Carol Stories

“Carol stories” include a secret and surprise living room wedding (her own), stealing her family members cars and running away, and kidnapping her own daughter. She has wrecked more than one vehicle, lived with strangers, and invited a stranger who’d recently been released from prison to live in her home. Carol stories are ridiculous, seem completely unbelievable and like something you’d only read about or see in a Lifetime movie.

Carol’s mental illness has caused an incredible amount of pain, suffering, and trauma to her family and loved ones. She is not going to “get better” or decide to finally accept responsibility for taking better care of herself. Carol stories are hilariously entertaining while simultaneously gut-wrenchingly heartbreaking. They read like a textbook case-study of mental illness.

Carol is my mother.

I don’t think mental illness is funny or anything to take lightly, but these stories provide a bit of comic relief in an otherwise hopeless situation. I remember starting to share them several years ago, at a job where I worked many hours and spent most of my time. I’d spent most of my life before that hiding them, feeling shame and fearing judgment that would come with telling people the reality of my life and upbringing.

But at some point I realized hiding the stories didn’t change anything or make them less real, so I might as well be honest. My co-workers and I would sit in my boss’s office, we’d lock the door. I’d tell them about Carol’s latest antics, play them some of her infamous voicemails, and they’d look at me incredulously, realizing this was my reality, while I still struggled to come to terms with it as well.

Wait, your mother stole your car and ran away!?

Yes.

She’s living with an ex-con she doesn’t know!?

Yes.

That’s crazy!

I know.

The stories are, no doubt, another creative way of processing trauma. Trauma works something like this: Imagine someone hands you a backpack, and it’s full of bricks. You’re told that you can do what you want with the heavy load inside the backpack, but you’ll still have to wear it every day.

So you start to lighten the load, sharing and handing bricks to other people. Carol stories are bricks you give away to lighten the load, to make the backpack more manageable and easier to carry. The backpack is still there, but it’s now more comfortable, and less likely to weigh you down and keep you from moving forward.

Last summer, Carol ended up in the hospital during a manic episode after stopping her medication, a poor decision she makes often. Usually agreeable and easygoing when she’s well, manic Carol is a whole different story. She is, in fact, a real asshole.

She was combative and argumentative with the staff at the hospital, refusing to take medication and trying to work every angle possible to avoid following the rules. Rules have never really been Carol’s thing. She was angry and decided it might be best to call someone to tell her side of the story and rescue her from the boring and responsible rule makers. So, she called 9-1-1. That’s right, she called 9-1-1 to rescue her…from inside the hospital.

My sister and I were sharing responsibilities of talking to her case managers at the hospital this time, and my sister reported the news.

“Hey, did you talk to the hospital today?” I asked her.

“Oh, yes, Carol called 9-1-1 today, on herself, from the hospital…” she reported.

“Hmm,” I said. “Did anyone remind her that she’s already IN THE HOSPITAL?”

“I think they probably realized where the call was coming from,” she said.

Naturally, they had. Nobody came to rescue Carol that day.

But the greatest gift in having Carol as a mother has been learning to rescue myself.

I still carry the backpack life handed me, I always will.  Many of us carry them- grief, loss, trauma, other struggles in life. These aren’t things that go away, they’re things you learn to manage and cope with. But I’ve given away so many of its’ bricks. Most days the load is more manageable than it used to be. But some days, despite all efforts, the backpack still feels heavy. Sometimes it gets uncomfortable again and hard to carry. So on those days, I adjust the straps, redistribute the weight, and move forward.

Because dealing with past trauma can be a real bitch.

But thankfully, I’m a bigger one.

And I have Carol stories to boot.