Love and saying no

“One of these days, I’m going to pack up my bags and leave. And then you’ll find out what it is to not have me around.”

I heard my mother yell those and similar words many times when I was a child. Usually it was during a tirade when she was complaining about how hard she worked and how little she was appreciated.

The words scared me. I pictured my mother packing suitcases—it was always two suitcases in my imagination—and leaving the house, leaving me behind.

What would I do without my mother?

It didn’t matter what kind of mother she was. I needed my mother, and I didn’t want her to leave.

I have been thinking about her words a lot over the past couple of weeks. Maybe they’ve been on my mind because her suicide attempt seemed like the ultimate threat. Perhaps that’s not a fair assessment, but that’s the connection I’ve made.

I told you in my last post that some wise people have helped me. One of those is my minister.

A few days after my mother was taken to the hospital, I met with him. I wanted to get feedback on my reaction to what she had done. I wanted to talk about the guilt that I felt because of all the anger and hate I felt, not just over the recent incident, but over a lifetime of pain.

During our conversation, I made the comment that I knew my feelings were wrong, that the Jesus of my faith tradition taught that we should love one another.

My minister said he couldn’t say what love was.

But he could say that love was not always saying yes. Sometimes, he said, love was saying no. Love didn’t mean that we had to put up with whatever someone did.

Those words helped me tremendously.

I have begun to see that loving my mother doesn’t mean that I have to place myself in circumstances where I am open to abuse.

I love my mother because that is what I needed to do as a child: bond with and love my mother.

She is my mother. She is not evil. She is not a monster.

But she has never acknowledged the truth about our past, nor does she admit that there’s anything wrong with the continuing put-downs, manipulations, and lies.

I was hoping that she would finally get the help that she needed. But she is choosing not to.

I rarely saw her or talked with her on the phone before her actions almost two weeks ago. I was trying to resolve my sense of guilt even then.

Now, I have a sense of resolution.

I cannot be around my mother, at least not now. I cannot talk to her or see her. I cannot have a relationship with her.

I don’t wish her harm. I hope she has a good life. I hope she is happy and healthy.

But for my own health, I have to stay away from her.

When life seems to fall apart

So much has happened since I last posted. I have struggled with the best way to write this post.

What has guided me in writing it is my belief that I must be honest with my readers, and I must also be honest in order to chip at the stigma that surrounds what I’m about to tell you.

About 10 days ago, my mother attempted suicide. She is 86 years old and lives in an assisted living home with her own room. She took what she described as a handful of sleeping pills on a Thursday night. She was found unconscious by the home’s staff the next morning and taken to the hospital.

The assumption was that she had had a stroke, though when a neurologist examined her, he thought otherwise.

All through the day that Friday, she became more and more conscious. That evening, she told me, my husband and my oldest brother what she had done.

My mother has been depressed for my entire life. She has mostly been untreated. She has taken antidepressants off and on, but she always stopped taking them.

With this incident, she spent three days in a mental health ward. She was diagnosed as depressed. She was deemed not to be a danger to herself and released to go back to her assisted living home. She is not seeking additional help.

Why she did what she did, what she wanted to do—all of that is her story. I can only truly tell you my story.

I have done a lot of reading about the aftereffects of attempted suicide and suicide. But this is not a post about how to care for the one who attempts suicide. It is not about recognizing the signs that someone is contemplating suicide.

Frankly, I’m not in the position to be able to write such a post.

But you can find information about suicide and suicide prevention HERE.

This post is about the messy, emotional aftermath of a suicide attempt by a family member.

Even though I have been familiar with the world of mental health issues for years, I still had a hard time imagining that someone in my family, someone that I knew, would attempt suicide. So I was first shocked. Then horrified and afraid.

Over the last 10 days, I have had a lot of conflicting emotions swirling through me. But the main one has been anger. White hot anger that has made my chest feel like it’s full and about to explode.

And hate. Hate and resentment and bitterness and anger have filled me up.

If you have been reading my blog for a while, you know my relationship with my mother has never been easy.

Even with that history, my emotions have surprised me and made me feel guilty. I don’t want to be a person who hates. I don’t want to be a selfish person.

Thankfully, I have talked with some wise people who have reminded me that it’s OK to feel this way and that it’s best not to deny the way I feel. I won’t always feel these emotions.

And perhaps others who have been in this situation have felt the same way as I have and felt the same fear about revealing that to others.

So I am revealing it to you.

I’ll be back on Wednesday with a better explanation of what some wise people and some quiet contemplation have helped me to understand.

86 years

Today is my mother’s 86^th birthday.

I don’t write a lot about my mother. We’re not close, for many reasons that I won’t go into now. We used to be close, but in an unhealthy way. I’ve accepted that our relationship is what it is.

But I’m thinking of my mother today and considering her many talents that, though I didn’t inherit many of them, blessed me and many others through the years.

I am using the past tense when I speak of her use of her talents because most of these she can no longer do. She lives in an assisted living house and has her meals fixed for her. It’s very difficult for her to do handwork because of the arthritis in her hands. She gets around slowly with a cane or walker.

But I think her talents still live within her, and if she could physically do them, she would again bless people with them.

Cooking

My mother was, as my father called her one time, a “top cook.” I don’t remember ever tasting anything she cooked that tasted awful—unless it happened to be a food that I already detested.

She loved to read cookbooks and experiment with new foods. She seemed to have a sixth sense about what ingredients would work together and produce a tasty dish.

Presentation of food was important to her, too. She liked to transfer dishes from the pans they were cooked in to pretty serving dishes, even for a common supper on a Wednesday night.

If she again had the strength to “put a meal on the table,” as she would say, I would ask her to cook her fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green peas and yeast rolls.

One of the afghans and the double wedding ring quilt made by my mother.

Sewing

My mother is creative and used that creativity to sew many an outfit for me as I was growing up. She made most of the dresses I wore growing up. She almost always made a new outfit for me for the first day of school.

She made her own clothes, too, and shirts for my brothers and father. She could also repair and mend anything brought to her by family and friends.

My mother also quilted. She quilted a blanket that had been pieced together by my father’s sister. Some of the pieces in the quilt are snippets of my grandmother’s dresses.

She also made a double wedding ring quilt for me.

Crocheting and knitting were also some of my mother’s talents. She made many afghans, including a purple and lavender one for me.

My mother walking the edge of the garden in 1988. She usually visited and worked in the garden several times a day.

Gardening

My mother’s thumb is green. Pure green. She was legendary in our community for having a beautiful garden that produced mountains of food, much of which she shared with others. She also raised a variety of flowers and shrubs that enhanced the landscape. She freely gave away clippings to others.

She became a Master Gardener when she was in her 50s or 60s and volunteered her time to help others learn about gardening.

Nowadays my mother enjoys reading, especially mysteries and thrillers. She participates in activities at the home she lives in. She especially enjoys lectures that visitors such as the Lynchburg Museum staff give on a variety of subjects. She goes out to lunch with her sisters. She keeps busy.

Except for reading, I haven’t carried forward my mother’s talents or interests. I don’t cook much, and I don’t enjoy it like she did. I can’t seem to get the hang of sewing or knitting, though I can crochet. I enjoy plants, but I don’t yet have the knowledge that my mother does.

I wish I had the relationship with my mother that I know many people have with their mothers. Of course, wishing for something that isn’t likely to be doesn’t help anyone.

But I do admire many of my mother’s qualities and talents, and I’m grateful for the blessings she’s given to her loved ones and beyond.

Did you inherit any of the talents and interests of your parents or other family members?