I was raised by a mom diagnosed with paranoid schizophrenia. Back then, in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, not even the so-called Ph.D’d professionals knew what was going on or how to deal with “crazy.” And if they didn’t know, we – my immigrant English second language family – couldn’t possibly have known. It’s part of why mamma went without any kind of treatment, hearing voices and seeing things that really weren’t there, for far too long, making her a danger to herself and to us.
I still can’t shake memories of a 14-year old me in 1979 helping my papà commit mamma to a hospital psych ward. Part of me exhaled in relief, knowing we were rid of her, even if only for a little while. Another part of me became consumed with guilt over what I then didn’t fully understand had to be done.
For much of my life, I tried to separate my parts, doing my best to distance those genes of insanity that I had inherited through no fault of my own. I kept my mamma at arms-length, afraid of the demons she battled and the parts of her she could not control. And I kept our family’s schizophrenia a secret from the outside world, lest I be subjected to the stigma and discrimination by association.
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Mental Illness and Mamma
Mother’s Day is hard for me. The fact that it falls in the very same time frame as Mental Health Awareness month makes it even harder.
As fresh-off-the-boat Sicilians, my parents practiced their own form of Cosa Nostra, and we were taught that what happened within the family, stayed inside the family. It was “Our Thing” and nobody else’s business. As a result, I became a master at keeping secrets, making it all the way to the 8th grade before anyone discovered ours.
Then came Christmas morning 1979.
Like all good Catholics, my father, my siblings and I were racing to leave the house and get to our local church for ten a.m. mass. The church was notorious for being “standing room only” on this one day of the year. Mamma hadn’t joined us for years, so when she appeared at the top of our staircase, dressed from head to toe in Scarlet O’Hara red (the very color she never wore and didn’t approve of her girls wearing), I knew we were in trouble. My father, on the other hand, chose to believe it was a Christmas miracle, gifted to him by God after years of prayer, asking for an end to the demons that tormented his wife.
Mamma spent her nights sitting in the dark on the sofa, screaming profanities in Italian, swearing that she would murder us all, plotting and pleading with voices only she could hear. She stashed sharp kitchen knives and my brother’s wooden baseball bats under the bed she shared with Papá, promising to use them if he dared to close his eyes or step one foot into the bedroom. Papá ignored the potential danger, always choosing to sleep in their bed, while I rarely did in mine, trying to stay awake and keep vigil for fear of Mamma following through on her threats. [Read more…]
Why I Hate Mother’s Day
Mom and I, with me wearing the first communion dress she made for me.
Anne Lamott is one of my favorite authors. From the first word I read from her 1995 book “Bird by Bird,” I felt a special bond with this person I had never met. Her recent post on Salon.com wherein she shares her reasons on why she hates Mother’s Day just further underscores why I love her. She writes: “It celebrates the great lie about women: That those with children are more important than those without.”
I must admit that I agree with Anne. I’ve regretted, at times, not having had children, and I’ve felt “less than” other women because of it. But that’s not why I find myself hating Mother’s Day. This year, in particular, I greatly despise it. Maybe it’s because this is the year that my memoir The S Word published. Maybe. Or maybe it’s because on this Mother’s Day, I’m finally allowing myself to feel robbed. My coming of age years, especially, suffered due to my mother’s mental illness. Paranoid schizophrenia did rob me of having a mother. But it’s more than that… [Read more…]
