red storm

(image Golden Sommer Day by Floriandra)

It was a beautiful Saturday morning.

The kids were all around us.

We were drinking coffee.

Talking.

Happiness hung in the air like the fragrant smell of freshly picked flowers.

Outside we could see the horses grazing.  Rusky, the crow who’ve decided to live with us, were making graceful swoops.

Last night we decided we’ll go the movies.

‘The life of Pi‘ is showing.

In 3D.

Zuko’s dad called last night.

Her mom, who fell into a deep dark abyss, just before Christmas, is going for treatment at a clinic out of town.

Its been a long time coming.

Like me, Zuko grew-up with a mother afflicted by depression.

For me it was my dad.

Whichever way it goes – growing up with a parent suffering from depression leaves unmistakeable fingerprints on your being.

There is something ‘special’ about being rejected by the people who created you.

Its been a life time coming.

But the past 18 months have been worse.

Back in 2002 we tried to resolve some of the issues.

We agreed to see her mom & dad with a psychiatrist.

There was an introductory consultation.

At least there was the hope that we all want to find relationship.

All of us not necessarily healthy relationship, but relationship nevertheless.

It didn’t work out that well.

Consultation two was attended only by Zuko’s dad.

Consultation three was me & Zuko.

The psychiatrist suggested that Zuko need time to resolve the matter in her own being.

‘We cannot control other people’s behavior.’

‘We can only control our selves.’

‘Sometimes, if we grew up with a parent afflicted by depression, we need to create space.’

‘To come to terms with what we experienced.’

And so we embarked on a journey.

A lonely journey.

Isolated.

Talking.

Exploring.

Remembering.

Asking ourselves what is right?

What is fair?

What is to be expected of parents?

And what is to be expected of us as children?

Can we be accountable for our parents’ choices?

Should we be the ones who take responsibility?

For one thing, we resolved that we would want our children to know unconditional love.

For another, we resolved that we will be accountable.

And, that we will never ever burden our children with the responsibility of our well-being or happiness.

It was five years later when the phone rang.

The storms we faced during that five years, the attempts at manipulation, the things said about us, alienating us & isolating us – that is a story to be told another day.

It was Zuko’s mom on the phone.

She’d just come out of treatment.

Long tedious treatment at a reputable clinic.

She apologized to Zuko.

Not with specifics.

Or detail.

Just: ‘I am sorry for any pain or heartache I have caused you.’

And: ‘I want us to try again.  To be mother & daughter.’

Any child desires this.

Every child.

And so, reluctantly, we begin again.

For if you love, you love completely.

And perhaps also a bit selfishly, wanting to fill that emptiness alive in your being.

There is something ‘special’ about being rejected by the people who created you.

That was five years ago.

And although the relationship remained fragile, at least there were boundaries.

Whenever Zuko’s mom would attempt to blame Zuko for her own lack of happiness, or whatever else, a red flag would be raised & the semblance of normality would be restored.

Until 18 months ago.

Or maybe even a bit more.

Perhaps people suffering from severe depression never really come free?

Perhaps they are able to deal with it?

Or contain it?

The dark grim clouds always looming.

The emptiness always eating at their soul.

Psychologists say there are many things which can cause depression.

They also say that 80% of people who grow up with a parent or parents afflicted by depression, end up suffering from depression themselves.

Passing on the sadness.

From generation to generation.

18 months ago Zuko’s parents went on a trip to Europe.

Her brother had been living in England for the best part of a decade.

He invited them to visit.

To see the world.

Anxiety overwhelmed Zuko’s mom.

The crutch of over the counter medication appeared again.

We assumed it was about the uncertainty of world travel.

Never realizing it was the uncertainty of facing a reality she could not cope with.

They went.

They came back.

Zuko’s mom was worse.

Her dad doing the thing the spouses of alcoholics & addicts & depression sufferers the world over do so proficiently.

Making excuses.

Providing reasons.

Pleading for understanding.

Subtly also blaming Zuko for being uncompassionate & heartless.

And she eats it.

At home it is strained.

We’re happy.

We’re connected.

But the dark grim clouds spill into our lives.

We try to maintain relationship.

We try to love unconditionally.

She did apologize.

She did say she wanted to try again.

Then I find my Pippin crying on her bed.

She’s not even ten.

I hold her.

I talk to her.

