Louise Newton-Keogh - Learning to Say I Love You

 

 

Okay. So, when I was younger, whenever my mother would say the words to me, I love you, I would die a little bit inside. Not because she didn't love me and not because I didn't love her, because she did and I do, but because that meant she was starting on another manic episode. 

 

You see, my mother struggled all her life with bipolar disorder that was undiagnosed and untreated until she was in her 50s. And it made for an interesting upbringing. Some of it was a lot of fun. We had some wacky times, like when she dragged us out of bed at 02:00 in the morning to worship the moon. I don't know how she did it, but she got a whole stash of fireworks and we had our own fireworks night in the backyard. Neighbors didn't like it, but we loved it. 

 

But for the most part, growing up with a parent with a mental illness was really tough and challenging, particularly after my dad left. He had his own set of circumstances and he left when I was 10. Particularly, after that it was just us and her. It was a really steep learning curve. We learnt more from mum than I did in 20 years of schooling. We learnt that every year or so, this sweet, gentle, kind, beautiful woman would have what was termed then as a nervous breakdown and would transform into someone we didn't know. It was a bit like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, only it was mum and what we called nut bag mum. 

 

We learnt that it was possible to have nut bag mum scream abuse in your face, steal from whatever meager little bits you earned from your paper round or whatever jobs we got from the neighbors, call your teachers to tell them what a terrible, horrible human being you were. She even called one of my uni lectures once. I don't know how she got his phone number, but she did. It was possible for her to do all that, and for that to be okay, and for us to get past it and to forgive. 

 

We learnt compassion. Because for as much as we suffered and we did, it was obvious even from that young age that there was nobody who was struggling more than mum, that she and she alone bore the brunt of this and she would have done anything to rid herself of what she saw as a curse. We learnt that the medical system fails people with mental health issues, it did then, it does now, nothing's changed. And we learnt to rely on each other. We knew from a very young age that the only way we were going to get through this was if we rallied together, my brother and my three sisters and I, and protected ourselves and our mum. 

 

So, my brother, when he was in year seven, took over all of the finances. That included talking to bank managers about the debts mum racked up, organizing how to pay bills, organizing a budget for the weekly shopping. My sister Mary, at about the same age, started taking a Nano Jeep and going down to the supermarket and buying things, so we had food, so that mum couldn't spend it all on nothing. My job was to make sure my two younger sisters did their homework, so the school wouldn't come knocking on our door to see what was wrong. 

 

We learnt to look after each other and we took it in turns to look after mum, to bear the brunt of the rages, to make sure she was okay, to just be there for her when the inevitable collapse came. But we also learnt to be vigilant, because even in the stable times, and there were a lot of very good stable times, we were always on the lookout for the next time, the next episode. 

 

And unfortunately, one of the main pointers for that was I love you. I've lost track of the amount of times I'd had conversations with my siblings and I would go something like, “Hey, mum loves me again.” And the response would be “Oh, crap, here we go.” And it didn't just stop there. The I love yous got more and more, extreme, the further she elevated, often coming at the end of some hideous insult, you know, “You're a horrible person and I wish you'd never been born, but I love you,” as if that made it okay, but it didn't. It tainted those three beautiful words for me, and it made it almost impossible for me to be able to say them back. 

 

I don't know what it was, but it stuck like a block in my chest. I'd find myself if someone said, “I love you.” “Yeah, thanks for that. That's good, cool. Great, yeah, good on you.” But I wasn't able to say-- It was hard until a few years ago, my mum had what we thought was the mother of all episodes, but it actually turned out to be an even worse condition. She had developed a condition called Lewy body syndrome, which is a form of dementia that is rapid, and unrelenting, and has destroyed her body and her mind in equal parts. 

 

She now is in a really lovely care facility. She can no longer walk or feed herself or clean herself, and she could barely talk. I see her every Sunday and I hold her hand and sit with her. Sometimes I talk, and sometimes we listen to music, but most of the time, mum and I just sit in silence. It's very healing and it's very peaceful. I know she likes me there. But the lessons still haven't stopped, because my mother says two things to me, and she said only two things to me for the last year. 

 

The first one is when I get there, and she says, “Ah, it's you,” in great surprise. She's so pleased. I say, “Yes, it is me” and we sit together. And then, when I'm leaving, she holds my hand and she smiles with her eyes and she says, “I love you, Lou.” Somehow, it doesn't hurt me anymore. It doesn't make me cringe. It actually feels right. It feels perfect. It feels beautiful. So, I guess the lesson I've learned, perhaps the last lesson I'll ever learn from my mother is how to hear those words, I love you, and how to say them back, I love you, mum. See you soon.