Sunday, May 5th. “Listen To Your Mother” show day. I was so honored to be a part of the cast. I was also about to do something I have never
done. I was going to talk about my mother in front of hundreds of people I never met. I was going to talk about her illness. I can do this,
I told myself. I knew I could not do it alone.
But I didn’t have to worry. There
was going to be sixteen other women telling their stories that I have grown to
trust and care about very much.
Photo credit: Sabrina Persico
There
would be my family, my loving, caring, unbelievably supportive family. And yes, I know how lucky I am. Our family is a true treasure, what a gift I
have been given . . .
And my wonderful, amazing friends would be there. Friends that are always, always there for me,
as I am for them. And yet, I was still so
scared. I sat backstage and wondered how
I would find the courage to really and truly get on that stage and speak my
piece. But then, my daughter, as she so
often does, saved the day. She started
texting me pictures of my family and friends that were in the audience.
She sent this one:
And this one:
And this one:
And this one:
And with each picture I grew calmer and
calmer. My family and friends kept on entering the theater. Their love and strength was all that I needed. I knew it was going to be fine. And it was much more than just fine. It
was healing and affirming and I think, life-changing. So now I give to all, my story.
Bewilderment to Still Evolving Clarity
Photo credit: Sabrina Persico
My
mother was mentally ill.
I grew up in a world of
unpredictability, chaos, and at times, madness. I ate Twinkies for breakfast,
boloney sandwiches for lunch and cornflakes for dinner. Sometimes I made them for my little sister,
too. It could have been worse. We survived.
We wore clothes ordered from
the Sears catalog by my loving, overwhelmed father who in those days, did not
receive the kind of understanding and support he needed to raise two young
girls in such a house . . . A house of
madness. He tried so hard. We loved him very much.
She was an artist. One morning I woke up and a mural of Paris
filled one entire wall of our dining room. Vibrant colors, wild strokes, breathtaking
beauty. So talented. My father was angry
when she painted. It took her even
farther away from us, deep into her own world.
One day, I found tubes of oil
in the garbage, wasted colors, running into each other to make a world of
grey. He threw them away, all of the
colors, gone. I did not understand the why of any of it, but my child’s heart
hurt for her pain.
Strange objects in the oven, blaring
sounds from the television and the radio on at the same time, and pacing.
She was always pacing, up and down our
small hallway, up and down, up and down. Sometimes she paced outside. And the
neighborhood kids saw her and they knew.
There was cigarette smoke
smell in the drapes and butts in the ashtray. Sometimes my mother danced
desperately, wildly, pounding her feet into the light green carpet to the
sounds of Harry Belafonte singing “Day-O.
Come Mr. Tally man, tally
me banana . . .”
She was gone again. We called it how we saw it; quite often our
mother “ran away”. Sometimes leaving a
note on the table. Sometimes not. They
would always find her. There were ambulances, sirens
blaring, and countless hospital stays and empty promises that things would be
better. They weren’t. Medicine bottles lined the bathroom shelves
and pills, instead of being taken, were flushed down the toilet.
There were loving
grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins.
Thank G-d. And we grew up.
And then I was a mother. I was so scared. I waited for the madness to
come to me. I finally realized, it was
not going to come. Thank G-d again. My children would grow up in a house of
love, with normalcy and routines. I served
meals with vegetables and desserts made with fresh fruit and sometimes even,
home baked cookies.
My mother did the best she
could, though I did not understand that then.
I hardly understand it now.
And in turn, I am doing the
best I can. My children are grown. They know where I came from and how hard I
tried. To make up what I didn’t know. To be their mother. To love them always. When they understood, and even when they
didn’t.
My mother was mentally ill. I listened to her voice. And then I listened to my own.
Photo credit:
Sabrina Persico
