Blog Series Guest Post: Looking Back

Author: Cate Luther

Bio: I'm Cate, a former classroom teacher who taught for over 20 years. Now I'm a stay-at-home-mom, blogger and educational advocate. Check out my blog at : Raising a Drama Queen. I also have a Facebook page called: Raising a Drama Queen: Adventures with Autism and Bipolar Disorder.

I grew up in a time where mental illness was not like it is today. Both of my parents had their challenges with this.

In my father I saw it when I was a young child. He was diagnosed with what at the time was called Paranoid Schizophrenia. Now it is just called Schizophrenia. He was brilliant yet couldn’t hold a steady job. In many ways he was like the character in “A Beautiful Mind.” I’m not sure why, but he refused to get the help he needed. Perhaps it was because of the stigma surrounding mental health. It may have been that he was in denial. I remember one incident that I witnessed. Like many with Schizophrenia, my dad had an unhealthy perspective of religion. He thought he could audible hear God’s voice. On that day it told him that his sons’ toys were of the devil. He took a hammer to all of their toys while standing over a trashcan in front of our house. Another time, I was told that he felt that my mom was of the devil and so were her children. He had brought home some holy water from church. He chased my mom and my little brother around the house trying to sprinkle them with it in hopes that it would purify them. Shortly after these two incidents my mom left my dad. She saw that he was becoming more and more unstable. Even though the church she grew up in frowned upon divorce, she valued our lives more than being right.

Back in the early 1970’s when all of this was unfolding, my mom didn’t have many places to turn to for help. She eventually found us a place to live and secured a job for herself. She did all of this while suppressing all of her own mental health issues.

As a young college student I sought out a counselor to help me heal from the pain of my past. She told me that I should be angry with my mom for some poor choices. I felt that I couldn’t since my mom very well may have saved my life and my brothers’ lives. I knew she was doing the best that she could.

While I was growing up, I heard that my mom had had a nervous breakdown. (This is now referred to as a psychotic break.) I was told that this occurred shortly after her marriage to my father. This was before she had any children. The story goes that she had never been on her own before marriage. The stress of being married and having to be a grown up, became too much for my mom. She spent some time in a mental institution where she received electric shock therapy. It would be almost thirty years before she was admitted again.

After she left my dad, my mom hunkered down and raised my brothers and I. We became her life’s work. We’d see glimmers of her instability from time to time. I remember feeling like I was my mother’s mother. I had to be the strong one. I was not allowed to grow up. My mom was narcissistic. We were supposed to feel sorry for all of her struggles. I was the one to comfort her on many occasions. Even though I felt this tremendous pressure to be my mom’s rock, I still had to take care of myself.

The first thing that I did was to go away to college. My mom was proud of me, but also terrified that I would grow up and leave her. We all eventually did. I had only partially left the nest while in college since I still came home on weekends and school breaks. My youngest brother was the first to officially fly the coop when he left after high school to join the army. Then several years later my older brother got married and left as well. After college, I left home even though I was still living in the same city as my mom. She tried to hold it together by keeping herself busy with various activities. I know it was a tremendous strain for her. You could see it on her face and in her words.

I finally met the man of my dreams when I was 32. I married him a little over a year after meeting him. Although my mom was extremely happy to see me get married, it caused her a lot of grief. She knew that she could no longer lean on me for support. Little by little I saw her slip away. One day she thought she was having a heart attack. I took her to the emergency room at our local hospital. After running some tests, the doctor told her that it was a panic attack. These episodes started to increase in frequency. One thing led to another. Eventually, she was hospitalized for mental health concerns. These hospitalizations became episodic as well. Finally, the hospital social worker convinced me to look for an assisted living facility for my mom. She retired from her job as well. My little brother helped me move her belongings there. He also helped me transport her there after she was discharged from her latest hospital stay.  Sadly, the assisted living facility really did not know how to help my mom. Within a few months of moving there, we moved her to a board and care facility. As time progressed so did my mom’s illness. Her last was schizoaffective disorder. That means she was depressed and had hallucinations and delusional thinking.

During all of my mom’s many hospitalizations I became a mom to my own sweet child. I spent many days working, caring for my child and caring for my mom.  I also found myself driving home in tears after visiting my mom. I mourned the loss of my mom. I mourned the grandmother my daughter would never really get to know. Had my mom been well, she would have made an amazing grandma. There were times when friends and family would come with me to visit my mom. Many times I went by myself. It was really hard because no one knew how to really help me.

(From the author: Pictured is me, my daughter and my mom during a time she was ill. Even in her suffering she was so happy we came to see her.)

Then in March of 2008, a doctor called me with some disturbing news. I was told that my 
mom had been admitted to the hospital with pneumonia. The doctor didn’t think she would survive it. He told me to “circle the wagons.” I had to call all of our friends and family to let them know about this. My mom died less than a week later. I think she gave up the will to live.

A year later my dad passed away. Even though I had forgiven him for many things, we never had the father daughter relationship that I so desperately wanted.

Through all of the heartache and pain that mental illness put me through. It did prepare me to be the kind of mom my own child, who lives with mental illness, needed.

Stay tuned for an upcoming post about that.