Empty

On one occasion I opened a refrigerator and saw squirrels, dead fuzzy squirrels. Laying there with no insides, just an outer shell with brown fur and black dead glassy eyes; Sitting in the fridge almost like a waiting room until they are carried out to be taken somewhere I do not know. This reminds me of my mother.
As a child I learned at an early age that my mother was unpredictable in the way of her moods, and the rest of my family, me my brother and my dad all learned a secret language because of that. If I saw either my brother or my dad give a finger to their lips that was the code that undeniably meant that I better shut-up and not make one sound, because even a creek on the floor could stir this beast inside of my mother that no one could stop. A smile wink that any of us gave meant that she was in fact my “real” mother, happy and loving; unfortunately this disposition never lasted long enough for any of us. The true sad fact was that my mother worst mood was not when she was in a rage, but when she had no control at all; a whimpering, lonely, unavoidable mood that seemed to be the mood she stayed in the longest. We did not need a sign for this mood because you could feel it when you entered the house. It was like a strong odor that is extremely difficult to rid your self of, it clung to your clothes, your mood, and your heart and wouldn’t let go. Sure enough we would walk into the house and there she would be lying on the couch, with no insides, just an outer shell with her brown hair un-brushed and tangled, her dead eyes, dark and glassed over, staring at the vast nothingness around her, waiting for something, that none of us, not even herself knows.
My mother at her heart is an amazing woman; she is smart, funny, competitive, and loving. All things I have to remind my self like a mantra in my head when I see her in the dead state, because she suffers with depression and mood swings all of those qualities get wiped away like rain pouring on a windshield. This disease robs me repeatedly of my mother. As a child we had little signs to warn each other, but as an adult I have no such need, because I know overwhelmingly as soon as I see, or try to talk to her. Her voice is weak from the battle she cannot yet win, and she seems childlike with an air of helplessness that sucks my energy at the moment it presents itself, having to hold her hand to walk anywhere because she is so unsure of her own ability to do anything. She has been struggling with this for most of my life and even though there have been some breaks of peace within this battle, times when we all thought she was getting better becoming more and more that mother that we all longed for, but this hope is dashed because the robber of my mother’s mind always comes back.
On one occasion when I was eleven I walked down the curved road to our pink-shuttered house, no one was suppose to be there until five because my parents were at work and my brother was out at a friends house. I was to do my chores and homework until my family got there, it was an exciting night, it was pizza night which was my mothers idea she had a break in her clouds. I walked up the stairs and unlocked the big heavy door as soon as it opened the odor of sadness melted on me and I just knew. I walked up the stairs and it was pitch dark, my heart stopped the clouds were back, there she was on her knees with her head lying on our blue couch crying. The windows in the living room were covered, and no lights were on, I knelt down to her and said “momma” she lifted her head at stared at me with her bloodshot eyes, like she did not love me, like she did not care about anything, like the world was appalling and desolate. She whispered “please leave” and knowing the rules of the game because I have played it to many times before, I walked to the kitchen I put the sink mat down so that glass would not score the sink, grabbed the two champagne glasses with the blue ribbons tied on the stems, that my parents used at there wedding and I wanted to one day use for mine, and the bubble pitcher that was my grandfather’s that my dad got after he died, I put all of those things in the bottom drawer under the towels and old plastic bags from the Piggly Wiggly, because those are the things that can not be replaced. I took the frozen face mask out of the freezer, and slowly, quietly walked into the dragons den that used to be, just that morning, my families living room and placed the mask on the coffee table as a peace offering, although we both knew it was just another signal; a signal that the battle was about to commence. I walked down to my room swiftly to be out of the way for the bloodbath that was going to occur in the kitchen.
In my room, my purple sanctuary, I did not have to see her eyes the tears rolling out from the corners, I did not have to see the deepest reddest rage angry at something inside of her, a deep resentment of her life, of her sadness, of her pain. All I can hear is the cabinet opening and the seconds of silences before the sound of breaking, crashing, glasses hitting the aluminum sink over and over. And when I heard her heavy steps down the hall, and the slam of her door; I crept out of my room and walked down the stairs to the basement I sat at my dads work bench surrounded by the hammers, and drills waiting for him and my brother to come to relive me of my duties, and take up in the ranks of this battle. My dad walked through the basement door all smiles with my little brother on his back like a monkey but one look at my face he knows, my brother drops off my dads back onto his own feet he feels it too. They have pizza with them, because it was suppose to be our pizza night. We are not hungry anymore; our appetites are diminished as we stand there in the basement waiting, thinking about our next move. We were just becoming a family again, with our “real” mother returning back to us, and that was all stolen again by depression and mood swings. My dad decides to let us eat pizza in the family room, which he transformed with a flick of a light switch, and pulling down the covers off the windows. We watched cartoons. All the while my dad was trying to silently sooth the helpless child that was just this morning my mother.
I am an adult, I’m married and do not live at home. And yet I still fight that battle, on the phone, whenever I go down, or if they come up for a visit, my mothers moods can still occur for seemingly no reason at all, at anytime. She has a counselor here in Ada, mostly because of the many protests from my dad and I, and they were up here one the day of her first appointment, which we all thought would be a great day for her. A time that she would feel like she was helping herself, which to my once independent mother was a lot. I meet her and my dad there at the Golden Corral restaurant which is my parents’ favorite place to eat when they are here, after which my mother and I were going to go to Main Street to look at the various shops, one of her usual past times. However when I walked in to the restaurant and saw my mother she looked tired, and she looked at me and waved, again like the small child holding my dads hand and waving absently at me, her eyes with heavy circles with the look of deficient sleep. We walk to the table to start on the buffet of food before us, and I realize too late that my mother is unsure of her own feet that day; she grabs a plate to head to the buffet and as she turns she falls. It is as if it is in slow motion, her feet turn, her knees buckle, and her arms fly up in the air in the general direction of the table, she is a tornado of spinning waist and head as she crashes onto the red carpet below. Some people at the surrounding tables got up to help, others just looked in surprise and disgust. They just thought she was clumsy, we new better. My dad and I rush over to her and drop beside her to pick her up off the floor, her face is red-hot with embarrassment, and her brow pleaded for her eyes not to cry. We stood up the three of us together, with my mother in the middle we sat her down at the table, and I went to fill her plate. My dad and I tried to fill the silence, by talking about my school, or my brother or even what my mom and I were going to look for when we went to the various stores, my mother added injections here and there as we tried to ignore the earlier happening.
After leaving the restaurant and the embarrassment, my mother and I were going off alone; to look at the hodge-podge of shops, while my dad went to handle errands. I of course drove because I always do. As we were going into the stores that were across the street from where I parked, my mother was excitedly pointing at the various stores, which made me happy, I held her hand steadying her as we entered the store; she picked out an assortment of knick knacks. As we were leaving there was a huge display of Christmas houses all set up, with trains and lights and little, happy, plastic people all around, and my mother stopped and was staring at it the whirl of colors and motion. I walked over to her, and she looked at me and simply said “I wish that life was like that all happy and colorful” I was struck by that statement and all I could do was nod and take her hand.
My mother did not ask for this, she did not want this or choose the moods she is in and she fights and has been fighting for herself and her family, and she is slowly making her progress Also it is an internal battle, a fight within myself not because of depression and mood swings; but the fear that that beast will catch me like it did my mother, that my husband and my children might have to be afraid and cautious of the dragons den. I believe this is a battle that will always be waging in my life, a battle of dealing and coping with the robber, the depression, the misery; and loving my mother that is trapped inside. This above all is my battle.