When my husband and I started dating, he knew very little about mental illness. So, I said give me an activity you did on a regular basis with your parents, and I’ll tell you how my experience was different. “Going to the grocery,” he said. Ahh yes, the grocery. This was my last Kroger experience.
***
The double doors to Kroger popped mom and I right into the produce section. Rows of bright, shinny apples smiled at us. I loved eating apples. Plus, they were very affordable. Since we were always on a limited budget, I felt this would be a great thing to add to our shopping cart. I took a few steps toward the colorful fruit when a voice growled behind me.
“Don’t you dare get those apples.”
Mom’s tiny hands, warm and soft from the globs of Bath & Body Works Cucumber lotion she slathered on them, gripped my forearm. Her teeth gritted, “I said don’t get near those damn apples.” My heart dropped because I knew right then mom had been triggered. Whenever my mother curses in public, it means she has been triggered.
My mother has a multitude of triggers. I know what many of them are. Then there are days, when a new one creeps in, catching me completely off guard, like the apples. When my mom is triggered, she never says, “Hey, apples trigger me, Sarah. Let’s stay away from the Pink Ladies today.” Mental health conditions don’t work like that. When the brain is triggered, it’s remembering a traumatic event making it nearly impossible to think rationally.
Mom glared into the Granny Smiths. “I said I don’t want those damn apples. I’ve been eating apples all my life, and I’m sick of them. I’m sick of all your talk about apples. Do you hear me? Do you HEAR ME?” I quietly tried to calm mom down, but it was no use. There she was having a full-blown conversation with apples in the middle of the produce section. My face burned with embarrassment. “Please make it stop God, please.”
As I stood there wanting to be anywhere in the world but here, I noticed a father and his young daughter entering the produce section. The man appeared to be in his early 40s, a pleasant-faced guy with soft pink cheeks, and smiling blue eyes. In his shopping cart was a young toddler with golden ringlets. Her youthful green eyes cooed at the colorful fruit around her. His daughter’s joyful giggle and his attentiveness toward her warmed my heart. We looked at each other. I smiled.
His mouth began to turn up to a smile too; then it abruptly stopped. The man wasn’t looking at me anymore, he was looking at my mother. His round eyes darted back at me, staring at me like I was the enemy, like I caused my mom’s rage to happen. I got this sort of look a lot from strangers. It was a look that screamed “change your attitude moody teenager and be kinder to your mother.”
The judgements displayed toward me when mom had an episode in public were constant. To constantly be looked at like a problem, a bad kid, or a defiant child made me feel completely isolated. If only somebody had asked what was wrong. If only people weren’t frightened by a woman talking to herself. If only we all weren’t always looking for somebody to blame. If only…
Disappointment flashed in the man’s eyes. He gripped his shopping cart and spun it in the opposite direction, guiding it far away from my mother and I. I glanced over at mom. Thankfully, the once glossed over gazed look in her eyes was simmering away. This meant she was coming back to a more rational state of mind, one where I could get through to her.
“Mom?” She didn’t move, her eyes still dead-eyeing the apples. I took a heavy breath and said her name again, this time more firmly. “MOM.” She looked at me, her eyes wide-eyed and frantic. “STOP.” She nodded. This was good, it meant I had gotten through to her. Cautiously she observed the space around us. The look on her face broke my heart. It was the look of a woman who had no idea where she was.
“We are at the grocery,” I reminded her, forcing my voice to be slow and controlled.
Suddenly her eyes lit up like a child at the county fair. “Let’s get a cake!” Mom had returned to the present moment, but she hadn’t returned to reality. Instead, she had become a child. Right then I knew the remainder of this grocery trip would be a challenge. Begrudgingly, I followed mom to the bakery section. I watched as she placed a gigantic carrot cake decorated with dancing bunnies into our cart. “We can have cake for dinner, cake for breakfast, and then cake for lunch the next day. This cake will last us all week!”
I knew I shouldn’t try to debate her, but I was not trying to get diabetes before college.
“Mom, we need to get real food for dinner,” I pleaded. A maddening rage sparked back in mom’s eyes. “I’m the mother and I said we’re getting cake! Do you hear me? Now stop acting like a BRAT!” The word BRAT echoed in the space around us. A woman in the bakery section, and a big-boned me in the meat department stared at me. Their eyes sunk into me with a look of disappointment, just as the man’s did.
Once again, I was the enemy, the prissy daughter who was trying to take away her mother’s right to buy a cake.
I wanted to turn to all those judgmental eyes and shout, “My mother has 30 dollars to her name. She’s addicted to sugar. I’m trying to help her. Can’t you see? I’m trying to help my mom!” But I didn’t say that. I didn’t say anything. Twenty long minutes later we made our way to the checkout line. Inside mom’s shopping cart was that dang gigantic carrot cake, a pack of Oreos, a gallon of milk, and some string cheese, a real well-rounded dinner for the week ahead. While we waited to checkout, I sensed mom’s anxiety rising.
Oh no. What was it now?
I followed her eyes staring down a frail old man hobbling with a cane. “Don’t make eye contact.” Mom breathed in my ear. “He’s dangerous.” I stared at my mother. How could a man who could barley walk be dangerous? My heart sank into a pit of grief. What was going inside mom’s mind? Before I could think or do anything else, mom jumped again.
Her eyes zeroed in on a woman that had just lined up behind us. She wore chic glasses and had a perfect bob haircut. “Looney,” Mom spat out the side of her mouth. The woman’s mouth gaped open. I tried to apologize, but she was already marching her way over to a different checkout line. “Mom, why did you say that?” Mom shrugged, “She was a looney.” “What does that even mean?” I moaned. Mom leaned in closer to me, her voice at a hushed whisper. “It means she is dangerous.”
How could somebody think all these innocent people were out to get us, how?
When we finally left Kroger, I felt numb, dead inside really. In 30-minutes my body had been through a roller coaster of emotions: pain, grief, embarrassment, anxiety, fear, shame and concern. I forced myself to remember that when mom is in her right mind, she is a remarkable human, kind, loving and full of life. In her right mind, mom wouldn’t dare call another human a looney or spitfire curse words at apples, but she has a mental health condition, and when she is triggered, anything is possible
***
When I finished telling my husband this story, his face was pained. “I’m so sorry,” he said. I nodded, “It’s okay.” He accepted my response, but something inside me didn’t feel right. Abruptly I looked back at him. “You know, it’s actually not okay.” This is when I realized, I’ve been saying it’s okay for most of my life when it’s not. I share this story to encourage children of a parents with a mental health condition to STOP saying you’re okay or what you had to go through was okay. There is nothing okay about any situation where a child lives with their untreated mentally ill parent.
There will always be a deep hole in my heart for all the pain and suffering I have watched my mother endure, but these days I am able to recognize there is a hole in my heart too. I have suffered too. I end this story with this advice:
- Don’t discount your own pain when a loved one is in pain too.
- Don’t avoid seeking help for your wounds even if your loved one refuses help.
- Every human deserves to feel happy, safe and loved, including you.
If you are a child of a parent with a mental health condition, struggling to navigate your pain, sign up for a support group with the National Alliance of Mental Illness today! These life-giving groups will change your life.
