From the beginning this relationship was rough at best. I was born in the late 1950's and grew up in a time before "child abuse" was a common cry in the streets and spousal abuse was "ignored" in polite, middle-class company especially if the abused was the husband. In some defense of my mother, she has serious mental health issues that for years doctors simply tossed valium at hoping that "mother"s little helper' would put everything to rights.
I was beaten regularly as was my sister. Belts, switches, wooden paddles, raw hide straps, whatever came to hand was used to "instill discipline". Mom was a firm believer in not sparing the rod. It got worse as I entered high school. Remember, we are now talking about the mid 1970's, corporal punishment was only recently removed from the classroom. No one in the respective in-law families saw this as other than spanking. Dad never spoke up about what happened to him or us, it just wasn't done. A man did not admit to anyone that he was not in control of the situation in his own house. My attempts to get help for my sister only resulted in my being labeled as a "troubled teen".
Eventually came the point where the doctors and my father had to admit that the little pills and "just dealing with it" were not enough. That was when she started coming to either my sister or my room with the butcher knife, intent on "making certain we behaved". When dad confronted her she responded by telling us we were all ungrateful for everything she did for us and the next day we came home to the first overdose of what would become many.
Over the years, as her status deteriorated, the doctors started the rounds of in-patient therapy for her "nervous condition". My sister and I were spared from visitation in the psychiatric wards because of our age until I hit 16. On one of her pill overdoses I had my first introduction to the inside of the psychiatric ward of a hospital. Behind those locked doors was a world more frightening to me than waking up to find my mother hovering over me with a knife. Here were people in various stages of mental illness, in some cases exhibiting bizarre behavior and wandering freely in the common areas. All I could think of was the old horror movies of early sanitariums and how much this reminded me of them.
At 17 I had moved out. I eloped to escape the pain of existing in that household. My dad and sister stayed. It was the first of two very troubled marriages for me. Holding true to the predicted pattern my first husband was abusive. I was divorced and living on my own when my father retired a few years later. When he retired they moved to North Carolina, back to the area where he was raised, to land there that his parents had left for him. My sister had opted to go with them as dad's primary care giver since he was in declining health from diabetes. Eventually the three of them became the four of them when my sister married.
I had another bad marriage that ended in divorce brought more stress into the family relationship. My mom thought the sun rose and set in my second husband. I heard nothing but derision and bitter blame about that divorce.
She also blamed me for her lack of grandchildren. I was regularly accused of either aborting or abandoning my children. These were children she said she saw in prophetic dreams. I had not yet been able to determine, either on my own or through the doctors why I was not able to conceive and carry beyond two to three months.
She was not at all pleased when I found the man that I am married to currently. This man has been my salvation, he has listened without judgment when I needed it, been the voice of reason when I was lost in stress and has, in general, been the foundation of my sanity so far.
In 1998 my father died. My sister and her husband still had mom with them. I told my sister that now was the time to put mom in a safe place and start taking better care of her own health. My interaction with my mother had been limited over the years since they had moved to North Carolina. Work and my own marriages and divorces kept me dealing with my own issues.
I tended to keep visits short and preferred to deal more directly with my sister and her husband. I maintained a polite but cool relationship with my mother having never completely come to terms with my childhood relationship with her. Conversations were strained at best.
