Perhaps the most important memory of mine has to be a particular afternoon in a time period I like to call "my mother's second psychosis". It may not have been her second, or even third, in her lifetime, but the second in my working memory. This day comes after a series of weeks with increasingly paranoid and haphazard reactions on her part. And while the consequences of her actions would not be appreciated until much, much later, I believe this day culminates my entire experience of my mother and my childhood.
I started sixth grade at an online school at a time when remote classes were a rare concept. It was not yet 2010. My sister began kindergarten- her first experience of school- in the confines of a strange house belonging to a geriatric man my mother had convinced herself was rich.
One of the books from my online school reading list that was sent in the mail was "The Secret Garden" by Frances Hodgson Burnett. If you are not familiar, it is a story of two children both neglected by their parents, who find solace and healing in nature and with the caring company of one another as cousins. The irony is not lost on me when I say I read this book in a room with windows covered by cardboard, bites from bedbugs the night before itching on my arm.
I yearned for the special magic in Frances's story. My sister and I also watched "A Little Princess", another story by the same author adapted into a movie, and we both were enchanted by the main characters' abilities to imagine the possibilities when their current circumstances were bleak and adult figures absent.
We were not allowed outside during this time. There were many bad actors my mother conjured, as she often reasoned with herself aloud and looked to us for validation. People were following us: the geriatric man she with whom she was engaged was a target due to his wealth. He was so wealthy, his house hadn't been updated since 1980. The floorboards were dusty and carpets filled with dirt. Old lumpy chairs were stacked up in corners. He apparently made furniture and received high compensation for his creations.
We did go somewhere once by car, which immediately turned into an exciting car chase. Another car, my mother pointed out, was following us. They had weapons that could kill and an intent to follow through.
Of course, we could not contact our family. They lived not a few miles away, and we all had cell phones. My mother monitored my phone use closely, asking to see it at a moment's notice. I began deleting things as soon as I received them, but she had a knack for catching me off gaurd. I began talking to people in unconventional ways to avoid her notice. I even had a "boyfriend" on a Vampire app that resembled the game Cookie Clicker. She never thought to check there because who would expect that!
All of this had a meaning, supposedly. The old man who shared his home with us, Sal, was someone my mother claimed she knew from her childhood. A polaroid was brought up as proof. She pointed at a man holding a toddler and said "that's me on his lap". A touch of resistance to authority tinged her words. She said her mother had known this man Sal too. Whether she was defying our grandmother's wishes or met her long-lost starcrossed lover, we had a purpose here in the dark house.
Even though we were isolated, we still had art. We drew, we painted, and we had clay to sculpt. I remember vividly going into the fenced front yard to watch my mother hollow out the clay bust she made of current president Barack Obama. She took a video laughing at the stuffed newspaper burning from the inside out of his head.
People were coming ever closer, however. Now, they might be tunneling under the house. More items were braced in front of the windows and we started eating the last of the canned food inside the kitchen.
I am saddened that I can't remember the conversation that drove me to tears one afternoon. Not only tears, but a cold rage that cooled my heart. I would like to know what exactly caused my young mind to forever wall itself from her.
I screamed at her in my small voice. She only laughed without remorse. Silenced and angry, I stormed off into the bathroom. This room I think is one of my favorites. It allows explicit privacy from the outside world, a space to yourself if only for a moment. And they usually lock.
I can still feel the water hitting my skin as I sobbed in the shower. "I will never let her hurt me again," I promised myself through gritted teeth.
Later, I found out that this psychosis was likely brought on by the adderall she was snorting. The police found notebooks in her personal items where she wrote backwards (with her left hand, in cursive), detailing the tunnels she believed were under the house and suicidal thoughts she tended to.
She was taken away handcuffed in the ambulance. The state allowed us to go to our grandparents. However, after months alone with my mother, I was almost convinced we were going to be killed by our family. They poisoned the food, she had told me. That was why their dog was sick, she explained. Only later did I realize the German Shepherd suffered from being purebred.
I saw her again 3 days later, likely after her psychiatric hold was up. She convinced the social worker that my sister and I would be better off with her. Jessica had a great deal of power in persuasion. Perhaps a skill learned from her favorite book, the 48 Laws of Power. Or, she simply was a narcissist that was attractive. Either way, even I was convinced I would be better with her too. Or maybe she would be better with me.
We did not return to the old, bug infested house. My mother had found another state to escape to this time: Oregon.