This is a difficult post to write
For the longest time I pushed it to the back of my mind, feeling uncomfortable about it and remembering how very weird and unsettling it was for me back then, not least because I had no way of knowing if it would escalate or how I would deal with it if it did.
My Mother`s various crazy behaviour had many facets.
Depression, anxiety, hysteria, rages, tantrums, sulks, gaslighting, triangulation, character assassination, manipulation, threats of violence, threats of suicide, inappropriate behaviour, no boundaries, manic behaviour and wild up moods with loud music, alcohol and extravagant spending sprees, rushed intense friendships that quickly ended, down to silent days, weeping, living in the past and only speaking of what had gone before, disassociated with the present, taking to her bed, hypochondria, health anxiety....the list goes on,
a mix of Personality disordered traits, various mental health issues and I believe bi polar presentations, aided by an indulgent, unprofessional long time family Dr who readily prescribed whatever she demanded without ever seeming to get to treating the problem rather than the symptoms, he like my Father, wanted her off his back. `I like Dr so and so` she would say in her little girl voice `He gives me what I want` She took Valium, pain killers and sleeping tablets like sweeties, such was mental health care in the 70`s.
She also had different, voices, personas and personalities which she would slip in and out of at will, unsettling to witness and as she was my primary carer and often alone with me, as a small child it was quite scary. Not only did I not know how Mother would be, at times I did not know who Mother would be either.
If she was reading a Catherine Cookson and there was a nurturing type character who was the heroine, she would speak softly to me for a day or two and I could do no wrong.
Thank God she never read Horror...
From about 9 I can remember her role playing and I unwittingly became a bit player. If she began reminiscing her eyes would shine and widen, she had a permanent half smile and looked about her and off into the distance as if she was seeing something other than what was there. Often triggered by an old movie being on TV that she had seen at the cinema years before with some beau, she would tell me to sit beside her. The living room would be dark, the curtains half closed even if it was afternoon.
Usually she found physical closeness uncomfortable but now she would want me near. She would get sweets out from her handbag and almost glow with excitement and so she would begin a monologue. She would ramble away as if talking to a new boyfriend, chatting about her favorite films and telling me details of her life as it was then and not now. Laughing coquettishly, "Axe we is courting Mand" translated that meant Act as if we were courting Amanda. "Axe we is at the pictures" Why the weird language I have no idea. I found it sickening. At some point she would hold my hand. I would sit as still as possible, my skin crawling, frozen with the weirdness of it all, praying she would loose momentum and her concentration would slip and she would come back to reality and realise where she was. During these episodes she would glance at me from time to time, she would look at me with such gentleness and affection whilst simultaneously looking right through me, not really seeing me at all. Eventually she would trail off and become silent, staring randomly into the distance not at the telly, then a deep sigh or two, she would slump a little, lose my hand, her gaze returning to the TV.
When she became more aware of her surroundings I would then be dismissed.
`You can go now` she would say quietly but coldly `And open them curtains`
This happened on and off until I was around 12 when the puzzlement and compliance of my younger days was slowly replaced with a freaked out reaction I found hard to hide, I guess it broke the spell for her and `pretending` came to an end. I was afraid wondering how deeply she would drift away. I was afraid seeing my Mother experiencing some sort of psychosis and having to be part of it.
And the sad part was she never ever look at me with such love and tenderness except when she was pretending I was someone else.
Imagine how that made me feel.
~
If she was reading a Catherine Cookson and there was a nurturing type character who was the heroine, she would speak softly to me for a day or two and I could do no wrong.
Thank God she never read Horror...
From about 9 I can remember her role playing and I unwittingly became a bit player. If she began reminiscing her eyes would shine and widen, she had a permanent half smile and looked about her and off into the distance as if she was seeing something other than what was there. Often triggered by an old movie being on TV that she had seen at the cinema years before with some beau, she would tell me to sit beside her. The living room would be dark, the curtains half closed even if it was afternoon.
Usually she found physical closeness uncomfortable but now she would want me near. She would get sweets out from her handbag and almost glow with excitement and so she would begin a monologue. She would ramble away as if talking to a new boyfriend, chatting about her favorite films and telling me details of her life as it was then and not now. Laughing coquettishly, "Axe we is courting Mand" translated that meant Act as if we were courting Amanda. "Axe we is at the pictures" Why the weird language I have no idea. I found it sickening. At some point she would hold my hand. I would sit as still as possible, my skin crawling, frozen with the weirdness of it all, praying she would loose momentum and her concentration would slip and she would come back to reality and realise where she was. During these episodes she would glance at me from time to time, she would look at me with such gentleness and affection whilst simultaneously looking right through me, not really seeing me at all. Eventually she would trail off and become silent, staring randomly into the distance not at the telly, then a deep sigh or two, she would slump a little, lose my hand, her gaze returning to the TV.
When she became more aware of her surroundings I would then be dismissed.
`You can go now` she would say quietly but coldly `And open them curtains`
This happened on and off until I was around 12 when the puzzlement and compliance of my younger days was slowly replaced with a freaked out reaction I found hard to hide, I guess it broke the spell for her and `pretending` came to an end. I was afraid wondering how deeply she would drift away. I was afraid seeing my Mother experiencing some sort of psychosis and having to be part of it.
And the sad part was she never ever look at me with such love and tenderness except when she was pretending I was someone else.
Imagine how that made me feel.
~
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