing you anyway.
You see, we need you stable enough so that you don’t act up on the plane ride home. Because you can’t stay out there anymore. You can’t be trusted to take your medications or attend your appointments, and we can’t fly out to the West Coast to frog march you into every appointment. Once we get you qualified for Disability, there’ll be a supplement to your income, too, and hopefully we can get you into a nice Assisted Living facility where you can take some of your stuff.
We’re not looking forward to the fight in getting you home. We’re hoping that physically watching you take your meds every day for two weeks will get you stabilized enough that you won’t fight about it. But if we have to have you declared incompetent over your objections, so be it. It might almost be better if you stayed as you are, docile and agreeable, while we pack your things, change all your financial papers, and deal with your current landlord.
If you do regain some lucidity, I know you’re going to think we’re just trying to take over your life, but that’s the furthest thing from the truth. See, I can’t speak for Brother, but I really want very little to do with you. I want you to be happy and safe—I don’t hate you—but I don’t want you in my life, really, except at the outskirts. Bringing you back means weekly visits and caretaking and tolerance of your narcissistic bullshit, when all the while I really want to slap you for being so selfish.
At the same time, Brother and I are happy for you, if not us, inasmuch as your separation from reality seems to have stabilized at a happy point. You’re not paranoid or angry or violent, and you know who and where you are. While a nice scary psychotic break would have at least landed you in the hospital, giving us some leeway in getting them to keep you longer to try out a better medication regimen, I don’t wish you the scary visions and voices that would have required.
We don’t know what’s going to happen—we’ve been worried you were undermedicated anyway, and on the wrong mood stabilizer to boot, so we’re hoping we can get you something back to normal. But it’s been a while now that you’ve been fluctuating in this narrow band of crazy, and that does real damage to your brain, even though you didn’t believe me when I tried to talk to you about the need to take your meds, back when this whole thing started. So, if you remain the precocious and delusional three year old that you are right now, well, it could be worse.
You may never read this letter. Even if you do, your bipolar and your narcissism may prevent you from appreciating the best intentions that Brother and I have in setting you up someplace where you can have some independence, and yet still be taken care of. Despite all your faults, despite all the damage you did, you did instill in us a sense of responsibility, of caring for those not capable. I’m sorry, too, that I can’t end this letter by saying that I forgive you. I don’t, and I may not be able to. But I won’t hold it against you, either, and that’s to your credit, no matter everything else.
Topics: bipolar, bipolarlawyer, caregiver, relationships, relevant life, she's losing it |
March 3rd, 2008 at 8:46 am
I found your site on google blog search and read a few of your other posts. Keep up the good work. Just added your RSS feed to my feed reader. Look forward to reading more from you.
- Sue.
March 3rd, 2008 at 9:42 am
That was incredibly powerful. I am sorry you are facing this.
March 3rd, 2008 at 2:00 pm
I’m so sorry you are going through this. You sound at peace for how you are proceeding, and I’m glad for that.
Your writing is beautiful, as always.
Hugs, my friend.
March 3rd, 2008 at 2:25 pm
I watched my mom go through this with her mother and her brother. I feel for you and your brother. You have to accept that their is a limit to what you can do–do your best, do what you can, then let yourself off the hook. Stay healthy yourself while you deal with this.
March 3rd, 2008 at 3:05 pm
Sometimes,when there are no decisions that can be made that feel good, we need to be clear with ourselves that we are making the best decision possible. This letter is that declaration.
March 3rd, 2008 at 5:20 pm
I have been reading your BiPolar Cook blog for sometime and am very interested in this blog as well. I am sorry you have to deal with all that is going on. Very different circumstances but getting my grandmother into assisted living was hell on my mother and then when she had to go to a nursing home….it was worse. You are doing the best that you can and that is admirable.
March 3rd, 2008 at 7:01 pm
your letter speaks volumes of a careing person that you are.thanks for this posting.
March 3rd, 2008 at 8:36 pm
It’s hard to be the parent to your parent isn’t it? you’re making hard choices and doing a good job.
March 3rd, 2008 at 9:29 pm
How unbelievably frustrating this must be. I am so sorry you have to be a parent without consent. Really, it just fucking sucks and that’s about all there is to say about it.
March 5th, 2008 at 12:24 am
what a powerful, painful letter. don’t forget to take good care of yourself throughout this process, i wish you the best in this journey.
face that “crazy” and kick its’ ass :)
March 5th, 2008 at 11:00 am
Oh BPLC,
I know you have been worried. I’m sorry it had to end this way. But maybe not, if in the long run it helps you and brother out. That’s quite a sad thing to say really. But the truth. I hope that everything comes together so easily for you.
March 5th, 2008 at 4:41 pm
Oh…just.. *HUGS*.
March 8th, 2008 at 2:11 am
Big hugs from me to you and your brother. And I’m sending you mental Lindt chocolate Easter bunnies.