Mental Illness and Marigolds

I stood under the autumn tree in our front yard. The colors were constantly changing, just like mom’s mood. They went from loving green to fiery red in a heartbeat. I watched as she knelt by the flowerbed. Her hands were covered in dirt, like they were every fall. Unlike every fall though, they shook violently as she tried to pull weeds. The marigolds she planted every year were withered and dead. Her mind was somewhere else, and flowers were not a priority this year.

My dear, sweet, Christian mother cursed under her breath as she tried to grasp the weeds in her trembling hands. I watched as she fell back, defeated. She started to cry, and I watched from under the tree. Confusion covered my brain like a blanket. I wanted to help, but the doctors said there was nothing we could do. The schizophrenia would get worse, and the bipolar was only beginning.

I sat under the bed, watching as she argued with someone I couldn’t see. The windows were covered in snow. Outside was a winter wonderland I wished I could escape to. I shut my eyes as she threw a book at the invisible man. I covered my ears when she screamed and yelled for him to leave us alone. The doctor said the invisible people would never leave her alone. My little body trembled, scared that the man really was saying those things to my mom.

I sat outside in the rain. The spring showers soaked me to the bone. My body was cold, but my mind did not care. I was not going inside until she went to bed. I could see her through the window. She was talking to herself. I had to remind myself that she really was only talking to herself. That there was not someone standing over me, threatening me, like she said.

Anger washed over me. I hated her for the things she said. I hated her for the things she broke. I hated her for the way she was. I wished she would just go away and stop telling me the horror stories that went on inside her head. I watched her through the rain covered window and imagined what it was like before she became this way.

I sat on the green grass, the summer sun warming my numb body. I sat there as they walked her out of the hospital. She looked worse than ever, angry and confused. This was the millionth time we repeated this cycle. They could not force her stay, she would not getter unless she agreed to take the medication, and she never agreed.

I sat on the ground as they walked her to the car. It was excruciating. Going home with that woman, was like going home with a stranger. She was unpredictable and scary. She filled my mind with nightmares, taking the rest of my childhood with her into insanity.

I sat on the bench covered in orange and yellow leaves. Staring at the face of a woman I used to know. Her skin was pale, and her hair was down in a curtain of curls. Her makeup was beautiful, just like she used to do it. She had her eyes closed and a small smile turned up at the corner of her lips.

I mourned the death of the woman I called mom years ago, when she stopped being my mom. I sat there in celebration, that she was finally at peace. Watching her get tormented by her own mind, was a hell of its own. I walked to her side and laid the small bouquet of marigolds on her chest. Kissing her cheek, I smiled at her and let the tears fall.

I sat on my knees in the dirt. My hands were filthy and sweat dripped from my forehead. The sun was starting to set, and I finally leaned back, admiring my work. The swing she spent so many days laying on was now surrounded by marigolds. They filled the air with the smell of my mom. The colorful flowers smiled at me, radiating the love that used to shine through her smile.

I sat on the small swing and leaned back. The yellow and orange filled my tear brimmed eyes. I knew she could see my masterpiece from heaven. I breathed in smelling my dedication to a loving mother who died years ago.