Good morning, Claudia C: WARNING - my message is mega long:)
I know well the experience you write so honestly about when describing your Mom's mental illness and the dependency that such an illness creates between mothers and daughters. I am sure there are sons who experience this enmeshment too, but it didn't happen in my family with my Mom and brothers, it happened between me and my Mom. I know exactly what you mean when you say you feel that you were your Mom’s Mom as this is often how I describe how it was with my mother and me, and yet she was always still my mother, the one I depended upon. Our dependency is complex and mutually entwined.
I shared my intense feelings with the amazingly compassionate, wise and sensitive palliative doctor when my Mom was dying, as the enmeshment we experienced caused me to feel as if I too was dying when my Mom was passing away. Our close bond, I do realize and have always realized, was not the most healthy nor was it ideal, but for us it was the reality and the only way each of knew how to express ourselves and cope with the unforgiving circumstances we were in.
My Mom too was diagnosed as bi-polar - yes, manic depression as it was commonly described back in the 70's. Her own family - mother and sisters and brothers did not understand how my mother suffered not only from the illness, but from the stigma associated with it, the loss of confidence, and the lack of control over her emotions and thoughts and actions. They tried to help her of course because they loved her, but they too resented not only the illness but her as well, because they could never truly understand the illness or distinguish her from it. I could and did. Her extended family couldn't grasp that she did not have control over the symptoms of her illness or her responses to them.
I recall the terror I felt as a child whenever I witnessed my Mom in the throes of a depressive episode. It caused me to feel very helpless and insecure in the midst of such instability and I often felt confused and frightened for her future, and mine and my brothers. Even though I was so young and innocent, I had the capacity at a very early age to empathize with my Mom and my instincts guided me to protect her. She would, as did your Mom, cry for days on end. She would isolate herself, enshrouded in darkness, literally and figuratively, she hid under cover until an uncle would intervene and take her to the hospital.
At age 14 I assumed this responsibility because my Mom trusted me and I could always find a way to appeal to her and get her to cooperate and allow me to accompany her to the hospital. In those days it was Whitby Psychiatric which was notorious for its old-fashioned asylum environment. I hated taking my Mom there and felt worse about myself disloyal and heartless, whenever I had to leave her behind in such a cold and terrifying place where those suffering were kept hidden and locked up under the weight of oppression and despair. I recall how heavy my heart felt as the solid metal doors slammed shut behind me as I left the institution, and yet I hoped my mother would be restored and that she return to me as the mother I could once again recognize, the mother I adored even when mental illness held hostage her truest self.
Due to my Mom’s lack of insight and acceptance of her illness, which is a part of being bi-polar for many, she could not welcome any intervention in her own best interest and therefore, even after she recovered from an episode, the deep resentments she harboured in her heart towards those who "interfered" were never fully resolved. Except those feelings of betrayal did not touch me for long as she was my mother in every sense of the word, and she understood on a deep level my motivations. I was exempt from her displeasure yet she burdened me with her feelings of resentment towards others which put me in the middle of many difficult situations. I could never make her face a reality that her illness prevented her from seeing or embracing.
My Mom never understood nor did I ever express to her directly how hurtful the experience of her mental illness was for me. I learned at a young age to sift through her language and expressions on her face and those hidden behind the suspicion in her eyes to become an expert at interpreting meaning as nothing was ever in our lives as it seemed. My sense of reality was altered by what my Mom experienced and it caused me to become very analytical as I had to constantly figure out for myself which reality was valid, her or mine. I learned to question everything and one would have to get up pretty early in the morning to deceive me. In the end both of our realities were valid, but it was always difficult to accept, understand and reconcile. Lingering anxiety haunts me in my life to this day. It was heartbreaking to watch my mother suffer the torments of the mind and spirit.
Given that my Mom chose me to depend upon when I was still only a child, I think it is natural that I felt such extraordinary responsibility for her and her happiness. I never was able to fully separate her needs from my own and nor was I able to forgive myself when I could not relieve her of her suffering. I know that these feelings are not logical, and my rational mind knows that I need no forgiveness for failing her, but I still struggle with emotions and feelings of failure. Feelings cannot always be rationalized away.
The lack of control I felt in my childhood in terms of having a mother whose illness consumed much of life, colours the memories I claim and causes many other memories to escape me entirely to this day, and it left scars on my soul that have healed but as scars do, they remind us of what we have suffered. As you know from experience, mental illness does not afflict only the person diagnosed with it, but it causes all those whom love the suffering person to share it in every sense imaginable.
While no doubt about it, mental illness causes those affected to experience bitter pain and heartbreak, it ironically is also responsible in my opinion for creating immense compassion for others, understanding of the deeper and darker aspects of life and of people, and it gifts those whom have endured it themselves with an uncommon depth and resilience. I am ever grateful for the insight I have attained directly because of my Mom's sad and shattering sojourns into the hell of uncertainty, mixed with moments of extremes, earth-shaking fear and euphoric flights of fantasy. I know intimately the complexities and colours of my mother and her life and how her experience became vicariously mine. I embrace the lessons we learned, the deep and abiding love we shared and each memory of my Mom's and my every unkind experience where we discovered our truest nature and purpose through the mysteries of mental illness.
I will write more about my Mom and me and mental illness another day. Thank you, Claudia for writing your memories of your Mom. The questions remain. It is up to us to interpret our own answers now that our mothers have died. I wonder if others can ever know what it is like to suffer with mental illness or how it feels to love those who do if they have not had such experience and the kind of close connection we each had with our Moms. I hope through telling our stories, more people will better understand how deeply mental illness affects us all, individually, as families, and as a society. There is still so much to explore, so much to learn, but most importantly, even in our imperfect world, we must try to reduce the stigma and shame associated with mental illness. There is among the darkness, brilliant rays of light to behold.