A Daughter's Love Story

Post #1

Let me start this post off by saying that I love both of my parents greatly. I respect them and that respect runs deep. This may not start off sounding like a story about unconditional love and understanding, but I promise you it is. Just keep reading until the end of my series of blog posts and you'll see that this story goes beyond love, into understanding and healing. If my story can touch someone else, then writing it will be time well spent. 

This week I took my father on a cruise. Being there with him in Stage 4 Alzheimer's, and our last trip like this, brought back a lot of memories of the years as Alva and Ruby's daughter.  I worried and thought, changed my mind, thought some more, changed my mind again, and took him on a cruise. It was a decision that opened my eyes, and my memories. Some good, some very bad. I am reeling today about the realization that the dad I took on this trip is not the dad I've known for 62 years. Alzheimer's has taken that man away from us. Why I felt the need to write this now is really a mystery to me. But after my trip with Dad this week, there's an ache in my heart that I can't even explain. That ache has triggered my emotions and those deeply held emotional hurts have come to the surface.

I planned this trip because when mom died, on March 4, 2021, he asked me if I would help him get through the holidays without her. He misses her so much and now that she is gone there are a lot of things, I'd like to say to her. I'd like to tell her that there are a lot of things I understand about her NOW that I never understood before. Fortunately, years ago we had a blatantly honest discussion about events that happened when I was a child. I needed her to know that I forgave her but she needed to forgive herself. Even in her last days she apologized to me and cried about things that up until that point she said she didn't remember doing. I believe that too, because the disease my mom suffered through was a roller coaster of emotions. 

Mom was big about Christmas. Even though they were on a fixed income, she bought, or made, every member of our family a gift. The gifts either had to be alike or cost the same amount. The reason for that was because she didn't want any of us to think she loved one more than the other. She really desired in her heart to treat us all the same. She may have with regard to Christmas gifts, but Mom couldn't process that she did indeed treat us all differently. 

My father was the first love of my life, and I don't mean that derogatory toward Mom. Mom had a disease that few people were privy to know about. Our family kept her secret. Our mother wanted to be a wonderful mom, wife, daughter, pastors' wife, etc. But she was fighting a losing battle that came very close to ending her life, and perhaps ours, on numerous occasions. She had what today would be known as Bi-Polar Disorder. She suffered from anxiety with depression, major depression, obsessive-compulsion, and panic. Back then, the medications used today to control the behaviors and chemical changes in the brain were not developed yet. 

People with this issue would be sent to a psychiatrist and that in itself held a very negative stigma. She always felt extremely helpless and frustrated that doctors seemed to think her issues were "all in my head" she would say.  She was embarrassed. She felt helpless. But it seemed like more than anything else she felt despair.  

She could go for weeks switching between happiness and depression. She would laugh about one thing today, but tomorrow that same thing would enrage her to anger and even to violent outbursts. To make matters worse, my Father, a minister, was asked to Pastor a church. She worked very hard to be a great preacher's wife, doing all those things a preacher's wife is expected to do. This put great pressure on her emotionally and that was just packing on more expectations that under her circumstances she would not be able to meet. 

I remember nights of smelling bleach and hearing the "swish swish swish" of the SOS Pad under her right foot and a mop in her hands as she scrubbed the tile floors of the church parsonage all-night-long! Those floors had to be clean and sparking "just in case" one of the parishioners dropped by. I remember her taking our new car and spending much of the night in her flannel gown washing the car at the car wash until some of the paint was removed. She would lock herself in the bathroom and turn on the gas heater, without lighting it. I look back now and wonder how our house didn't blow up, have a fire, or how nobody was asphyxiated. This also caused some issues for me with God. Where was God when my mom was being tormented by her mind? Where was God when violent outbursts were happening? Where was God when I was being hurt? Where was God? I remember thinking: "Is God seeing this and still doing nothing to fix it?" It took a long time for me to reconcile this with God too! Another secret my family didn't know was going on inside of me. Even the years I spent ministering at churches in music and traveling with a gospel band, I wondered where God was when my Mother and I needed him most. It left doubts for me about God's love for me, and mom. Mom loved God. Mom did her very best to be a great servant of God, and she was faithful to God in spite of her issues.  

Mom was always so sorry for her behaviors when those episodes ended, feeling like a failure in so many ways. It was a horrible, unfair, vicious circle for a woman whose greatest desire was to be normal. She had the unfair disadvantage of having a mind that expected perfection but at the same time wouldn't allow it either. She was in constant emotional turmoil, but through it all her faith in God's ability to heal her never wavered.  

Mom also expected her children to be as well behaved as those floors were white. The problem with that mindset is that children are just that: children! She insisted her oldest daughter wore dresses below her knee every day to school when at the time mini-shirts and pants were the social dress. I was made fun of and bullied every day because of the way I had to dress. We weren't United Pentecost, but in my mother's mind, it was sinful for a girl to wear anything but a dress.  In middle school I realized that I didn't get as much bullying or mocking if I wore a long dress (down to my ankles) to school as I did an old-lady-long (knee length) dress.  It wasn't just mocking and bullying either, I was targeted by a group of girls who were violent to me because of my oddity with what was the fashion norms of the time. To them, I was different, so I became their target. I experienced their wrath almost everyday walking to and/or from school. So not only did I experience violent outbursts at home, but I also couldn't get away from them going to school either. Mom refused to allow me to wear a maxi length dress to school, so I started hiding one in my school backpack and changing into it when I got to school. Mom worked at a sewing factory, so she wasn't home when we got home from school. So, I could wear it home and change back into the school clothes she sent me to school in and she would never know. UNTIL..... she went through my school bag and found the dress.  Anger is a light-hearted word for the beating I got. And when I say beating.... I'm not using that word lightly.

