Can I Be Your Kid Tonight?
As the child of a mentally ill mother, I looked for love in unfamiliar places
When you’re a kid, sleepovers with friends can be super fun. You get to eat junk food and watch movies with your besties, then you can whisper to each other long after it’s time for lights out. Sleepovers are childhood adventures, a sign that your parents (and your friend’s parents) think you’re old enough to have friends stay overnight. Most likely, there’s a verbal agreement between parents and special arrangements are made for delivery, duration, and pickup of the visiting child. Fun, right?
Living as a child with a mentally ill parent makes sleepovers a little tricky. When I was a kid, I rarely asked my friends to come over to our house, and when I did, it was even more rarely that I'd ask for a sleepover. I couldn’t trust my household inhabitants to hold it together long enough for a dinner, bedtime, and morning after.
And when I stayed over at friends’ houses, it was regularly because my mother was having a ‘nervous breakdown’ or in the hospital. Because of that, I was often dropped off without much notice, and I rarely knew how long I’d be staying.
I had a close childhood friend who lived a few doors down from our house, and her family was regularly augmented by one whenever my own mom wasn’t home. My dad would tell me I was going to her house, and a few minutes later, I’d appear at my friend’s front door and he and my friend’s mom would exchange a few whispered words before he disappeared.
I’d stand there, knowing I’d interrupted their supper or the Ed Sullivan Show. Theirs was a household of three kids—my friend, her younger brother, and baby sister. I liked them all well enough, but I didn’t belong there, but hey, I knew I wasn’t safe in my own home. I was a burden, even to my friends.
I had no sense of self-worth or identity. When you’re constantly attempting to dodge the bullet of cruelty or trying to conform to what you believe is expected, you become a chameleon of sorts. You don’t really have the ability to build your own identity. And I think that’s what happened to me. For years I tried to fit in wherever I could, to be the tiniest fly on the wall in order to be overlooked when the flyswatter came out.
When I visited other kids’ homes, I never really knew how to behave. My hands and fingers bobbed without intention, afraid to touch anything. I waited to join in until someone else went first. Conversation? I had no idea what to say. I wasn’t sure what was appropriate, even with my closest friends. Frankly, family dynamics were beyond my comprehension. The behavior of other families simply confused me.
I recall one night when I was staying overnight at my friend’s house. My dad had dropped me off to stay there for a few days. We three pre-teens put on our pajamas, brushed our teeth, and watched a few minutes of TV.
At bedtime, my friend’s mom stood on the landing and called, “Time for bed!” so I obediently followed my friend and her brother up the stairs. In retrospect it seemed very von-Trappish—the kids single-file, marching up the stairs…an ’auf wiedersehen, good night’ kind of thing. She kissed and hugged each of them, one after the other, patted them on their behinds, and off they ran to jump into bed. I lined up too. When she got to me, I guess I hoped to be included, with a kiss and a hug and a pat on the bum. That poor Mom. I wasn’t her kid. I was all elbows and messy hair and awkward as hell, and I wasn’t her flesh and blood. She faltered for a split second. To me, it felt like a lifetime. In that millisecond moment, I knew I was no one, that I belonged nowhere. That I was neither here nor there. This house wasn't my house. This mom wasn’t my mom. But she saw me deflate. And she rolled her eyes and pulled me to her, and chuckled, “You’re not my kid, but ok, good night…” So there I was. Not belonging, not fitting in, not quite worthy of the love other children were given. Years later, that still sticks with me. I was so desperate for physical affection and signs of love and care that it set a dangerous pattern that persisted well into my adult life.
As children, we’re not able to understand the nuances and devastation associated with mental illness. When it affects a parent—especially a mother—it affects the entire family dynamic. We are left without safety nets, we are afraid, and yet we are too ashamed to tell anyone lest someone discover whatever secrets our families hold close. We are shadow kids.
These are the things we’ll never forget.
Me? Aging has given me the gift of perspective. I’m impressed by my dad’s efforts to hold everything together when nothing made sense. I’m thankful my mom eventually managed to stay out of the hospital in her later years. I have a deep understanding of the difference between forgiving and forgetting, and the wisdom to separate them. For all of these things, I am grateful.
About the Creator
Catherine Kenwell
I live with a broken brain and PTSD--but that doesn't stop me! I'm an author, artist, and qualified mediator who loves life's detours.
I co-authored NOT CANCELLED: Canadian Kindness in the Face of COVID-19. I also publish horror stories.
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