After I wrote about one of my most recent days with my mother, I realized I needed to give people a fuller & truer representation of life with schizophrenia as I know it. A friend's comments reminded me that there are all types and levels of schizophrenia. And another reminded me that my readers would not be aware of some of the bumpy times I've had with my mother.

There have been two bumpy times - when contact was curtailed for a while. The most recent episode occurred about three years ago:

See, here's the thing about my mother - never disagree or chastise or muzzle her. Though I may appear to be an enabler, I'm not. I just know the dos and don'ts. Three Christmas Eves ago we were sitting at a lovely table and I was serving a lovely dinner, and I requested that she cease talking ugly about my father - that it was Christmas Eve. Now first of all, one shouldn't have to make that kind of request. Secondly, my request was reasonable. It was Christmas Eve for God's sake. Well, the ugly droning ceased and the marinating commenced. My mother stewed about my comments for about a week and then telephoned me and said she never wanted to see me again. *sigh* We didn't talk for over a year. I waited for her to call me.

The first time we had a serious rift was when my children were very young. I've neglected to mention that not only is my mother schizophrenic, but when I was young she was an over-the-top alcoholic. Good grief! It's amazing the woman is still alive and that she didn't take others with her. It was still the era when law enforcement went wink-wink. It was during this time she would not give up the drink, as I requested, when she wanted to be with my children. It was her choice. One she made it. She drank herself to oblivion for many, many years.

Now that brings to mind another nuance to my mother's mind. Her will is strong. Stronger than any other I've ever encountered. One day she suddenly decided to stop drinking her couple of bottles of vodka each day. A few years later she suddenly decided to stop smoking three packs of cigarettes each day. When I inquired how she was able to do this, she said, "I just stopped."

My drunken schizophrenic mother was notorious in the small town I grew up in. She was a joke. The town drunk. A menace. One time I was playing in a tennis tournament. A road ran beside the court where I was playing. She pulled up. Every time my opponent won a point, my mother laid her heavy hand on the horn. She carried on something awful. Funny isn't it - she was trying to be supportive - she wanted me to win. It was dreadful. My face was seared with humiliation, but I refused to concede. I lost more than a tennis match that day.

My sober schizophrenic mother is just as crazy as the drunken one, but a bit more manageable. Just last night (as is true every night) she talked about all her looney delusions, i.e., she was the first contacted when Marilyn Monroe was murdered by the Irish Mafia headed by Bobby Kennedy and B of A. (God only knows what B of A has to do with all this.) She thinks Alan Dershowitz (renowned Harvard attorney) is her co-conspirator to expose all kinds of illegal activity. Her true biological father is George Gershwin. Her phone is being tapped by the FBI. The list of insane delusions is endless. I've learned from past experience to just nod with acquiescence when she rambles with these fabrications. I keep my yap shut. I never encourage or ask questions or challenge her. I just dutifully listen - otherwise I become the enemy.

I don't write about this stuff nor do I talk about it often. She's my mother. She had two beautiful daughters and nearly destroyed them. As youngsters we knew no better and believed every delusional word that spilled from her mouth. When people tell me they don't believe Jeannette Walls' memoir, I tell them, "Believe it. Stuff like this happens." There was never a fucking anchor to give me stability. My sister and I just got through each day. *sigh*

About 15+ years ago my mother phoned and told me she was lonely. I told her that was unacceptable, that I would try to make sure she never felt lonely again. Since then I've called her every night unless I was out of the country (or after the Christmas Eve debacle). I call and listen to her drone and drone and drone with her delusions. For her it's like lancing a festering wound. For me? It's simple. She's my mother.

Call yours. Okay?

P.S. And remember to be kind.