Mother-Drugs-Money and Me

         I have found myself on a quest the last few months to really understand how I became the person I am.  Mostly I want to be able to pinpoint what experiences in my life have contributed to the less than favorable traits I hold as an adult.  This has led me on a wild goose chase at times, but I am almost always re-directed back to the experiences I had as a child.  All of my training in early childhood education and child psychology won't let me overlook the importance of what happened during my formative years.  

     I wonder if writing about my own family is unkind.  I suppose it is.  Though is keeping the less than exemplary behavior of a family member a secret the right thing to do?  It depends.  It depends on your point of view and why you want to hide it.  It's funny how the older you get the less you feel like you have to protect other people from the mistakes they have made, even yourself. There are many stories that make up the people who are my family.  Now, my mom is perhaps one of the most interesting, or tragic, depending on the day and your mood when reflecting.  There were times in my life growing up as a child that she protected me from the forces of evil, namely my father .  He lacked a certain sense of maturity.  He was physically abusive..... mostly to her.  He beat her.  It was frequent.  He shoved her down the stairs, made unrealistic demands and threatened her life.  (Though horrific, I am not sure the past matters.  My father is dead now.)  My mother is still issue-rich in her own way, though.  (I am too.)  When she parted from my father (or rather fled) she started down her own path of destruction with my brothers and I in tow, though as a child I didn’t see it.  I look back now and wonder how different my life might have been if there was some sense of normalcy growing up. Though, I have to be careful not to sound like I am blaming the mistakes she made as reasons why I have had shortcomings. Yet, I can't help but think things may have been different for my brothers and I if she hadn't fallen prey to drug addiction.  She was a master at writing her own prescriptions from the tablets she five fingered from her own physician’s office on many of her visits. (Oh yes, "just help yourself" was her mantra.) This went on for years apparently.

            This "feel good" scheme came to a screeching halt one late summer day a month or so after my fifth grade year had ended.  I remember that afternoon with vivid detail even today so many years later.  My grandmother, who was nothing short of a cantankerous early senior woman at the time, as well as a control freak, whipped up in her yellow Cadillac Sedan Deville.   She ushered one of my brothers and I out to her car.   She rolled up the windows at the push of a button and sped away from our house while she told us that our mother had been arrested at the Osco Drug Store for writing herself prescriptions.  I didn’t really know what all that meant as an eleven year old boy, but it didn’t seem that things were headed in the right direction since my mother had been arrested. You don't have to be a genius to know that once your parent is locked up in the slammer it isn't like you are looking through rose colored glasses. I didn’t know any other kids whose mother had been arrested.  How does a mother get arrested anyway?...........  Weren’t mothers supposed to look after their kids,  and make sure they were safe?  My mother did some of that but only when she wasn’t busy self medicating and forging prescriptions.  She was a walking zombie at times.  She slept a lot. ( I thought she liked naps.)  Rather, she needed sleep because she was pumped full of so many different types of prescription medications that sleep was a necessary pleasure.So, what is the issue?  If you subscribe to the notion that your adulthood patterns were shaped by your parents presence or lack there of during your childhood then I can clearly see how these experiences as a young child have influenced my decision making as an adult now.  The real question is: Is it simply an excuse to make the connection between the behavior of your parent(s) when you were a youngster to the reason why you think the way you do now as an adult?  Is it just an easy "out" to allow yourself to think your parents had that much influence on who you are today because of the mistakes they made?  Sometimes I think yes it is too easy of an out.  Yet, other times I can't think of any other explanation.   So, maybe it isn't about figuring out who or what led you to be who you are today (And I am talking about the less than favorable parts of who you are) but about what you do with the knowledge of how your past has impacted you.....

          There is another vivid memory of my mother's drug abuse.  I can't recall which occured first, the story below or the being arrested for forging prescriptions.  Though it makes no difference, they both are alarming.  My mom was lying in her bed.    She was sedentary and mumbling.  She was completely incoherent.  My brother and I did not go to school that day.  (We watched her and were secretly kind of thrilled to be staying home.) Then the reality and grandure of the situation set in......  I remember my grandfather squealing into our driveway late that morning.  I scurried to hide in the linen closet so that he wouldn’t know that I wasn’t at school that day.  He came in, scooped my mom up and carried her to the car.  They headed to the emergency room.  She was admitted to the hospital and soaked up some therapy and drug treatment.        

       One of my brother's and I lived with my grandparents for well over a year while my mother was in treatment.  Later I was told that on occasion my grandfather told people that my mother "moved to California" during her drug treatment time.  (I suppose admitting that your daughter was in drug rehab was a tough one to swallow.) 

My grandfather was a remarkable man with a humbling past.  He had escaped from Aushwitz with a friend and managed to steal an airplane escaping to freedom.  He ended up in the states some time later.  His life and survival are simply put, a miracle.  My grandmother, on the other hand, had ice water running in her veins.  (Yes, she and my grandfather took my brother and I in and yes they cared for us.) Warmth wasn't something that came easy for her.  In fact, my oldest brother nick-named her The Crypt Keeper.  The amazing thing is that she actually looked like him.  The nick name was fitting and it stuck for years to come. 

So, we lived with my remarkable grandfather and the Crypt Keeper while my mother rotted away in treatment for several months.  I think at the time I wasn’t fully aware of what was going on.  What child is, really?  I remember taking the forty-five minute drive to see my mother at the Mental Health Institute.  What a name!  (Couldn’t it be called something along the lines of Hope and Recovery Center or maybe The Independence Center?  To have the name be so blatant!)  The days ran into weeks and the weeks ran into months while my mother recovered from the addiction.  As an adult now I can't help but wonder what was the cost to my siblings and I?

             My mother isn’t a substance abuser these days.  She has other vices.  She likes to swear, as do I.  She likes to buy herself things, as do I.  She also likes to take naps.  I live for them too.  The days of self medication are gone, as is every last penny of the trust fund that she and my grandmother spent unbenounced to my brothers and I who were to receive equal shares of it.  Does the money really matter?  Most of the time I tell myself that it doesn’t.  

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So, is the real issue identifying where and how you arrived to the place you are as an adult? What do yo udo with that kind of connective knowledge?
 Or, is it simply being aware that you don't have to let your childhood experiences dictate how you will live as an adult?  Can't decide.