This blog posting is going to be depressing. It is for me.
A week and a half ago we had my mother involuntarily admitted to a psychiatric facility. We knew she had been ill for some time. Until she agreed to get help or became a threat to herself or others, we were powerless to help her. So we've been watching her deteriorate for over a decade.
Then she threatened to burn the neighbor's house down. That is enough to get someone looked at. We had crisis services come to our house and my mom unleashed the crazy. All the delusions and all the craziness were heard by the poor crisis services folks.
And thank God.
We had been hoping for this moment for years because we knew she needed help, but we weren't quite prepared for what that meant. We weren't quite prepared for the anger and tears. We had no idea how much she would hate us; how much we would initially hate ourselves. And the diagnosis (see title of blog post).
We understand that this isn't her. She isn't herself. When she tells us she is going to disown us and never wants to see us again, we remind ourselves that this isn't our mother talking.
Even though we know it isn't her, we can't pretend those words and actions don't hurt.
I have cried enough over the past couple of weeks.
Today she was in a rare mood. She is going through stages given the medication she is on. Yesterday she was doing well. She was laughing and telling stories. Today she told me she never wanted to see us again and threw her checkbook and knitting needles. Horrible.
I left mad and sad. I never wanted to see her again and I couldn't wait for her to be helped.
This sucks. Christmas is next week and we will be one person short. We feel guilty feeling rather than happy because it will be the first year we have a Christmas without fear of delusions from Grandma. But we have to worry that she is locked up in a psychiatric ward in the local county hospital.
Which is worse? Who can say.