the prevalent theme of mental illness pervading my existence these last couple of weeks has been a heavy burden. While I am yearning to welcome the rejuvenating qualities of Autumn, basking in the fresh coolness of foliage scented air, witnessing the splendor of a veritable rage of color when changing leaves meet against the backdrop of a setting fall sun, my load becomes heavier still.

My mother had another manic episode Sunday. This time, she arrived at the airport, where my father was working security, at 10:30 pm. She went to inform him that she has still not been able to get in touch with her former fiancee, a man she has not spoken to in almost forty years, and was thus feeling no recourse but to call the RCMP on him. Amidst witnesses both departure and arrival, my father was able to shuttle her out of the airport and on her way home, where he found her still awake after he arrived post shift at close to midnight. He asked her why it was so important to get in touch with this man. She stated he knew her better than anyone. Dad asked her how that could be possible given the decades that have passed since they last communicated. She said he knew her better than my father did, and that she should have married him instead. She ranted further until he resolved himself to going to the family room and, without an audience, she went to bed.

Things have not improved a great deal since then, and with her physician on vacation for the next two weeks, I hope for Dad's sake that she does not sink too much further. He will not consider taking drastic measures, after all.

Dawne has been silent these last few days, since I wrote about mom, more to the point. I have sent her e-mail, ICQ messages, even went overt o the house one evening early in the weekend. I received a brief e-mail telling me how busy she was. She sent Meris to the door telling me she was not feeling well.

I see her on ICQ right now, and have been hopeful for a reply to my "hi" for the last half hour. How long does one remain hopeful until hope becomes moot?

Infinitely?

I read about how much stress she is under, all post mother mania even, and feel myself loathing how our journals come to be used for communication purposes. I am not as concerned that she internalized what I wrote a few days back as I am that perhaps she is heading into a depression. The fodder has certainly been there, and it is not uncommon for her to become incommunicado during her black moments.

I check to see if she responded to my ICQ hail.

She is off-line now.

I have to close the message window.

Freda was by Friday evening. It was good to see her after a long period of absence. After catch up conversation and a few drinks, I read her tarot cards. After hopefully providing Freda with some insight, The Goddess suggested I read hers.

She should know that it is difficult to keep things from me, and vice versa. We have different methods, all equally as powerful and secure. A card came up suggesting her engagement in a specific, negative coping mechanism, one I knew she used years ago.

One she promised me she would never resort to again.

But lately, and as the Tarot implied, she did.

We have debated at length my writing about this. She is ashamed. She does not want people to know. She is afraid that somehow, some way, somewhere, someone is going to find out and ruin her chances of employment in the Social Work field. I feel that is her OCD talking, but at the same time, she is entitled to her privacy.

The irony is, is that the more that know about it, the less likely she is to resort to it again.

Catch-22

While what she has done does not involve substance use, it is negative, it is destructive, it causes both of us pain. It forces me into a position of being reluctant to do things for her that she cannot do for herself as a result of the natural consequences of her actions. It forces me to doubt her voracity, especially when she says she will never do it again. It forces me to feel responsible for her succumbing to the pressures of unemployment and finances in such a manner, when it was I to suggest that she give up her job and move back here.

I end up feeling so...

... parental.

If she did not already have an appointment at Mental Health this week, she'd damned sure have one after my discovery and her disclosure.

Then there is my chronic depression, barely being staved off whilst I am surrounded, enclosed, by that of others'. I am not sleeping well, but sleeping too much. I am not eating properly. I am avoiding long past due paperwork. I am not scheduling clients.

I cannot take any medication.

So, my burden is indeed a heavy one. It is so weighty that I find myself unable to stay grounded.

If only I could find a way to transfer that load from my shoulders to my feet.

 

Be Well