She has been moody.

A bit more difficult than could be expected.

We’ve been patient.

I prod.

Inquire through the tears.

‘I don’t want to live anymore,’ she says.  ‘I just want to die and be done with it.  Life is so terrible.  I am so worthless.  Nobody loves me.’

Massive sobs.

Massive heart-wrenching sobs.

Loud.

Cutting deep into my being.

I hold her.

I love her.

And eventually light breaks through.

It is what she encounters when she and her sister & brother stay at her grandmother’s house for an afternoon or an evening, while Zuko & I attend a function.

Her grandmother on her bed.

In a state.

Crying.

Sowing the dark grim clouds of hopelessness in her little receptive being.

And we stop.

We just RSVP ‘no’ to every single function.

And we do not entrust our children to their grandparents for a single moment more.

And they ask why.

And we say.

And they are angry.

‘How can we blame this on them?!’

‘How dare we!?’

And we make sure we spend enough time with our Pippin.

Talking.

Listening.

Explaining.

Guiding.

Coming alongside her as her immense little being pushes forward to make sense.

Praying.

‘Forgive us for not seeing it sooner.  Forgive us for being so trusting.  O, please let this dissipate.  Please let her immense little being heal.’

And the crying stops.

And the clouds disappear.

And our Pippin blossoms.

Finding confidence & creativity, her immense beautiful being, again.

We see less of Zuko’s parents.

We are weary.

We’re not trying to punish her.

We’re just protecting what has been entrusted to us.

Constantly the phone rings.

Zuko’s dad.

Pleading on his wife’s behalf, subtly manipulating, that we will come over, that we will leave our children with them, that we will allow them to destroy as we have been destroyed.

We stand our ground.

Politely.

While sadness & disappointment settle in our home as the new companions of happiness.

Sadness & disappointment that ‘normal’, ‘healthy’ relationship do not exist between us & the people who created us.

Happiness that we can control our own lives.

That we can see the lie.

That we can protect our own.

And hope that we may raise our children in truth.

Eventually Zuko’s dad lets us know that her mom will be going for treatment.

At a local private psychiatric hospital.

Shock therapy.

It is astounding how much money is spent on trying to treat people who suffer from depression.

It is astounding how little help there is for their spouses & their children & their grandchildren.

Zuko’s mom comes out of the treatment a zombie.

With memory loss.

A body with a soul shocked out of it.

Three months later as summer gives way to autumn we see a glimpse of a person emerging.

As if she was in a coma.

All the while life goes on.

We live & work & play.

We try to take responsibility for what is ours to take responsibility of.

The clouds.

Dark.

Grim.

Always there.

The relationship revealed for the illusion of ‘healthy’ or ‘accepting’ it was.

Christmas music starts playing in shopping malls & on radio stations.

We had a Saturday function.

The kids stayed with Zuko’s parents.

Yes.

We are stupid.

Stupid in our hopefulness.

Theunsie, now twelve, tells us on the way home: ‘Ouma & I went to the pharmacy.  She bought a bag of pills.  Drank a bunch of them.’

We tell Zuko’s dad.

‘No.  It is just her prescription stuff.  You know she needs medication.’

It is not.

We’re reminded of reality.

We remember not to trust.

It is hard.

Our being wants to trust.

Our being so desperately wants to trust.

Wants to be in a healthy, well balanced relationship.

One in which parents are parents.

There is something ‘special’ about being rejected by the people who created you.

As expected, the explosion follows.

I wonder how much of depression sufferers’ problems are caused by their depression & how much of it is caused by the chemicals flogged to them by pharmaceutical companies?

A friend of mine who is a psychologist says there is no hope of propper treatment without medication.

That might be so.

It is too simple and easy though to make a mix-a-drink cocktail of over the counter stuff which is no better than the white powder sold on street corners & night clubs.

We’re thrown out of their house.

We’re told she cannot forgive us for five years we cut them from our lives.

‘It was emotional rape’, she says.

‘Day in and day out you raped my soul, trying to punish me, for what I do not know.’

‘I cannot forgive you.’

‘It eats away at me.’

‘I’m constantly afraid that you’ll throw me away again.’

It is your fault.

My unhappiness.

I have nothing to account for.

I have nothing to apologize for.

I was no worse than any other mom.

I suffer from depression.

You should understand that.

You should forgive me.

