Mom is on the phone right now, running countless sentences together and taking more than occasional drags of her cigarette. She said she is sick right now...that she "doesn't get sick often" but happens to be at the moment. Unfortunately that line is told to me every time we speak. She is always sick. I wonder when she'll understand the permanency of that word when it comes to her health.
It takes a lot of brain power to pick apart her sentences and paint the picture she is trying to create. Stories run together, thoughts overlap and tears are bound to burst out without warning. I feel for her. I feel bad for her. I get so angry sometimes but then I realize just how deep and dark her world seems to her - how deep and dark it seems to me. And I have the glory of being hundreds of miles away. She said Jake threw her at least eight feet across the room the other night. I wish I could believe this was exaggerated. Given the prescriptions, the history, the temperament and the addictions, I don't doubt it for a moment. Sometimes I just want to throw in the towel for her.
She started some story about someone bringing a beautiful ceramic mug into the bathroom...I'm not sure who it was about. She was concerned of it breaking - as many things do there. She ventured into the bathroom as she's telling me in great distress about losing the fight of this mug. I still don't know what happened to the mug. Of course there is deeper meaning. The mug and the bathroom weren't important. It was the point that her words hold no ground. They hold no ground in her own home. And the bathroom of course can't be used for normal hygiene and routine; this i'm only reminded of when her voice starts to quiver over the syringe she finds laying next to her sink. Without any doubt it belongs to Jake. She knows this, I know this. Yet she repeats the bullshit that he feeds to her about friends being in and out and how of course it is not his. She knows, I know. She hates it, I hate it.
I'm jaded by any family addiction at this point. It's been too long and my eyes were far too open to miss a beat. My mom's haven't been. Jake specifically, I have watched him spiral down for years. I didn't know the intensity of it until the past few but I've been watching it happen from the start. Mom always chose to turn and look the other way. Now she deals with it on a daily basis. She just told me a story about Jake from the other day. Shannon had bought him McDonalds (this is the part where my mothers voice sounds like a river of flowing tears) and she explains how he shoved handfuls of french fries into his mouth. As my mother tells it through her tears: "the french fries, long, long french fries shoved into his mouth, french fries hanging out of his mouth, held in his fist and piled on his lap. And he slept that way...for two hours...(dramatic pause)...because he had taken his pills." Add a few giant sobs and breaths of disbelief to the slurred and tear saturated words and you get a more realistic feel of her scenario replay.
I don't know what to do with these conversations. I have to stop her. One story sparks another story, which only spirals into yet another memory that sparks yet another. Eventually, within 5 minutes, I've been given a general recap of information and updates - enough to fill pages I'd never want to reread - that have probably only occurred within a one or two day span. What do I say to her? I end every conversation with "I love you" and "I am proud of you." What am I proud of?
Proud that she is alive, really. No one else is going to tell her, so I do. I don't know that I always mean it in the moment. But I do know that she always needs to hear it.
"You can't reason with a drug addict and you can't reason with a two year old." she always tells me now. At least her eyes are finally opening.
I'm babysitting and they are about to be home. Time to pop on the headphones and go home. I want nothing more than to shower and crawl into bed.... wake up at the crack of dawn and catch the first train to yoga. Sometimes I feel guilty that I have this freedom. I know my mom once did...when she was my age. If only I could give it back to her.
goodnight.
It takes a lot of brain power to pick apart her sentences and paint the picture she is trying to create. Stories run together, thoughts overlap and tears are bound to burst out without warning. I feel for her. I feel bad for her. I get so angry sometimes but then I realize just how deep and dark her world seems to her - how deep and dark it seems to me. And I have the glory of being hundreds of miles away. She said Jake threw her at least eight feet across the room the other night. I wish I could believe this was exaggerated. Given the prescriptions, the history, the temperament and the addictions, I don't doubt it for a moment. Sometimes I just want to throw in the towel for her.
She started some story about someone bringing a beautiful ceramic mug into the bathroom...I'm not sure who it was about. She was concerned of it breaking - as many things do there. She ventured into the bathroom as she's telling me in great distress about losing the fight of this mug. I still don't know what happened to the mug. Of course there is deeper meaning. The mug and the bathroom weren't important. It was the point that her words hold no ground. They hold no ground in her own home. And the bathroom of course can't be used for normal hygiene and routine; this i'm only reminded of when her voice starts to quiver over the syringe she finds laying next to her sink. Without any doubt it belongs to Jake. She knows this, I know this. Yet she repeats the bullshit that he feeds to her about friends being in and out and how of course it is not his. She knows, I know. She hates it, I hate it.
I'm jaded by any family addiction at this point. It's been too long and my eyes were far too open to miss a beat. My mom's haven't been. Jake specifically, I have watched him spiral down for years. I didn't know the intensity of it until the past few but I've been watching it happen from the start. Mom always chose to turn and look the other way. Now she deals with it on a daily basis. She just told me a story about Jake from the other day. Shannon had bought him McDonalds (this is the part where my mothers voice sounds like a river of flowing tears) and she explains how he shoved handfuls of french fries into his mouth. As my mother tells it through her tears: "the french fries, long, long french fries shoved into his mouth, french fries hanging out of his mouth, held in his fist and piled on his lap. And he slept that way...for two hours...(dramatic pause)...because he had taken his pills." Add a few giant sobs and breaths of disbelief to the slurred and tear saturated words and you get a more realistic feel of her scenario replay.
I don't know what to do with these conversations. I have to stop her. One story sparks another story, which only spirals into yet another memory that sparks yet another. Eventually, within 5 minutes, I've been given a general recap of information and updates - enough to fill pages I'd never want to reread - that have probably only occurred within a one or two day span. What do I say to her? I end every conversation with "I love you" and "I am proud of you." What am I proud of?
Proud that she is alive, really. No one else is going to tell her, so I do. I don't know that I always mean it in the moment. But I do know that she always needs to hear it.
"You can't reason with a drug addict and you can't reason with a two year old." she always tells me now. At least her eyes are finally opening.
I'm babysitting and they are about to be home. Time to pop on the headphones and go home. I want nothing more than to shower and crawl into bed.... wake up at the crack of dawn and catch the first train to yoga. Sometimes I feel guilty that I have this freedom. I know my mom once did...when she was my age. If only I could give it back to her.
goodnight.
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