I will be seeing a therapist for the first time in my life, next week. I credit this decision to surviving (not thriving, sorry to say) the last 4 years, including the death of my parents, quitting my job, buying and renovating a house and the pandemic. But really, it’s more about the last 40 plus years and better late than never, right?

So they give you a lot – like, a LOT – of paperwork to fill out ahead of your first appointment. Naturally, one thing they ask for is a complete family mental illness history. Does or did anyone in your family suffer from depression/schizophrenia/anxiety/OCD/etc./etc.? Well. This was going to take a minute.

I had to write very small, and make additional columns. I know virtually nothing about my biological father’s mental health, other than the fact he didn’t appear to be a very nice person. I have learned that hurt people hurt people, and I know he was and he did. So it stands to reason he had some mental health issues going on. Regarding my biological mom, S, I have slightly more information but I don’t really know for sure if she has a diagnosis. I know she has a drinking problem and (at a minimum) severe abandonment and attachment issues. Moving on to my adoptive parents…my dad’s father suffered from depression. I’m not sure how many people who suffered from mental health issues during the actual Depression got help, but I don’t think my Grandpa ever did. But the star of the IrishAmericanGirl mental health movie has to be my (adoptive) mom’s father, my Grandpa L. I never knew him, because he hung himself in the family basement 4 years before I was born. My mom was 28 and had a 4 month old newborn (my brother) at the time. Her brother was 21. I can only assume Grandpa was not receiving therapy or taking drugs, but everyone I know who would know details on that is dead. When they were alive, I never wanted to pry the details because who wants to further deepen that wound? I find myself wishing now I had more courage then. Is it nature (i.e. biological) or nurture (i.e. adoptive) that forms an adoptee’s psyche? And is either inescapable; can either path be changed or are you destined no matter what to your future becoming your history? It is a process I am about to undertake, so I will let you know.

Not only did my mom lose her dad at a relatively young age, in the most traumatic way I can think of, but she lost her baby brother 16 years later, when she was 44 and he was 37. They were incredibly close. He was my godfather, and especially close with my brother. His death leaves a hole to this day in G and I. Around this time, our family was making preparations to move to Texas for my dad’s work. My grandmother, who had a big part in raising us and tremendous influence on us, was planning on making the move with us. Unfortunately, she died from a heart attack about a year after my Uncle passed. So there my mom was, at age 45 (not much younger than I am now) and she had lost her entire immediate family: both parents, and only sibling. Whenever I would get really frustrated or angry with my mom, which was often, I would try to come back to this history and ask myself; how would you feel if this had all happened to you, and then you had to move across the country and start a new home where you knew no-one? It would work for a while, until I remembered that my mom never chose to talk to anyone about her loss, much less consider taking stronger steps like medication. I also remember feeling this: “But she had US.” As it turned out, having us didn’t seem to help. All I know is that, having lost both of my parents now, I do not believe a person can handle a trauma such as her collective one (even just her father committing suicide) without undergoing a personality/mental shift of some kind, on a deep level. With proper help, i.e. therapy and/or meds, it’s safe to assume the effect would be more positive than negative, or at least more manageable. But she never wanted/asked for/received the help, and the effects were felt by us all.

I’m not a medical professional, but even I could tell that Mom was suffering from depression by the time I was out of high school. By the time I moved away from home at age 23, it was her depression (presenting mostly as extreme negativity) that caused me to move as far away as I could. Ironically, it was back to the same city we were both born in (before I moved to Chicago). I would return home several times a year, but we would spend so much time fighting that I would inevitably wind up counting down the days until I could get the hell out of there and return to my “normal” life. Eventually, weekly phone calls turned into monthly or longer. I would go home once, maybe twice a year because my psyche couldn’t take it. I was an optimistic person by nature, or at least I thought I was, and it was a little soul destroying to keep coming back – despite the joy I got from seeing my Dad (see future blog post re: “never being satisfied”). I made a conscious shift away from them and their problems, as I had plenty of my own issues to contend with. As the years went by, her depression got worse and in the last 10 years of her life, she developed a drinking problem.

The bit of good news was…after she was diagnosed with cancer, a year before she died, I was able to let a lot of that shit go. And when she did pass, I had peace in my heart. But I still wish she had gotten help. I will always wonder how different her life, and our relationship, would have been if she had reached out. Even if it had only been to me. Because now here I am, sliding into my late 40s, and I’m left to deal with her collective trauma – as well as my own.

Wish me luck.

“They said you were a bright child, never anything but joy behind your eyes

No sign of all the dark clouds spreading like volcanic dust over your blue skies…

The way your head gets twisted, and you sit up all night trying to figure it out.

And they say “You made your bed, now. Don’t you see you brought it on yourself?”

And they say that you should move on. But you can’t even get your shoes on.”

(Keane, “The Way I Feel”)

Our last photo together, taken at Dad’s funeral – 7 months to the date before she died.