Tomorrow is the day the world celebrates the quiet appearance of a child----the child who fills the hearts of the world. But sometimes... we still feel holes. And these holes don't always seem filled because we're looking in all the wrong places.
One of my own heart holes, is in the shape of a 67** (68 today!) year old woman. Carol. My mother. She was one of the fiercest, smartest, most sacrificial women you've ever met. Remember that. She had her flaws, but those aren't the things to remember right now. Remember her humor and her passion and her dreams.
But I'll spare the backstory, and ignore my now natural use of past tense, and skip to the story of a festering wound that began just a few years ago.
I won't begin to pretend that I can tell her story. I can't. I can only tell my own. Full of perceptions and emotions that come from a little broken soul who is full of, I'm sure what some would call, dramatic (irony or no) recollections. But there is something in me that needs to write.
3+ years ago (almost 4 now), my mom, quite literally, lost her mind. Sorrow, anger, pain, hate, a journey of forgiveness, and a journey of trying to love within helplessness followed. She has all the labels that not even psychologists agree about yet insist they're true: schizoaffective, bipolar, hallucinations, paranoia, delusions, bullshit. Don't get me wrong, I'm all for the proper diagnosis. But when the labels can't help heal any more because someone is too sick... it hurts.
All that I know, all that my family knows, is that we've tried every avenue for help with my mom. She fell into hospitals and jails. We've pleaded, cried, talked to experts. But she doesn't want our help or the expert's help. And therefore...no help can be given.
I don't know what she's doing for Christmas. I'll probably try to call. But I'll be honest, I don't want to make that call. It will be filled with anger spewing about everyone she hates. I've managed to not be put on her list of hated people...yet. This is through nothing born of my own merit. She has no reason to hate many of the people she does now besides the main reason... the broken chemicals in her brain.
But the pain in knowing that my calls won't do anything, won't really touch her, hurts me deeply. And how selfish is that? --- to worry about whether she thinks that I'm loving her well, more than actually worrying about whether she actually feels loved or worrying about how best to actually love.
But I never said I deal with things perfectly.
I'll wish her Merry Christmas and let her rant about everyone who has abandoned her, while I hold the knowledge that she (or who her mental illness has formed her to be) has abandoned us.
The temptation arises in me to compare and then to yell and scream at anyone who complains about their own family issues, especially this time of year.
But other suffering is just as valid as mine. It's just different. I've just created a wall to block people out. I've isolated myself into thinking I can't ever talk about this. Well, except for the many, many times I have shared this with the kind people in my life.
To those that have listened, prayed, and suffered with me, my family, and my mother, I thank you.
Your witness has allowed my stubborn belief that no one cares about mental illness to shift radically.
But some days it feels impossible to believe in a world that will ever allow this cross to be spoken of without awkward silences, and pitying looks. But I must remind myself that those are things that come with any story of loss. Not just mine. Ours is just one of on-going loss, and so the natural uncomfortability goes on because.... people can barely handle their own pain, let alone someone else's messy pain arising from mothers that don't have their minds any longer.
I've made so many mistakes in this process. Mistakes I'm too ashamed to share right now.
I've cried til I've screamed.
And I have clung to the hope that one day my mother will return to fill the hole in my heart.
Hope must always stay alive, even if we can't feel it yet, because without it, we crumble into a million pieces.
Hope.
A child born to save man.
Hope.
A child born to a mother.
Hope.
A child that fills our holes before we heal in any natural way, before we realize.
Hope.
For a mother to return to her children.
Hope.
It is the season of hope.
Please pray fiercely for our mother's healing. Please love your family fiercely this Christmas season. (Almost Christmas season)
Please hope.
Merry Christmas, my dear ones. (Almost!)
For all the Catholics reading this, please pray this prayer for my mom's healing and safety. It's a prayer asking for the intercession of a dear priest that my mom loved.
