Gone But Not Forgotten

Got a call from my sister today. I'll call her Betsy. Why Betsy? Well, it's a rather old-fashioned name in my mind. And my sister is stuck in some old fashioned world that is far away from mine. She is schizophrenic. The gene is strong in our family. My mom,  my sister, my cousin, probably an uncle.

Betsy was at a pay phone. She told me she was waiting for a bus to the university a few towns over. She said she was going to look up cartoons and copy them so she could give them to people and make them feel better. She then told me how to find cartoons in the library and insisted that I copy and give out cartoons too. I laughed a little, hemmed and hawed.

"Come on! Why don't you do it? You should do it. It will make people feel good. Promise me you will do it."

"Well,  I kind of doubt I will."

"I know! Why not? Tell me why not?!"

"Well . . . it's really not my thing."

"Ok. I can accept that."

Talking with someone who is mentally ill elicits the same reaction in my body every time it happens. I tense my neck. I hold my breath. I feel like I am walking on a tightrope, balancing, balancing, and hoping the next gust of wind doesn't knock me over.  I think walking on a tightrope is probably even easier in some ways, because if you know what you are doing, you can make it from one end to the other using all the skills you have practiced repeatedly.

Repeated interaction with someone who is mentally ill does not build a skillset that can be applied each time. In other words, mental illness is all about unpredictability. When you never know what is going to happen, when you know there is a good chance of something going wrong, but you can't predict the trigger,  timing, or the outcome, all you can do is try to tiptoe through the conversation, alert, hyper-vigilent, hoping to avoid whatever hidden landmines are waiting to explode.

That was pretty much my childhood from 9 on, and it has continued as an adult, with less frequency of course, because I have my own life now.

My conversation with Betsy was not long. Once we got past the cartoons, there was the weather, and "how's church?" questions.  She sounded strong which surprised me, because the last report I heard coming from her landlord and the people in her parish was rather alarming. It's extremely, unseasonably hot back where she lives, and Betsy has been walking out in the sun wearing sweaters. I asked her if she uses her air conditioner. No, she said. She hasn't really needed it. She doesn't like it.

People have reported her as being red faced and hunched over as she walks through town.  She has been yelling at people. She is thin, and I know she does not eat well. "She needs to see a doctor", her very kind and loving landlord tells my other sister,  Ellie. (I have given her this alias because she is a female version of a cross between TS Elioit and CS Lewis. If you combine their names you get Eloise--sort of. Ellie is short and easy.)

Well, of course. Yes, yes, yes. a doctor. How many times have I asked, explained, suggested, demanded that she see a doctor? I don't know. I know that the helplessness of family in these situations is unfathomable to those who haven't lived it. I have tried. I have had her hospitalized against her will. I have tried reasoning, helping, not helping, playing hardball, tiptoeing, being blunt, being mad, being sad, being loving and kind. I have been through every emotion, every strategy. I have called agencies, therapists, crisis workers, lawyers.

I cannot save my sister.

One person who knows the laws about guardianship told me that we will have no power to help, or force medication, or do anything on behalf of Betsy unless she is completely incapacitated, or in other words, no power to do anything unless something terrible happens.

The sister I knew is long gone. She was my best friend. She was my advocate, my personal cheerleader, the audience for my tales of teenage angst, the friend that stayed up nights late with me to giggle over nothing.  She is gone.

The person occupying her body is not someone I know. Betsy does not wander about babbling and hallucinating in the way schizophrenic people are typically portrayed in film and tv, although I have seen her reacting to things that aren't there. She does however, engage people in a childlike way, making them uncomfortable.

Betsy can go on for a long time about herself, her view of life. Could she convince a policeman sent to determine if she is a danger to herself or others that she is perfectly fine? Yes, she could. Is she fine? No. Not in the least. Because, after what may appear to be a lucid conversation, Betsy might forget that the conversation even happened, or she might get on a bus and travel a 1000 miles with no money and no plan. She might knock on your door at 2 am, or send you strange postcards with writing that barely makes sense.

Sometimes when I go about my day, I stop and remember that she is living her life in a small apartment without much furniture, and few belongings, because she has taken a vow of poverty. She is lonely, feels useless and isolated, and, like a child, is unaware of the way the world works. If I allow myself to consider her world for very long, I can't feel mine. Anxiety, numbness, the shallow breathing that happens when I am in her presence, they take over when I let Betsy into my day.

But I can't let the grief consume me. I cannot let my empathy swallow my capacity to feel joy. If I do, I will drown. And so as my mind considers her day, and what it's like, I step away and focus on the flower in the neighbor's yard, or the dog  barking for a walk. I say a little prayer. I allow myself to forget, until I remember. And perhaps on Sunday I will cut out a cartoon or two from the newspaper and send them to my sister.

Who Is CedarTree?

This is my second attempt to start this blog. The first was lost in Blogger Hell after some sort of technical disaster by the blogmasters. Starting over on a new day, of course, will lead to a different introduction. First of all, it's raining today. When I started my soon to be lost blog, it was sunny.

Also, when I started my other blog last week, I was younger. Now a few days later, I've had a birthday and am further entrenched into middle age. So life is older and cloudier today, and my mood is sleepier and bit grumpier because I just can't reproduce that brilliant first attempt at bloggerhood.

Why start a blog? It's an exercise in self care I suppose. I put my thoughts on the page, give myself time to consider my life, define what it's about, and then share that portion with an unknown, and right now imaginary, audience. I like to write, as all bloggers do. This gives me a forum in which to discipline that impulse. I have a place to go to with my words and thoughts. It is mine, and it waits for me everyday. (unless of course the technical gods decide to make it disappear again.)

I could have chosen a private diary instead, but this page is also a way to connect. I love people, love talking about the important things, the funny things, the things that rend our hearts or expand our minds.

I don't see myself as fitting into any particular niche. I'm a member of The Church Of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (Mormon). I'm a Democrat. I have a trauma background that tends to keep me feeling somewhat different in the way I view things. I also have had to deal with family members with severe mental illness for the majority of my life. I love to talk politics and religion (the no-nos), as well as ideas, stories, history, movies. My family members and most of my closest friends are spread out and far away. Although my husband's family is close by, and I fit in with them well.

I will call my husband JJ because he loves the movie Jeremiah Johnson and would be happy to live in an isolated mountain cabin for the rest of his life. In reality he has a job that takes him around the world talking to people, and he holds a very socially intense ecclesiastical position in our church. He's a good man, who loves doing the right thing and helping others, but he also revels in time alone. His solution is to bike, and bike, and bike and bike.

And of course there are the kids. Kids I love. Kids who have no idea how much potential they really have even though I have done everything I know how to help them see it. Ah yes, my kids.

The rain has turned to snow!! Time to turn up the heat and let winter take one more swipe at me while I sit in my warm house. This blog has turned out so differently than the other, and, to be honest, the other one was much better, but that's ok. Each day and each mood is different, and unless the crazy preacher predicting apocalypse in yesterday's newspaper is right, there will be many more.