There’s nothing I could say that would do justice to Jeri Walker’s moving account of growing up with a mother who has a mental illness except please read it. For those of you who have lived through it, her words will seem all too familiar. For those of you who haven’t, you will soon understand. Jeri is a unique and beautiful writer and I’m truly honored to share her story here today.
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When your mother is crazy and you’re five, no one bothers to explain exactly what that word means. Your state of mind is of no consequence: mom has center stage. So crazy means you get to ride in the red Chevy Nova with your mom and your aunt once a month to Spokane where the big hospitals and important doctors are. (Local facilities cannot accommodate her. Somehow, crazy is big-city material.) As Mom talks with the doctor—a distinguished gray-headed man who looks like Phil Donahue—your aunt takes you to a park that has a bridge over a small stream of water. Crazy must be good if it means monthly park visits.
While you pass through grade school, Mom and Dad vaguely refer to “the time Mom was sick.” You know she takes medication, a pill called Lithium that reminds you of the crystals that power the U.S.S. Enterprise. Sometimes, Mom gets drunk. A no-no for Lithium takers. 
Uncontrollable, loony, embarrassing—that is crazy. You learn this from television. Crazy is glimpsed in two-hour intervals when she drinks. Then she is normal again. It still doesn’t stop you from hiding your best toys under the bed should she ransack your room.
Crazy’s meaning becomes clear when Mom encounters some stress and quits taking her medication. Her laughter and smiles turn to madness and tears. Who is this woman up at four in the morning, breaking furniture and slamming cupboard doors? She stomps through the living room and the kitchen and the hallway, ranting about how everyone in the world is a bastard. You hide under the covers until you have to get up and go to school. Maybe she will forget you are even alive. Certainly, you wish you weren’t alive.
Two years before she gave birth to you, she had to go away, and a few years after your birth, she went away again. They tell you that you were a Lithium baby—sweet and quiet—who should have been born with a hole in your heart. Phil Donahue had recommended abortion rather than putting Mom at the minimum Lithium dosage.
You need a mom (all girls do), but you figure out she has few memories of you from eleven until you turn sixteen. Her trips to the hospital blur; she goes at least twice a year. The first check you write is for over ten thousand dollars because your dad can’t figure out the checkbook. (Paying for Mom’s illness is the only way Dad shows he cares.) Every time she comes home, you anticipate her smile. Mom smiles when she’s okay.
You’ve heard the story about your older sister who whacked her classmate on the head with a textbook for teasing her about her crazy mother. For some reason, no one ever teases you. You’re tough. And you’re paranoid. It’s a small town. People are bound to know.
Between hospital stays, Mom’s inept doctor can only drug her out of her mind. She doesn’t know day from night. You come home from school and she wakes up from a nap and thinks it’s morning and makes pot of coffee and starts doing her Jane Fonda’s. You get angry and yell at her like she’s the child. Unless you’re in your room, you constantly hound 
her. She takes pills at all times of the day because she can’t keep anything straight. How can your family do this to her? You’re only thirteen and they won’t listen to you. Grandma calls you a little self-centered bitch when you cry over your mother. You hate your grandma after that. Grandma thinks Grandma is a pro. Her daddy was crazy as could be, and that was before families sent their odd brethren for extended hospital stays.
You can’t believe no one cares about your mother. You love her so much it’s driving you crazy, but what to do? This is what crazy does to a family. Luckily, your two older sisters escape all of this. They live on their own. You call them for support. You need someone to care. About you.
Between baby-sitting an overmedicated rum-dumb, punch-drunk mother (that’s what Dad calls her when he’s frustrated), and being a teenager, you long for guidance and for goodness and for okay. Okay becomes a beacon no one in your family can reach. Other families are okay. Your family is not like other families.
You read a lot and live inside your head and become your own best friend because you’re too afraid and embarrassed to ask anyone to stay the night. You spend a lot of time with a friend who lives with her grandma. It’s been rumored around town that her mother is crazy, too. You never ask.
