Confessions of an Rx Drug Pusher by Gwen Olsen

Author:Gwen Olsen
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
ISBN: 9781935278603
Publisher: iUniverse
Published: 2009-04-24T04:00:00+00:00

9

Crazy Just Like Your Mother:

Dolores' Story

“Nothing has a stronger influence psychologically on their children than the unlived life of the parent.”

—Carl G. Jung

“Mommy has a mental illness, just like Mamaw. It never goes away, and they don’t know how to fix it.” That’s how my father explained it to me as a little girl as we sat talking for hours about our family trials and tribulations. However, in my mind, that translated to “Mommy is crazy just like Mamaw.” This was in no small part due to the fact that when they were fighting, my father repeatedly told my mother, “You crazy bitch!” He would snarl between clenched teeth, either unaware or unconcerned I was listening, “You’re crazy, just like your mother!”

That particular explanation did nothing to quell my fears or make it any easier for me to cope with the tremendous mood swings my mother would have and the resulting chaos that would consume our household.

We were like a family of trapeze artists, never knowing which wrong step might send us plummeting to the ground below. In fact, I think the circus analogy is very appropriate for my family dynamics. Our lives were filled with adrenaline rushes and high drama. We were an organization of misfits, so to speak, that performed in front of audiences with polish and pizzazz. Just like in a circus, behind the scenes and after the show, abuses were taking place that were unknown to the outside world, suffered in silence by innocent captives.

The fights that would define my childhood sent me and my younger sister scampering to hide in closets. If my father had been drinking, the fighting was physical and violent, so we learned to take cover when things escalated. The chaotic noise coming from the hallway and bedrooms could be terrifying to the untrained ear. Furniture was overturned. Doors were slammed, and dishes crashed. We waited with bated breath until the crying, wailing, screaming, and cursing had stopped.

Sometimes, Mother would plead for help and beg us to call the police. On more than one occasion, I remember trying to live down the embarrassment at school of the police coming to our house. Everyone would know and be whispering about it the next day.

Following many of their fights, Dad would gather his things and head for a hotel for the night. Mom would eventually run out of steam and collapse, sobbing and exhausted on her bed. Only then would my sister and I venture out. We were like soldiers returning to the battlefield, surveying the damage and assisting the wounded. We were our mother’s caretakers. We were always there to pick up the pieces of her shattered life.

I don’t know when my parents’ marriage went south, but they had traumatic fights from my earliest memories on. My mother was never officially diagnosed with any mental illness, although she was treated for her nerves more than once. It is impossible to know now which drugs she was given, but I would be shocked if she hadn’t been given tricyclic antidepressants somewhere along the line.

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