As a child, I was always torn between sharing and hiding. And I wanted someone to step in and help. However, there is really no logic in that. If nobody knows, how can they help? Unfortunately, while I was a child, I didn’t have any influence over whether my situation was known. I am really not sure how much my Mother would drop us off at school…or pick us up. But it seemed to me that it happened all the time. It was probably one of the times that she was acting as a caring Mom. She picked us up to spend time with us. I am sure that she had some normal Mom kinds of instincts even during her worst times. But I was horrified. And mortified. The thought that she might have done this for a good reason never occurred to me. And I remember that I only had that thought one day when I was so looking forward to seeing my daughter that I was at the school early. Could it be that she actually cared? Maybe she didn’t have the ability to express it all the time…but couldn’t she have been picking me up because she loved me and not because she wanted to embarrass me?
I would also worry that it was obvious, even from the outside, how dirty our house was. It probably was. I don’t think I invited many people to our house. My sister invited almost nobody. Along with the fact that I was traumatized socially by the situation, it made for a lonely existence. And I am a pretty open and friendly person by nature. So, I always felt alone. This was true even if I was hanging around with one of the few friends that I trusted to let into my life. I remember close friendships as being few and far between. I would always end up fearing that they were judging me somehow. They had to know. All you had to do is look at my Mom.
Once I was a teenager and passed the drivers exam, it was a whole different story for me. At least that is what I thought. I did get the car an adequate amount of time. I would do the things I wanted. One of the things that I wanted to do was participate in politics. From an early age, I was political. Rev. Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy were my idols. One time, at around ten years old, I told my Uncle T. that he was racist and sexist. I ended up having to apologize as an adult. AFTER, I had been married. He really was hurt. When I was in high school, I participated in political campaigns. I worked a couple of campaigns for a Congressman who had been gerrymandered into our very conservative district by the Daley machine. I had a HUGE crush on this Congressman, although he wasn’t exactly a teenage idol. He was idealistic. And he knew how to motivate idealistic teenagers to get out and campaign. And I wasn’t the only one drawn to work with him. There were a bunch of us. So, when I could use the car and go to the campaign office, I would. Or I would ask my Dad for a ride. I even forced my Dad into putting a huge campaign sign on the car. I used a whole tank of gas getting people to the polls on election day. This was something that I felt was totally separate from my Mother. I met the Congressman a couple of times. I didn’t think he knew me that well. But I have been told that he cared about all the kids that worked for his campaign and made it a point to know a little something about all of them. I don’t know that it is true. He had a bunch of idealistic teenagers working for him. He was known for that. I don’t know if he could even keep track of that many kids. (This man was such a hero to me that I chose my college major after reading a position paper he wrote on the prison system and criminal justice.)
Did he know me? Did he know about my life with my ‘crazy’ Mom? I would have been totally devastated by the thought that he knew any more about me than that my name is Judy and I worked at his campaign office. But after I went to college, a friend of mine told me that she had run into him. And told him about my being away at college. He said he was proud. Then she claimed that he said, “How are things with her Mother”? I felt like sinking through the floor when she told me that. Was she exaggerating? Boy, did I hope so. How on earth could he have ever seen my Mom? I really worried about this. But here was my biggest fear….
For years, Mom would walk or drive down Dempster Street and go to the local donut shop. Or coffee house. And she would sit there in all her filth, and drink coffee and smoke cigarettes. And complain to anybody who would listen that my Dad was queer. I don’t think anybody chose to listen. But she shared it anyway. My thinking was that my Mom had run into the Congressman on one of her excursions and informed him about who her daughter was. Given the fact that he was a really loving kind of person, I know that he would have found out who I was if he didn’t already know. I hung out at the campaign enough that some of the people knew me. I am sure my friend was totally aware that I was stunned by that information. And she tried to make it all better by telling me that he really seemed to care. My first thought was…..OH MY GOD! The other thought was “Why do people I know keep running into him”? And then I thought: “Did Mom tell him that my Father is queer”? That mortified me even more.
Eventually, while I was still in college, (and not available for campaigns) this Congressman left Congress. He had a bunch of close elections and one loss. It was a heavily Republican district and the fact that he won at all was a miracle. He was eventually appointed to a Federal Judgeship. He is still my hero. But I wasn’t unhappy that I never ‘ran into’ him myself. The contact with my Mom (if it even happened) had made me unwilling to talk to him again. I was too embarrassed and ashamed. That tells you a little bit about how I experienced people “knowing”. Ironically, I have wondered since that time whether the reason for the Congressman knowing was more basic. Did my Mom ever drive me to the campaign office? I don’t remember that, but I don’t remember a bunch of things that are painful.
What is the value in silence? It made me feel more normal than I usually felt. When I was anonymous, I believed that I would be more likely to be judged based on myself. But because I was alone in there sometimes, I almost had a compulsion to tell people. Kind of like a true confession. Or maybe it was an explanation. I don’t even know. If I had an inkling that people would get close enough to eventually meet my family, I had to tell them. Can you imagine bringing a boyfriend home to the family? I only did it once. And that was with my future husband. My daughter’s Dad. I’m sure I went through some nerves with that. He was OK with it. Or he pretended to be.
When my daughter and I started to talk about mental illness because of the issues with anxiety that she has had, I started to think (again) about talking about it. What would I need to say? Who do I share this with? Could it help people? Or just embarrass me? What is the benefit of sharing? I am still not totally sure. I think other people dealing with mental illness personally or through a family member/loved one might benefit from reading this. Maybe it gives people who care for me some insight. If you are struggling with mental illness or with the mental illness of a family member, what do YOU feel comfortable sharing? Do you talk about it? Or do you hide? Who are the people that you are willing to share with? How do they respond?
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