Anxiety becomes your normal state. Mom lives in limbo between okay and mania. Dad sneers no matter what. You can’t figure him out. He’s a lousy bastard and he treats her like dirt and cusses at her and makes her cry when she’s so low and depressed. Even 
looking at her makes you cry. You cry continually. Emotions flood your heart and press in upon you, suffocating you. You know there’s no such thing as normalcy, but you long to be closer to its soothing connotations. The one person capable of comforting you can’t. She’s lost to the mess inside her head and the pills that make her a zombie.
When Mom is away (getting better), Dad pays you decent wages to clean the neglected house and buys lots of meals to go from the Greasy Spoon. You will clean, but you won’t cook for him. After school, you retreat to your room and he watches television in the living room.
Mom comes home, again. Somewhere during all of this, she switches to a doctor in Coeur d’Alene. Her new doctor also has manic depression. Mom can respect this. Mom gets new medication after nearly dying from an overdose. The new doctor has something to do with the old doctor saving his ass, but your parents never give you the details. Kids never get the details.
Mom and Tegretol make a good match. She smiles again, but you’re older now; you sense her moods. She is disgusted with her life, but at least she’s not crazy. She becomes your friend, not your mother, because crazy people make bad parents. Before she is crazy, she is your mother. You love her.
And even though you love her desperately, you still feel ashamed and your face burns when memories flood your brain. You can be thirty-six, married, and living thousands of miles from home and still wake up in the middle of the night crying because you can hear her stomping around the house. You see her caged in that house by her illness and her husband. She could be so much more. But could she? Mom is crazy. Longing for explanations and a stronger sense of the love you wanted her to give, you are haunted.
Biography
Jeri Walker-Bickett was born and raised in Wallace, Idaho, a rough-and-tumble mining town with a checkered past. The storytelling urge struck at a young age, but an undergraduate degree in writing led to a graduate degree in English education. Between living the scholarship-laden life of an academic bum, she did seasonal work in national parks. Jeri met the love of her life in Yellowstone and later married him in Las Vegas. This phase in their lives sparked an obsession with food and travel. They currently live in North Carolina with their pets. She recently
published a collection of literary short stories titled Such is Life. Her forthcoming novel, Lost Girl Road, is a ghost story that takes place in the woods of northwest Montana.
You can connect with Jeri’s social networks via her blog, JeriWB: What do I know? She also invites you to browse the selections on her Amazon Author Central page.
Thought-provoking and extremely well written. Thanks for sharing.
And thank you for reading, Chris.
This was so sad Jeri. We are all accustomed to dealing with the problems that come from the outside, but the problems that come from within are the hardest to deal with. The field of mental health is still progressing and treatments are getting better. However, finding the right treatment for a single individual can be a lengthy and trying process. I think that the best possible asset an individual/family can have is a support network that extends into the community and covers both the medical as well as the social aspects of mental illness. Thanks for sharing this story Jeri, and I hope your mother has stabilized. Also thanks for having Jeri over Laura!
Rolando, my mother is more stable than in the past, but any kind of upset to the normal daily routine can really throw her off track. As always, there are good days and not so good days.
This was very powerful. I was right there with you. As a writer, a former therapist, someone who also was in therapy for years, and who had a mother who was mentally ill, I could really feel every word jump off of the page. Ironically, today would have been my mother’s 77th birthday, had she chosen to care for herself and not self-medicate. Mental illness is so difficult to understand as a child. “What’s wrong with me?” was the perpetual question I asked until intervention arrived. Still, I remain haunted, although a great deal of healing has taken place now that I am 45. Continue to write, share, blog, connect. I admire your transparency; silence kills.
Thank you so much Susan. Over the years, writing has been key in helping me come to terms with my mother’s illness. Even my fiction tends to dwell on psychologically damaged characters. It means a lot to be able to connect with other people who can relate to growing up in such a situation.
We lost my wife’s father before Christmas. He had suffered for years with dementia. You would think the hardest part was losing her father. But really she knew she had lost him years ago, when the dementia had taken his memories and mind.
