And did I mention...

That my mother is having her first really debilitating depression episode (poor thing, had my first in 7th grade, old timer here) oh, and she's tagged on a truly spectacular eating disorder in case anybody misses the depression part? No, I think I would remember mentioning that. So, yeah, she's um...68 and has been spiralling slowly down into that black pool for oh, gosh, let me think...it was after the summer my brother tried to kill himself....hmmm....oh, so it's been since about 2002. And as any physicist will confirm, matter gains speed as it descends. So it is with my mother. We're really crossing our fingers that ECT will have some effect. Hopeful about the outcome of connecting little electrodes to the old woman's head and zapping the crap out of her brain. Nice. But these past two years have been really incredibly painful and I want so badly for my kids to know her, only she's just gone in so very many ways. When I have not the strength to go into detail I just say, 'Mama just done up and flown outta herself."
How does a 67 year old woman pick up anorexia/bulimia anyway? Who does that? WTF?
1/4 cup cheerios for breakfast, my butt. Rounding out (no pun) the day with endless fat free yogurt cups...huh? Last time she visited me for a few days (looooong ago) she insisted that I buy her a scale. Why might I not have one? (Come closer, I have to whisper) I'm a freaking bulimia survivor, for mercy's sake. Yeah. I know the game. Not only was I trained to know the game as a teacher, I've played the game. And believe you me, the game could have killed me at 18, so it certainly will have no mercy on 68.

(I know you're thinking, "well, she probably learned it from you..." I was out of the house by that time. Believe me, I've checked the timeline.)

There is considerable backstory to all this, as you might suspect. Did you ever read Joyce Carol Oates We Were the Mulvaneys ? It's sort of like that, only there was no rape and dad hasn't died and we never lived in a farmhouse. There are other differences, but you get the idea.

God, there's so much...too much for me to even begin to think about putting it down on screen. I will, tho. I think I will. I think I need to. Pat Conroy says that the best gift anyone can give a writer is a dysfunctional family. Somebody got my wish list, yes? Like those companies that send out coffee every month, except it is dysfunction. Lifetime subscription. Wait! Let's double the offer!

*sigh*

As always, when I sit down, I think I've taken on more than I can process at this time, this hour, this phase of my life. It's just that I was missing her. My mom. She's so gone...so out and yet so confined and bound by this cyclic nightmare. I need to call my dad (a whole 'nother cyclic nightmare) so he can "talk." I've been his eldest daughter since, gosh, the day I was born, but now he needs to "talk"to me. Finally, I have a purpose! And I let him talk because I am far away and can hang up the phone and also because I think I'm supposed to learn something holy from comforting this man who just about crippled all his kids with his anger and disinterest (and the back of his hand, fyi). Sort of a foot washing thing. Ann Lamott would know what I mean, but don't think too much on it. It's like I have to streeeeetttttch my soul out as far as it will go and we all know the benefits of a limber soul .

So I was just thinking about how I miss her. How I still want my mama. Is that silly?
I'm 41 and I want my mama but she just done up and flown outta herself. I wonder where that takes her, you know?