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.

Clema Rogga’

My friend Katie and I attended game 4 of the American League Championship Series, the Red Sox vs. The Yankees at Fenway Park in 2004. Katie’s uncle had Red Sox season tickets, and after a disappointing loss to the Yankees in the 2003 playoffs, and the walk-off homerun by Aaron Boone that sealed the Yankees’ spot, her uncle wasn’t really interested in watching it happen again. It was a cold October night, we went, and much to our surprise, witnessed one of the greatest moments in Boston sports history.

At the time, we were living on the third floor apartment in a triple-decker home in Somerville, MA. Our landlords were my friend Joe’s parents; they owned the house and occupied the first floor. Italian immigrants, Raphael and Elvira had lived in the United States for about 30 years, but neither one spoke English very well. When we’d enter the side entrance to our apartment, we had to walk past their door and it was often open. Peeking in, we’d catch a glimpse of Elvira, cooking meatballs and sauce or whipping up homemade tiramisu while watching a soap opera in Italian on cable television.

Friendly, loud, and emphatic, Raphael and Elvira would often chase us up the stairs with Elvira’s cooking, trying to feed us. In warmer months, they’d sit outside on the patio, drinking Orangina and red wine. Walking by them, particularly after they’d had a few glasses of wine, was an invitation to company and conversation that could easily last an hour or more. We’d start by being polite and having something to drink, then next thing we knew, an hour would have passed, and there be a plate of meat and cheese and pastry in front of us. It’s the Italian way, and I’m half-Italian, so I knew the drill.

Elivra was also a passionate Red Sox fan, and although there was often noise coming from the first floor, during Red Sox season, it was louder. We’d come to recognize a pattern, intense moments in Red Sox games, (full counts, bases loaded with 2 outs, etc.) correlated with louder than usual yelling in Italian, and a thumping noise we eventually learned was Elvira banging on the ceiling with a broom handle. Guests visiting during a game would sometimes ask:

“My goodness, is everything okay down there?”

“Oh yeah, that’s just Elvira, the game’s on, it’s fine,” we’d answer.

I don’t speak Italian, but my grandmother did, usually when she wanted to curse under the radar. I eventually caught on to her method, so I could recognize a few words here and there.

“I think that means “shit,” I’d say as the intensity and volume of Elvira’s voice increased. “Pretty sure my grandmother uses that one when she’s pissed.”

Naturally, Katie and I became somewhat of super heroes after attending the fateful turnaround game, and our landlords couldn’t have been more excited to talk to us about it. The excitement continued during that season, as did Elvira’s, as the Red Sox went on to win the series, and then win the World Series for the first time since 1918.

There was, of course, much excitement from the first floor apartment, and a huge celebration with the Red Sox championship. Our apartment was on a busy street in Somerville, and I remember hearing cheering, horns honking, and celebrating into the wee hours of the morning that night. But I’m not sure anyone was as excited as Elvira.

My friend Joe recently posted a picture of himself and his wife and two sons on social media. They were at Fenway, standing by the Red Sox -now three- World Series trophies. I sent a message saying how great they looked and what fond memories I have of the Somerville apartment and his mother during Red Sox season.

“Oh, my mother is 100% committed to the Red Sox,” he replied. “She’s been a fan going back to the days of “Clema Rogga.” (In Elvira Italian, that’s “Roger Clemens.”)

Roger Clemens was in his prime when I was young, I remember watching the game where he struck out 20 batters at Fenway on television with my father. I smiled and realized that “Clema Rogga” is how I’ll refer to the former Red Sox ace going forward, while thinking of Elvira, Orangina, and the 2004 Red Sox.

The Moment

I watched a show recently featuring a woman character who had Alzheimer’s. In one particular scene she was seated with her husband and their friend. Her speech was mostly non-sensical, jumping from her plans to buy Christmas presents to a long story about her dog, to repeating the same question about what was for dinner over and over and over again. Then, for a brief moment, she was lucid, she recognized everyone in the room, was completely aware of the day and time, and everything “clicked.” And just as soon as it happened, the moment was over, and she was gone.

I was reminded immediately of my mother, whose mental illness and reluctance to treat it properly has left her much the same way. In the years I’ve spent processing and overcoming the trauma of my childhood, my therapist has encouraged me to “appreciate the moments” I have with her. I think of it as capturing a firefly, or a chrysalis in hopes of watching it transform into a butterfly. And when I was younger, and even into my young adult years, I’d cling on these moments, trying to capture and bottle them in hope that my mother would “come to.” I hoped that one of these moments would finally be it, the realization of what I needed would be there, and we could have the kind of supportive relationship I’ve always wanted. But with time came realization, and with realization came acceptance, and with acceptance came strength and forgiveness.

On Mother’s Day last year, I experienced one of the rare moments. My mother’s not usually able to access emotion very well in terms of discussion. Sure, she’ll go on wild sprees of euphoria and happiness while manic, but talking about feelings isn’t something she’s able to do comfortably and happens once in a blue moon, or maybe even less often. But last Mother’s Day, while I was living close to her, I called her to ask her if she wanted to get together.