Jon, I’m sorry to hear that. It’s can be so difficult to see the person you once knew become somebody else.
Jon, so sorry for your family’s loss, and that dementia took his memories and mind. My mother has dementia. She doesn’t remember me or much of anything, but I am absolutely positive that there’s a deeper connection. That never goes away.
I have mental illness in my family as well. It’s a life long fight for sanity. Thanks for sharing Jeri.
Cheryl, it never ceases to amaze me just how many people know others who suffer from mental illness. When I was younger, I never used to tell anyone, but then I worked through my feelings by writing about them, and now it doesn’t bug me to speak about my mother’s illness either.
What a heartbreaking read this was for me, beautifully written but so sad. Perhaps it is because I relate all too personally with what you wrote, especially the part about becoming your own best friend and not having anyone stay the night. I grew up with a schizophrenic brother, eight years my senior. To this day he is still in and out of mental institutions. There’s so much more I could say here but it just feels right to sit and be silent, and reflect on the power of what you wrote and what an amazing woman you are today.
Thank you Laura for having Jeri over to you site for this very powerful writing.
Paulette
Paulette, thanks for reading and for letting me know what your brother has gone through, and is still going through.
Thank you, Paulette, for being here. I think we should all celebrate our resilience, as survivors and/or as people with mental illness. We are all still here, helping to shape the conversation and our world.
Aw.. Jeri. What a sad thing that is for you, her and the family. Mental illness isn’t just a tragedy for the one who suffers from it but the family members who live with the issues and constraints that it brings daily. Good memories are hard to come by at times but ones that can be cherished. Hold on to those. 🙂
Susan, it means so much how you always focus on the positive. In many ways, I had a pretty good childhood since my mom had a pretty good stretch during those years. At her best, or at her worst, I always love her.
Thank you for sharing your story Jeri and it shows the strength you had growing up. As you said in your comment to Susan you love her and I am sure she loves you.
Thanks for reading, Susan. It definitely took strength to make it through those difficult years. I could have gone down a much different road, but thankfully I (mostly) turned out okay.
You know I relate to your story, Jeri. Different time, different mother, same house. I did not know that you, too, heard cupboards slamming in the night while cowering in your bed. Your story brought tears to my eyes because I know your pain. Writing was a lifesaver for me also, but one I did not discover until about the age you are now. Writing helped me to uncover and come to terms with so much that I had repressed over the years, pretending everything was OK with me when it wasn’t. I love your mother dearly, always have, always will. And like you, I will always have some anger about some of the treatment she has endured throughout her life, while knowing she was and is loved and everyone was doing the best they knew how. I truly admire your courage for bringing your story, a family’s story to light for help in understanding and healing.
You’ve been a good friend to her over the years, and even though she probably hasn’t called you in a long time, she still talks about you often.
What a powerful story….very moving & so well written.
Thank you for sharing 🙂
Becc, thanks for reading. This is definitely one of those times when emotion just sort of made sentences pour out of me.
Wow, what an incredible story. No one should have to go through this – neither you nor your mom. I read the book, “Psychiatry, the Ultimate Betrayal” that you might be interested in as it talks about our broken psychiatric system. The bad part is it’s only getting worse as states cut funding for such programs. You’re such a strong person Jeri!
Thanks Dan, I will be sure to take a look at the book. The yearly caps on psychiatric care in comparison to many other healthcare benefits is truly abysmal. The $10k check mentioned above was only one of many…
Wow, Jeri. So well written and honest and fearless. You really laid it all on the line for this piece.
My mom was depressed when I was growing up, but I never knew that. All I knew was that she read a lot, slept a lot and ate a lot. I cannot imagine how difficult you day to day life must have been. It truly is a testament to your spirit that you went on to live a normal and productive life in spite of all this!