It did not affect you.

It did not hurt you.

You should be sorry for me.

You should be a good daughter & be my punching bag.

So I can destroy you.

Perhaps then I will be better.

At least then I will not have to deal with you & everything you are.

There is something ‘special’ about being rejected by the people who created you.

Christmas.

As so often with special days in the lives of children & spouses who live with a parent or partner suffering from depression – a shitty time.

When we got engaged, she took a bag full of pills & fell off the balcony.

When we got married she was zonked out, spilling whine, talking crap about the ass-hole who is marrying her daughter.

When we heard that Zuko was pregnant with Theunsie …

Pippin …

Sophia …

Maddi …

With every birth …

With every birthday …

Dark grim clouds enveloping our lives trying to suck all the happiness from it.

And a new year starts.

And we’re back to the rhythm of life.

And the phone rings.

Zuko’s dad: ‘Mom decided to go fro treatment.  At an out-of-town clinic.  She went there before.  It worked.  I would like you to come over.  Say goodbye before she leaves.’

There is something ‘special’ about being rejected by the people who created you.

We go see the movie.

We go say goodbye.

It is as if nothing happened.

No mention of the crowd of ‘friends’ who were told how disgusting Zuko & I are.

No mention of the terrible things said.

The dark disgusting rejective words thrown at our beings.

Little chit-chat.

The weather.

The government.

Empty, empty words.

I feel sick.

An anger rising inside of me.

‘Are we then consumables?’

To be used.

Are we not more than this?

If not me, at least Zuko & my children!

They are more than this.

But we spend the time.

Politely.

It the right thing, isn’t it.

For the sake of Zuko’s dad.

And her mom.

But is it?

Is it really the right thing?

Can it really be expected?

If I smash someone’s face in, beating his lips & nose & eyes into a bloody mess – who would expect that person to ever speak to me again.

Unless perhaps I come to her.

Pleading for forgiveness.

Siting some feeble excuse.

Praying that she will not hold it against me.

Yet, every day parents & spouses suffering from depression beat their partners & children & grandchildren with destructive words.

Not allowing wounds to heal.

Beating upon beating upon beating upon beating.

And when they feel like it, when they are ‘better’, the beaten ones must be so grateful that they’re not handing out beatings today, gropingly & grateful they must embrace it.

As if there was no beating.

There is something ‘special’ about being rejected by the people who created you.

Zuko is more than that.

My children are more than that.

I am more than that.

You are more than that.

We do not have to resort to the same violence.

We can protect our being & the being of those who are too small to even realize that their soul is being ripped out.

We cannot heal our parents.

My dad is the same.

He is smarter.

His destructive words not delivered with bold violent fists.

His destructive words come quietly.

Hidden.

Inside words & sentences.

Inside conversations.

They are as violent.

As destructive.

Perhaps even more.

And I am not in a place of healing where I can be in his presence & not be affected.

Not feel the violent mean strokes of his beating breath.

And so I avoid seeing him.

For when I see him, I come away with open wounds.

Which he will always deny inflicting.

As Zuko’s mom denies that she ever did anything to hurt Zuko or her brother or our children.

They are never accountable.

They did not have a part in anything.

My being is numb.

As we drive to the little wooden house on the not so little hill.

Anger brewing just below the surface.

Anger because my children cannot see it.

Anger because my Zuko thinks it is okay.

Okay to let the storm pass without even acknowledging that there ever was a storm or that it destroyed something.

We talk.

Vividly.

‘Its just easier’, she says.

Perhaps a time will come when it can be acknowledged.

The red storm.

Perhaps not.

There is something ‘special’ about being rejected by the people who created you.

It creates a stunning brokenness.

Always present.

Always easting.

Always festering.

Not just in us.

Around us.

A brokenness eager to consume everything & everyone we hold dear.

It is this ‘special’ we need to overcome if we hope to have more happiness.

If we hope to raise children not overwhelmed by depression.

Perhaps some of the overcoming is found in talking.

In acknowledging, at least to each other, the truth.

In not accepting it.

The blame.

The lie.

And knowing it is okay.

It is okay to stay away, if that is the only way I can cope.

It is okay to expect, if not an apology, then at least acknowledgement that I have been affected by the destruction which lives in them.

May happiness infest our being, despite the red storm of dark grim clouds constantly present.

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