Mom would jump from 0-100 in anger in a second. And when she did, it was usually me that paid for it. I don't think my brother and sister remember her anger as vividly as I do, because for the most part, other than her yelling, throwing of dishes, and busting Dad's knee with a bat, it happened to me. I think I was the brunt of the anger because I tried to reason Mom out of her moods. I tried to calm her. I tried to be the equalizer between her, and the rest of the family and I would pay for it dearly. I remember one night her becoming angry. I can't even remember why. She had a broom in her hand, and she started raising her voice at my brother Randy. The loud tone became anger, then screaming, then she grabbed a broom and was headed to his room. I know what that broom was for, and it wasn't for sweeping. She was going to hit him with it. So, I, in my desire to spare my brother and any other siblings that might get in it during the fit of rage, said to her "Mom, please don't do this." She then proceeded toward me with the broom. I retreated to my room and when I ran out of room to move out of her reach, I was between my bed and the wall, at a dead-end. She beat me with that broom until I was lying on the floor, crying and in pain. That was just one of the many stories I could recite. But I won't. Just know that if you are reading this and you have issues with anger as my mom did, there IS help now, and by accepting that help you spare your children the same hurtful memories locked away in my head and heart. Please don't leave your children with the type of scars I stare down every day in the mirror. 

Scars of abuse, be in physical or emotional, follow us for life, and they really do affect our emotional well-being for the rest of our lives. It can be seen by the way we get deeply hurt when we feel disrespected. Do you realize how disrespected an abused child has been?  It can be seen when words or actions trigger those memories and anger appears. Can you imagine how much anger a child of abuse feels, but can't express? We often think "they are just children" and many "won't remember" their abuse. Not true! There is absolutely no way to see emotional scars that abuse leaves behind. The physical scars heal, the emotional scars never heal. We just try to constantly figure out how to live with them. Memories and emotional hurt can't be erased, but with time and understanding they can fade a bit and hurt a little less, but they never go away completely, ever. With the help of God, I've learned over the years how to cut a path around some of those triggers. Sometimes it even means eliminating exposure to people who use those triggers to hurt you. 

At some point in my late teens to early 20's, the drug "Paxil" was released for prescribing for depression. I've often heard that in any joke there is also an element of truth. My Dad joked that "Paxil is my best friend." I also thanked God every single day for Paxil. After being prescribed Paxil, my mother became someone different. She was happier and her entire being changed. The mood swings were not frequent anymore. However, we knew if she'd forgotten to take it for a day or two because anger would return. After Paxil, Mom was someone, and I say this respectfully, that I could like. Don't get me wrong, I loved my mother even with every swing of that broom, and every object she would throw, and every angry insult she would throw. But, abused kids do love their parents and we make excuses for their abusive behaviors. Often times, we don't see that it is abuse. We start thinking it is all our fault.  

I also look back at the other areas in my mom's life that made her insecure. She always worked because we were poor. Looking back now, we were much poorer than I even knew because of mom's ability to stretch not just the dollar, but the pennies too. As long as I can remember she worked piece work at sewing factories. My dad, having an 8th grade education, worked manual labor even while pastoring a church. He cut wood during the winters when he couldn't cut yards. He worked in a shop that produced equipment for the oil industry. His rough, worn-out, arthritic hands are proof of his hard manual labor.

  I hadn't thought much about it as a child or a teen, but I can't remember my dad saying "I love you" to my mom the entire time I was growing up. I can remember though him saying it to us kids, but I can't remember him expressing his love in words to Mom. I can't remember, because he didn't. When I was in my 30's, I had moved to the Nashville area, and when I came home my mom told me that she thought Dad didn't love her and she wanted a divorce. It shocked me! They ended up going to a counselor and that's when it all made sense to me. My Dad literally said, " I said I loved you the day we were married and if that ever changes, I will let you know!" "I have never told you I didn't so you should know I do love you!" 

I think now of all those years my mom felt insecure about being loved. How difficult would that be, especially in someone who had a mind that was accepting of nothing less than perfection, but a mind that also was incapable of allowing it either?  She lived in absolute turmoil emotionally for a lot of years.  I am happy to report that after the counselor visits, the visible and verbal signs of Dad's love for mom became the norm. They were married for over 65 years when Mom passed. She left this life with dad standing next to her, telling her he loved her, holding her hand. 

Mom and dad bonded for 65+ years. They matured together. They struggled together. They rejoiced together. They grieved together when my brother, Randy, died unexpectedly and suddenly. What I've also learned since her death, was that her and dad also covered-up their Dementia and Alzheimer's issues. We knew mom's memory was fading, and she struggled with that. She didn't want to outlive her mind. What we didn't know was that mom did the driving because dad shouldn't have been driving. He would drive and they would end up lost for hours. They managed to hide that from their children. Instead, mom became the sole driver. Dad would make fun of her driving, but he succumbed, only to her, that he shouldn't be driving, and she kept his secret. It wasn't until mom had two wrecks in the same week that I decided to "show up" at a doctor's appointment. They were surprised to see me. I didn't say they were happy to see me either! Their doctor was happy to see me though and asked if one or all of us offspring could be in attendance at each appointment, because of their memory issues. That was my first insight that both of my parents had Dementia and Alzheimer's Disease. For several years they managed, as a team covering for each other, that they were in trouble.

To be continued...............