Adrienne, I often wonder what made me get my shit together. Even though I don’t paint the most flattering picture of my father here (and seeing how I actually wrote this piece over 13 years ago) I now realize many of the qualities that saved me are ones I share with my father. It was like a switch just went off somewhere during that time where I vowed to became the opposite of all the yelling, screaming, crying, insults, and confusion that surrounded me.
An eye-opener. We never know the pains of illness unless we experience them first-hand. I’m sorry you had to experience that and I’m sorry they still haunt you. Your mom suffered from her illness along with not being able to truly be a part of her daughter’s life. I can feel your pain in these lines, “you long for guidance and for goodness and for okay. Okay becomes a beacon no one in your family can reach.” Thanks for sharing.
Denise, the feeling of being haunted seemed unbearable at times these past two years when I moved and changed careers, but like all else in life, I remained my stubborn self knowing that things always get better. Even though I am haunted, I don’t have to be that scared kid. I just have to remind myself of that all the time.
Very true. I have my own feelings of being haunted, and like you, I believe they’ll get better. Again, thanks for sharing.
Wow. Incredibly moving!
Thanks for reading, PM.
Wow, Jeri. Wow.
I think what people normally say in such circumstances is that they’re sorry. They’re sorry for you, for your mom, for your dad for not being able to handle your mom, and they’re sorry that such things happen to people. I am all of that, but I’m also glad you’ve made it through all of that to grow into such a strong, productive woman and such a good person.
I see people who, like my own dad, still can’t get over his abusive father, who still uses it as an excuse to be something less than he could be, even after his dad has been dead for 20 years. And then I see you, and you are so, so different. You are compassionate and kind and thoughtful. Even if you still suffer the effects of growing up in that kind of situation, you haven’t let it debase who you are.
I hope someday you write a memoir. I think a lot of people could learn from what you have to say.
Thanks Jenny. It means a lot to hear the good things you have to say, because it can be hard for me to see those things in myself. I have thought about writing a memoir, but still am not sure if I’m ready to go down that emotional roller-coaster on a daily basis.
Wow. This could have been my home, except for the fact that nothing has ever been diagnosed and it was much more subtle. Susan’s comment, ‘silence kills,’ was close to the bone. All the damage in our home has been covered up and still is. Mum is a painful person to be around and to live with but it is always deflected. I am in another country but feel I can never escape. The damage is so deep and writing, I have found, is the only outlet. It is always hidden, always, harms and never looks at the needs of those outside that individual. I posted a video recently by Sir Patrick Steward that had a huge impact on me about violence. But I think neglect also comes in. Are you on twitter, Jeri? Laura, thanks for hosting.
I actually just watched that Patrick Stewart video today on Upworthy — we need more like him around! Jeri is on Twitter (@JeriWB) and I’ll also let her know that there’s a new comment for her. Thank you for sharing your experience, and I’m so glad you’ve found that writing helps you.
F.C., I too watched that video of Patrick Stewart as well a few days ago. I often find that such clips bring up the feelings I’ve tried so hard to cope with regarding growing up in such a literally crazy household. It seems no matter who hard we try to aim for normality, there’s always an undercurrent left over from those days we endured so long ago. Writing serves as a great outlet, so too do other hobbies I’ve thrown myself into. I followed you on Twitter the other day once I noticed you signed-up for my newsletter. Keep in touch.
First, let me begin by saying “Jeri, I simply love your writing. Reminds me a little of my own”. And now the big announcement, my mom is crazy, too! She has never been diagnosed, but had you grown up with her, you would know. We don’t speak as a result of my childhood, but you know what I am so grateful to her for? I always say, if she hadn’t been the kind of mom she was to me, then maybe I wouldn’t be the kind of mom I am to my two wonderful daughters (who by the way, live with a mom who might be a little crazy, also undiagnosed….I think when people refer to my mind as genius, what I hear is “a little crazy”). But, all humor aside, I’m so glad you made it thru as you seem to be one of the warmest souls I’ve ever encountered. Thanks for sharing. And yes, I kept these secrets, too as a child, but now, nobody better ask as they are opening up a flood of water!
