I know some people act crazy sometimes, or think they are crazy because they get obsessed about stupid things, but really, padded room crazy runs in my family. There is no bones about it, my mother was crazy, her mother was crazy, I am crazy and my daughter, at 6 years old, is on her way to crazy. Unfortunately, crazy doesn't have a cure.
When I was young, the year I got my period, in fact, my mother went crazy. That summer she spent locked in her room. We three kids had very little supervision and certainly no direction. When she did come out it was only to give us chores. I remember one day, we did chores but it wasn't right for some reason and we were told we couldn't play with our friends that day. My brothers left and I was alone, again, so I went over to my friends house and she wanted to play at my house, so we came back. My mother was furious. She seemed so shocked that I had the nerve to bring a friend over. She failed to see that I came back. We didn't see my older brother until dinner, but I got in trouble and he didn't.
Looking back, I know these events don't make any sense, because she is crazy.
I ran away one day. I had a bad day at school and I guess my mom had a bad day at home, and whatever I said to her about the window blinds really set her off. I was done. She didn't want me, so I didn't want her either. I packed a backpack with a change of clothes, an apple, a book to read, and my wallet, threw it out the window and walked out the back door. I set off to walk the 5 miles into town. I ended up getting a ride with a neighbor and she took me to a school where she was taking a class. I didn't want to go home, but I didn't know where else to go.That was alone. That was unwanted, that was a low point of my 10 years here on earth. I finally called my dad. I cried all the way home. My mom was cooking dinner and fuming. I didn't want to see her, I was so mad at her. She didn't care about my day or my feelings or me. She didn't even know I was gone until I got back.
Later that same summer, my mom didn't come home. She left. She was gone until school started again. We were told that if anyone asked she was in the hospital. I knew that wasn't the truth, but didn't know what the truth was until later. We went to see her one day. We missed school and drove to the city 3 hours away. She was in the mental facility. She had a break down. Now that I am a mother, I feel like I should feel guilty for pushing her to crazy, but I was only a kid. I know now...I don't know now how it happened. I know that some days I could end up in the same mental facility and abandon my daughter...Crazy kills. I kills hopes and dreams and self worth. I wasn't even my crazy. I don't want my daughter to see crazy, but the odds are against me.
You wouldn't guess it, but things got worse from there. The next year my dad lost his job and we lost our house, my mom started working more jobs and my dad worked worse jobs and we were left to figure the rest out on our own. Not that we were abandoned or abused, there were just extenuating circumstances. I know I was loved, I didn't always know where I might go in life. I didn't know if I could overcome poverty and crazy. I did, sort of, the poverty anyway. Now I am upgraded to working-class poor, two paychecks away from destitute instead of one.
Miriam
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