On Tuesday, February 18th, my mother had a psychotic break from reality. Her name is Janell. We didn't see the warning signs. Families often don't.
Her breakdown may be a radical call for a family system reshuffle. We don't know. We're just beginning to sort this out.
There Was a Girl
There was a girl who is no more. She lived in the Humble oil camp in a company house. Her family shopped in the company store and lived the company life. She watched for her father's silver hardhat every day and ran to meet him. He always had a little surprise in his lunch pail.
She was the firstborn and her parents hung a lot of hopes and dreams on her, and a lot of expectations too.
She was born into a family just emerged from sharecropping. They took such pride in father's shiny hardhat and pail. They expected their daughter would rise even higher in the world. Perhaps with some learning she might make a teacher or marry a businessman in town. These were grandiose dreams whispered at night while she was in bed.
This little girl would take a Popsicle and climb her secret tree to be alone. She would suckle herself there in the hidden places among the leaves, watching the people below. In her tree she belonged only to herself.
She had crazy dreams of music and art and travel, but every day she climbed down the tree to her world of duty. She never understood duty to be anything but good and right. She never understood the dreams to be real possibilities.
She married and taught school briefly before staying home with three children. She was faithful to her calling and counted it as joy.
We thought she was happy. Were there signs we missed?
I rummaged through old pictures this week and made a shocking discovery. The primitives are right. The camera does steal your soul. What was a momentary expression becomes an eternal icon of despair. I saw it in her eyes. In almost every photo she looks strangely disconnected, and her eyes never engage the camera. She looks like a girl dragged down from a tree.
We thought she wasn't photogenic. It was kind of a family joke.
Two days before her 66th birthday she unraveled. It happened quickly, and none of us could grab the end of her rope as it whipped around us.
I drove all day to the psych hospital in East Texas. I stood in the lock-down ward with my badge, waiting with all the other sad people. They escorted me to a room where someone who looked like her rose from the bed and walked to me.
I leaned on the trunk of her tree and tried to find her in the branches. I played my trump card, the only card I had. I called out for mommy. Her first-born son, come to find her.
"Mom? It's -------. I'm the one who played at your feet with my imaginary friend, Buppet. I listened to bible stories and Disney records at night. I pulled off my Band-Aids too soon and I always wanted green icing on my birthday cake. Don't you remember me? Won't you come down?”
But mental illness is the ultimate wild card. It's the suicide king that beats your trump. Winner takes all.
I held her face in my hands. I used my thumbs to stroke her cheeks. I whispered in her ear. I looked deep into her green eyes, but Janell has taken her Popsicle and gone away.
11:42:34 AM 
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