Nonnie, welcome to our club! 😛
At least we can laugh about it now (mostly) and acknowledge our own foibles (sort of). And the more I talk with other people about this topic, the more I realize just how much ‘undiagnosed’ is out there. Quite a lot. But the collateral damage is visible. By the way, my mother wasn’t diagnosed until she was 73, and that’s also when she went on an anti-psychotic medication for the first time. So, I empathize with your situation. Thanks for reading and sharing a bit of your story.
Nonnie, I tend to feel the same way too when it comes to the person my mother influenced me to become because without that “craziness” in my life, I most certainly would have become a different person. That must be hard in many ways not talking to your mother, although the conversations I tend to have with my mom stay on lighter topics so as not to rock the boat of long-ago feelings…. you’re also lucky to have daughters you can be a good mother to. The main reason why I don’t have children is because how growing-up in such an uncertain environment affected my idea of family. It’s a bummer in some ways, because I probably would make a decent mother.
My God…..My mother was nuts too
My mother would yell at all hours during the night….we lived in a row house so everyone knew…people on the block must have known my mother as the crazy lady……I too would hide under my bed sheets……my father just ignored her…..at 18 I tried to move out but my father said it would kill him if I did……my saving grace was my grandfather who slept in the same room with me….he was my mom, loving me and putting me on a pedestal…..now I am 56 and the memories come back stronger of aweful my childhood was…..now thatt I am older, My child hood friends have vanished from me and I understand why now…..thanks for letting me know that I am not alone in dealing with this situation
No, you are definitely not alone, and that you have the courage to talk about it can only help relieve the shame that we, as children, inadvertently carried. It must have been really tough on you, your dad, your grandfather and your mother. I wish you the very best on your healing journey. I don’t think we ever leave our childhood stuff behind, no matter what our age, but we can learn how to see the experience in a more positive light for the compassion and wisdom it gave us.
Thanks for sharing your story, Jeri. I lived with a mentally ill and physically abusive Mother. The difference was that all the adults in my life pretended it didn’t happen. Oh, in the moment it happened but as quickly as it was over it was never discussed, addressed or admitted to. There were no explanations as you mentioned, no apologies and no resolutions. My Father, though short for words was always there with candy, my favorite food or a gift to make it better. It did in some ways. I’m now 47 and have built a wonderfully solid wall of my own denial and have mastered the art of the filing cabinet. Put it in a drawer and hope the drawer doesn’t eventually explode. I was actually adopted to my relief as I remember as a teen feeling so scared that I would be as she was. Amazingly however I’ve found out that my biological Mother was actually worse than what I grew up with. I guess mine is an ironic situation but it is nice to stumble on stories like yours to know that other people have successfully emerged and managed. I hold onto those stories on dark days. Today has been one of those days….
Hi Jill, I’ve passed a note on to Jeri so that she knows you’ve left her a comment. Thank you for sharing your story, and hold on to the fact that you are also one of those people who has successfully emerged and managed (and I am, too!). We all have our ups and downs, dark days, days of brilliant light. And as I’m learning (*still* always learning!), having parents who disappoint you can be an incredibly tough thing to let go of. Just know that their crap wasn’t your crap, and isn’t yours now, and you’re so much more than “that story.” And congratulations on standing tall and speaking up. Peace and love.
Jill, I know that filing cabinet all too well as I’m sure many of us with mentally ill parents do. Since changing careers and also making two lengthy moves, I’ve realized my coping skills are not as great as I thought (but that the explosive filing cabinet was at a pretty good simmer). Still though, people like you and Laura and I do have a resiliency that somehow sees us through because we can and do reach out to others with our stories.
Jeri, sadly but empathetically, I can relate to not knowing what the world is without crazy because that’s all you know. I can relate to long drives to those mysterious buildings that house blank faced patients. I can relate to turning to books and writing to cope. I can relate to the fears waking you up in the middle of the dark night.
I can relate to the need to move on, and beyond.
May God bless you with the strength to face each new day.
