Today, I saw a series of 4 drawings on a study table in the library, meticulously lined up with no owner in sight. It isn’t the first time I’ve some drawings on that particular table, as different ones appeared a week or so ago. The artist is semi-talented in the way a 5th grader would be. Today, I gathered them in a pile and read the note the artist left behind, dismissing him or her as one of our special patrons, which we get a lot of. But his organizational tactics reminded of that innate mistrust I have of anyone who places objects in flawless formation.
It’s no mystery (or at least it shouldn’t be) that I have not 1 but 2 mentally disturbed parents. Now I get the fact that most children feel that there is something wrong with their parents, but I’m not saying that in a general-fun-of-the-mill-all-parents-are-crazy way, but in a clinical-psychologist-has-diagnosed-both-of-them kind of way.
I won’t go into great details of their respective psychoses right now, but they each had their issues manifest in their mid-20s. Needless to say, a lot of circumstances surrounding the illnesses caused our nuclear family to implode. But that’s not really the point of this blog.
Being surrounded by a parent with a mental disorder is an exercise in paranoia. You learn to put up your defenses at an early age because you never quite know what you’re going to encounter with a mentally ill parent. My mom has remained largely untreated throughout her lifetime, except for one brief intermission where she was institutionalized. However, though her delusions were lessened, they had become such a symbiotic part of her psyche that they are a permanent part of her reality. I lived with her for 17 years of my life, at least 1 with all four of us, 7 with her and my brother and exclusively with her for 10 years.
Then at 17, I moved in with my dad to a whole new lifestyle. Not only was it a physical change in atmosphere in terms of moving from rural to suburban, there were other changes in my routine, how and what I ate, even in the water. I was never fully aware of my father’s mental issues because for the most part, he stays well medicated and fully functional. Apparently only a few things will trigger a breakdown, and they are usually associated with extreme stress or certain cold medicines.
I don’t quite remember the first time I saw him go off the rails, but I do know the end result was me calling my uncles for assistance. In the years to follow with his occasional attacks, I learned how to efficiently deal with them, including developing a good relationship with his psychiatrist and knowing the early warning signs. One of them was organization.
My dad’s ex-military, so it would stand to reason that he already had some organizational quirks. However, when his meds stopped working, there were definitive signs. Neatly organized items with exact parallels and perpendiculars was one of them. Check out the pictures of this normal arrangement...
When I would see this, I would be on edge, waiting for the signs to manifest, which would include playing of loud music, sleeplessness, high-pitched Turret’s screaming, forgetfulness and finally catatonia. The sleeplessness would first be his, followed closely by mine as I tried to keep him from shouting out to the entire neighborhood in the middle of the night. The forgetfulness would cause him to do things like start cooking and then forget a pan on the stove. When I started working closely with his psychiatrist, I could usually get him admitted for a quick reset, and the earlier I caught it, the quicker he’d get better and come home.
The residual effect of his stay? It would take me a few days to ease back into friendly father-daughter conversations with him until I made sure he was balanced. The long-term effects are of course that I live in more of an organized chaos. Part of this was due to my own upbringing, where I was not held responsible for cleaning my own room, but would have it done every day by my mom. But part of it is that natural distrust of anything laid out too neatly.
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