“Happy Mother’s Day,” I said.

“Thanks Doria,” she said. She sounded sad. This also doesn’t happen often, as her illness typically manifests itself with her flying high as a kite as happy as can be, an alternative reality she’s created which I’d have to assume is more fun that the reality of what life’s given her.

“Are you okay?” I asked. Her voiced cracked, and she quietly started to cry.

“I was a terrible mother,” she said.

I didn’t disagree, but I hadn’t quite prepared myself for this response, and I asked her to come over.

She was right. My mind flashed back to her absence at my high school graduation, the times she’d leave $20 on the table and disappear for a few days, and the time she kidnapped my sister in an effort to prevent DSS from taking custody of her. This, like many of her plans, clearly backfired, as kidnapping your child is a surefire way to prove you probably shouldn’t be responsible for taking care of her.

But that Mother’s Day afternoon, she was my mother. She came over. We cooked food. She talked to me openly about the guilt she carries with her, how she understands how terrible the effects of mental illness are on children who experience them. She told me how discussing feelings was really hard for her, how growing up in a family with 7 siblings didn’t leave a lot of room for lengthy discussions about emotions, and those types of conversations weren’t encouraged. And although my grandparents were loving parents, their attitude toward most things, as was common in that generation, was: “You’re not dying, it could always be worse, suck it up and move on.”

“It’s okay, Mom,” I said.

“It’s really not okay, and I hope that you can forgive me,” she said.

“I already have,” I said. And it was the truth. I thought of how hard I’ve worked to overcome, my accomplishments and courage in spite of it all, and the incredible strength that’s blossomed from adversity.

We rarely see eye to eye on anything-me searching for a method to her madness, and her seeking constant escape. But that afternoon, we talked, like mothers and daughters do. And we laughed, like mothers and daughters do. She left that afternoon and unlike I might have done years earlier, I didn’t chase that version of her, the woman who I needed to be my mother. I didn’t try to bottle up the moment. I let it go. I understood that it was a moment, and I appreciated it for what it was.

Less than a month later, my mother was gone. She’d once again stopped taking her medication, I started getting jarbled text messages at 4am. She disappeared, nobody could find her for a few days. She ended up getting admitted to the hospital. It’s the standard drill, one I’m all too familiar with at this point, one I’ve finally accepted won’t change, and that despite my efforts, I can’t fix.

It snowed recently where I’m living, it doesn’t happen often here, and doesn’t really accumulate, just falls and covers nature like a blanket. I sat in a room with big windows overlooking a creek. I watched the snow fall gently, softly, swirling against the backdrop of large Evergreen trees. It was calm, peaceful and I wondered what it might be like to capture it and make it last forever.

The moment was beautiful. And just like that, it was gone.

 

 

The Package

A mysterious package from my mother is often one of the first signs she’s approaching or in the midst of a manic episode.

“I sent you a package!” she’ll exclaim. But much like her mind, the packages are disconnected, jumbled, and have no real connection to the receiver. I’ve described them as looking like someone emptied a junk drawer, threw a shipping label on it, and sent it on its way. Sometimes, for no logical reason, she’ll send them express, spending more money on shipping than what the contents of the package are worth.

I’ve received boxes of half-rotten fruit, broken mugs (because she doesn’t wrap breakable items), and what seemed like a lifetime supply of nail files. The packages usually indicate trouble. “So, your mother’s been sending me some packages…”

Oh no, I’ll think. So it begins

I used to beg her to stop, tell her they were a waste of money and time and that I didn’t need anything, but I’ve since learned that trying to reason with my mother is about as effective as banging my head against a wall. I’d probably, in fact, make more progress with the wall.  She lives in an alternate reality, one in which, she thinks, someone might want to receive some juice boxes or $7 in the mail.

There’s no arguing with someone who’s in an alternative reality, no reason or logic will be understood or prevent them from mailing you a banana. I’ve tried. I’ve tried also to convince her to take care of herself, to do what she needs to do to manage her illness, but she prefers the reality she’s created, and as hard as it is to watch her take residence there, I know I can’t live there with her.

It’s her birthday today, I called her, knowing that she’s not well, and that it would probably be hard to talk to her. I wished her a happy birthday. And although it’s her birthday, apparently she had a surprise for me.

“Oh, Doria, I sent you a package, but it got returned to me, maybe I have the wrong address?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about it, Mom, I really don’t need anything,” I said calmly.

“But I spent a lot of time picking things out for you,” she said.

I smiled to myself, and instead of getting upset, tried to imagine the humor in what could possibly be inside the box.  And of course, I grieved. I grieved the loss of my mother, the mother I needed but never really had, and the mother-daughter relationship I’d always hoped for.

“Okay, Mom,” I said, “Thank you.”

I’m not sure if I’ll ever get the package. My mother’s not well, and she’s disconnected and her gears are spinning rapidly, but not getting her anywhere. But if I don’t, the gifts of courage, strength, resilience and compassion she’s given me are much more valuable. They won’t ever go out of style, and I won’t have to throw any of them away.

Happy Birthday, Mama. And thank you for the gifts that keep on giving.