My mom is homeless.
Did you know that if you google
“coping with a homeless parent”, nothing comes up? There are a few forums with
people talking about their parents who are dealing with substance abuse, but
that is about it. That was reassuring.
I found out on Sunday. Mother’s
Day. It also happens to be “Mental Health Awareness Month”. Whatever that
means. Don’t worry. I am acutely “aware”.
She has always been ill and my
siblings and I recognized it at an early age. We knew that she was bit eccentric
and we saw her forging my dad’s names on paperwork. Having our car towed once
every other week was pretty standard. About once every other month a car would
park outside of our house and my mom would make us close all of the blinds
because “they are watching us”. To this day I can’t handle having blinds
closed.
She was a good mom, however. I
remember her as fun-loving and affectionate. She showered us with hugs and
kisses. She was intelligent and encouraged us to do well in school and to read.
She nurtured our imaginations and told us to always believe in ourselves. She
told us that we could be anything we wanted. She instilled lessons that served
me well throughout my teen years and into adulthood, but periodically she would
have random irrational outbreaks and these only got worse with time.
When my parents divorced, I was
15. My coping skills were at an all-time high as I had been dealing with my
mother for some time at this point. Their divorce didn’t phase me, nor did it
phase my next eldest brother. We anticipated that eventually the weekly
irrational freak outs would get old and dad wouldn’t be able to stick around anymore.
We didn’t blame him. We would leave too if we weren’t minors.
My little brother was 4 at the
time, so my brother and I stuck around to make sure he was okay. We alternated
caring for him as my mother’s mental illness didn’t allow her the ability to
cope. We each got jobs after school so we could help pay for basic needs for
him. Mom went from an unstable person in a stable home to an unstable person in
an unstable home and her crazy antics got worse. She started stealing more.
Yes, more. I mean more in every sense of the word. My brother and I would have
to explain to her why stealing was wrong and she would lose it. She would
ransack our bedrooms and steal money that we had earned from our minimum wage
jobs. I specifically remember forcing her back to the store to return items she
had stolen, like I was the mother and she was my 5 year old child.
She became very verbally abusive
to me as I was the only daughter. She consistently told me how worthless I was
and started a rumor within the neighborhood that I was a whore. Our
relationship did not flourish.
Eventually, we all left. My
little brother moved in with my dad and my mother relinquished custody without
a second thought. She became a nomad for a bit and left Utah abruptly leaving
her crashed, leased car and all of her furniture at a rental home with no
intention of coming back.
I remember going there to clean
it up and collect her things. It was like entering the home of a hoarder and it
was very apparent that her illness was not getting better, but worse.
She met a man in Texas and they
ended up living together for about 7 years. Her erratic behavior calmed down
for a little while. They moved to Seattle and lived together until he cheated
on her, or she him or who knows. I can never get a straight story.
She floated from job to job.
Lived with friends. I think she even became an identity thief for a little
while. She decided that I and my two older brothers were no longer hers. She
“disowned” us as we do nothing to help her.
She won’t answer our phone calls.
She won’t answer our texts. We are part of the world that is “out to get her”.
My little brother lives in
Washington and he informed me that she has been sleeping in her car. She has
nothing to her name.
Now I have lost it.
My mother is a malicious, vindictive
and selfish individual. She has no reasoning. She is not medicated and refuses
to see a shrink. I have spent my life learning and understanding boundaries as
she is toxic to any life she touches, always having an ulterior motive.
I have a good life. I have spent
my life trying my hardest to be the best that I can despite her, but she is a
cloud that hovers over me and every few years she storms. I never know when or
what it will be. She is unpredictable, however; this is the first instance in
which her “storm” does not involve hurting someone else. This seems to be the
culmination of her decisions, ultimately resulting in no place to live. With
each storm, I feel as though I am slowly watching my own mother die right
before me and I have no control. She is no longer the loving and quirky woman
who raised me, but has morphed into this selfish and paranoid individual who
inflicts pain on all around her. My brothers and I cannot take her in. She
would destroy us….
But, how does one cope with a
parent who is homeless? She deserves basic human needs. What does she do all
day? What if it is cold?
I explain all of this because
life isn’t as easy as just taking her in. If we sent her money she would
squander it. If we put her up in a hotel, she would stay there until the last
day and then yell at us for not giving her more.
I explain all of this because I
hear people complain about panhandlers all of the time, but I could see my own
mother doing the same. I believe that the statistic is 75% of all homeless
people are mentally ill. This includes individuals with substance abuse as they
are often self-medicating. So perhaps, have a softer heart when you see them.
I explain all of this because I
am at a loss.
I explain all of this because
writing helps me cope and I cannot accept, as the internet implies, that I am
the only one dealing with this.
I explain this because I slept in
a warm bed last night and she most likely did not and I don’t know what to do
with that information.
I am not looking for sympathy or
empathy. Please spare me your “I’m sorry” and REALLY spare me your “Just love
her and pray for her”. God is not part of this plan. If you want to pray, that
is fine. However, 35 years as my mother’s daughter and 17 years in the medical
field has taught me that miracles are not a thing and that science is. My
mother could be treated with medication, but she chooses not to. If that
offends you, I have bigger concerns in my life and you are allowed to be
offended.
I want people to know being aware
of mental illness is fine, but also know that not everyone is treated.
I want people to know that we are
not what happens to us, but how we react to what happens to us. Having a parent
who is mentally ill does not mean that you cannot have a wonderful life.
I write this because it gives me something to do besides cry myself to sleep, grieving the loss of my mother to her illness yet again and ultimately trying to accept that, this time, there is nothing that I can do.
I write this because it gives me something to do besides cry myself to sleep, grieving the loss of my mother to her illness yet again and ultimately trying to accept that, this time, there is nothing that I can do.
I write this because I want someone to know that mental illness is a thing and if you are dealing with a
parent with a mental illness, you are not alone.