Elaine, thanks for the kind and encouraging words. Just when it seems I’ve allowed myself to get back to old thinking habits that allow these memories to overshadow my daily life, a comment like yours comes along and reminds me others share those feelings as well, which is why I feel compelled to share this experience.
Thank you to you both, because in community, we are stronger!
Do we ever fully recover from our lost childhoods? Sometimes I say yes and move forward boldly – then…well, you know the drill. Bravely written and brutally honest. You’re a courageous writer.
The one thing I realize now about my mothers mental illness, it wasnt her fault…..A person who does not have a mental illness just can’t put themselves in the shoes/understand of someone who is mentally ill………I’m 57 now and at times it gets depressing that I grew up with this but it is what it was…..this has affected me today from getting close to people…..thank god for my best friend and wife.
Johnny, at the same time that my heart just breaks when I read your words — I really empathize, and am so sorry you had that experience — I also see how you’ve found compassion and forgiveness where you can, and also have good people to lean on, and that makes me happy! Very best to you. xo
Thank you for reading, Anita. I, too, love this piece by Jeri. And I’m not sure how you found my blog, but I’m glad you did, because it means I found your blog. I’ve just done a bit of reading over there. You’ve got a beautiful voice.
Discovered you from Lizzi’s blog, Considerings. I can unfortunately, relate all to well, having been raised by a mother who was bipolar. She wasn’t medicated until I was about 16, when she experienced her first hospitalization. Before that, she was being analyzed by a psychiatrist who thought he could analyze it out of her (he should have been shot). In fact, he was later sued in a class action suit because he’d string his patients along, guaranteeing himself an easy, fat income (at least, until he was sued).
I have blocked out a lot of my childhood, mostly because of how my mother acted out, which was by verbally attacking me, and I find it fascinating when people can remember such details as Jeri shares. But in diving deeply into healing work (energy healing), I’ve recovered and healed a lot of painful experiences in a relatively short amount of time. (That’s part of what I write about). Thank you for sharing this important story.
Hi Susan, thanks so much for being here, and I’m sorry to hear that you’re part of “the club” (although unlike you and Jeri, my mother had undiagnosed psychosis) and about such an unethical practitioner. Blocking things out is a very natural survival technique, and it sounds like you’ve found an amazing way to work on healing — I’ve yet to try energy healing work but I’m sure I will at some point. Also, we’re PNW neighbors! (Fabulous eagle shots on your blog, btw!!!)
Thanks- glad you enjoyed the eagle shots. I’ve got some fun tulip shots from our local Tulip Festival that happens every April. Almost time for another round! Photography is one of my #1 passions.
Cool! My hubby is a photographer so I understand how that passion runs deep!
Re reading your story brings chills to me as I had a mom like that. Now that I am 58, the memories are worst now than when I was in my 20s 30s or 40s. The mind is a fascinating thing
The mind is endlessly fascinating. Have you ever tried hypnotherapy? I did a few sessions of that and thought it was pretty cool for helping to let go of some stuff. And then Susan (who commented above) has been using energy healing. It sounds like if the memories are coming back stronger to you now than before, they may be begging for you attention. Best to you!
Hi Laura
No I haven’t tried hypnotherapy but I try not to prolong my bad memories of my mother. I feel sorry for her. My mom led a tragic life. She was born with mhe, a bone disorder that makes u disfigured and in pain and a loner. Her mom committed suicide when my mom was 10 years old in a small town in Italy and she had to raise her two younger siblings. She lost two children at during child birth. She then had a blood disorder which left her with a open wound on her ankle. Add on top of it her mental illness. She was dealth too many bad cards. I still love her because at times she was ok
Wow, that’s very tragic, and it’s made you into a very compassionate person, I’m sure.
Just a FYI, a lot of the “energy work” I’ve done has been using hypnotherapy to follow feelings and emotions (that I don’t like) that I notice keep popping up, to when they first started (usually in my childhood), and “heal” them. The change inside is huge. Lots more peace inside.
I will look into via google for hypnotherapy. Thank you