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.
Doria's Diary 