When I was growing up, I believed that nobody's family could possibly be as weird as mine. Sure, my friends' families had their quirks, but I truly thought that nothing compared to my reality of growing up with a mom who has a mental illness. The diagnosis varies every so often but she ranged from more or less functional, albeit usually in a sleepy or foggy haze from serious anti-psychotics, to complete psychotic breaks. Incidentally, I've since let go of the thought that my family had even the slightest chance at the Weirdest Family USA crown in all its dripping, dented chewed-on glory. The more people I get to know, the more I realize we weren't far off from well-adjusted. But that's a post for another day.

My mom's illness was fairly well controlled from about the time I was a toddler until right around the time I was a preteen. To my understanding anyway. There were issues here and there, especially looking back with adult eyes, but she stayed out of a psychiatric hospital for more than a decade and cooked and cared for us kids. As a little kid I had a lot of fun with my mom. Our relationship didn't hit turbulence until I was a preteen and unfortunately has never leveled off. I assumed it was normal mother-daughter teenage ephemera that would pass about the time we tearfully planned my wedding and she needled me about when she would have grandchildren. Yeah, no. Just... no. All that stereotypical (reinforced by romcoms) mother-daughter bonding stuff never happened. 

And before you (admit it, with a huff of indignation) point out that at least I still have my mom when so many don't, I get it. I'm grateful she's here. I'm grateful we've got whatever it is that we've got. But I don't really know what that is. 

Ordinarily when I come across a random topic that obsessively enthralls me interests me or say some new medical malady my father seems to have inherited, I research - like a good little nerd. I have a ridiculously curious nature and if my interest is piqued, it's time to find out everything I can about about him/her/it/them. Admittedly my mother's illness sparked the direction of my degree and a lifetime of interest and empathy for people living with any kind of illness. But lately I've noticed a glaring omission from my exhaust-all-reading-materials mindset. 1. The progression of an already established mental illness in someone who is now a senior citizen. 2. Being an adult with a mentally ill parent. See, she's not going to get any better than she is this week in her best mood and clarity. And that's jarring (and defeating at times).  She's gotten worse over that last ten years, but specifically this last year there has been a marked decline. (Mom's seeing the best psychiatrist she's ever been to, we're very fortunate on that front.) 

There are books on the topic, books that have been on my reading list for years. But why haven't I read them? When it comes to my mother and our relationship, I think I'm afraid I'm going to search for solace or some kind of reassurance in these books and find nothing. Books that will confirm that her decline will become a hybrid of Alzheimer's and Schizophrenia. Dementia and Dissociative identity disorder. Parkinson's and Bipolar. That the woman who doesn't even respond when I say "Mom" (If you're curious, she does answer when I call her Eleanor and it's not even her name. Not even close - again, another story for another day.) eventually won't respond at all or will scream in terror at the sight of me because I'm familiar but her brain has rewired that connection to be a trigger from her past.

So I was melancholy tonight. (Did it show?) I'm okay with that, for the record, because my melancholy evaporates to calm soon enough. Today my mom and I had our first kerfluffle since I started my blog (Not that the blog itself is relevant to the issue, it's just the first time I'll be addressing this. I can guarantee it won't be the last.) This is an almost weekly happening. When she's really struggling it can be daily.  All things considered, today's was pretty mild. The shortest, most simplistic explanation would be to say that when my mom gets confused by her thoughts or feels slighted in some way, she verbally attacks. You've done everything from bestow special favors on someone else (and not her) to committing nefarious, hateful attacks against her. After that comes crying and asking us why we so obviously hate her and apologizing for being "bad". There is nothing like having your mom tell you what a rotten, hateful child you are, for several decades. No really, it's like drinking molten exfoliation cream. Doesn't that sound delightful? Now with 30% more ground apricot seeds for extra scouring power while you burn from the inside out.

I'm sure that comes across... badly? Cold? Dysfunctional? My gauge, it's different than most people's I find. Even after a few decades of this happening, it's difficult to hear. But I know she's spun out of reality when she hits that point. She's said it before. She'll be horrified she said it later. It's a cycle. It'll happen again. She truly believes when she's in the midst of her illness that any of us have it out for her. And she'll be so upset at herself later that it happened. Until she forgets or has an episode again. And then there's the days when I bring her home a hot fudge sundae and I'm her hero for the weekend. There's the days where she forgets how paranoid she was to be in a movie theater and she gushes to everyone that I took her to see a movie. And got her popcorn! And a big drink!! She's my mom. And even if I don't really think she knows what that means and even if I know our relationship is anything other than textbook, I still love her and want to protect her and want her to be as well as she can be. Also, I don't know what I'd do with the mom who cries over wedding planning. That edition of mom and I would have had our own issues. 

So we're clear here, it is what it is. My mom's always been sick. I've always made people uncomfortable with how direct I am about it, as an adult anyway. My house has a little different stress than your typical grandma-let-the-kids-have-a-cookie-instead-of-the-acai-quinoa-bar kind of house. I joke about needing a drink. A LOT. ad nauseam  I have completely normal childhood stories about playing cards with my mom or her taking me to get my ears pierced or to get my picture taken with Santa. I also have stories about my dad sitting me down to explain what was wrong with my mom and visiting my mom at psychiatric hospitals. There's balance, I swear.