Our family was what they call a blended family yours, mine, and ours. Mom had two children from her first marriage and me from her second marriage. Dad, my stepfather, had three children from his first marriage, and together they had my little brother. This put our ages all over the place. My oldest brother was 18 years older than me, and my youngest brother was six years younger. My mom had to work to help support our family. This was back in the early 60’s when women were still staying at home to take care of their families. However, with two children and child support for three my dad was not able to make enough. None of this really matters except you should know that “Crazy” was 16 when I was I born.
When mom went to work she left “Crazy” in charge and paid her to baby-sit and do some light cleaning. By this time she had already been married twice and had one child, Tammy, in reality this daughter was only two years younger than I was. “Crazy” was fun and always took the time to play with me or read to me. I didn’t really pay much attention to the fact that while she was playing with me she was denying her own child anything except the chance to yell or scream at her. I was often pulled into the abusive way she treated her daughter by making me laugh or acting silly.
My first recollection of knowing that something was wrong happened when I was around the age of six. Tammy and I were playing in the backyard when we heard loud voices and the back door open. “Crazy” and her current husband (number three) were arguing about something. He was trying to leave but she had picked up his keys and he was trying to get them back. In a split second she took those keys and threw them as far as she could into the pasture behind our house. It took a minute for the finality of the situation to soak in but when it did all hell broke lose. What had been an argument turned into a shoving and slapping match. I remember I just stood there not knowing what to do and just trying to stay out of the way. Samantha was used to seeing her mother in situations like this, so for her it wasn’t a big deal. Matter of fact she continued to play like it was nothing. In the course of the fight “Crazy” took off her wedding rings and there was a shuffle as they fought over control of the rings. In a heartbeat those rings flew up into the air as though they were feathers and fluttered all the way to the pasture.
It was in that moment that she realized what she had done and started to cry. Number Three must have known that it was his time to step in and be the hero because he faulted himself over the fence and started searching for those rings. About that time “Crazy” gained her composure and moved Tammy and I over the fence with her following. I remember feeling at the time like it was a big game, like a scavenger hunt. By that time “Crazy” and Number Three were actually laughing about the situation and were making promises to us if we found the rings and the set of keys they would take us for ice cream. We found the rings fairly quickly but the keys were never located.
That episode set the tone for a lifetime of what was to come. Episodes of fits and rage could be brought on over the smallest things. A laugh or a look could send “Crazy” into a tirade that would hold the entire house in a manic state. The men in her life, that were unfortunate to get sucked into her web, walked around like they were manikins. Knowing not to say or do anything that might tilt their world and send it careening through the universe. She blew through men, and husbands, like most people blow through bubble gum.
As I look back on a lifetime of manic craziness it is that one episode that put a shape to mental illness. It is what happened on that one day that shaped how I would handle future “episodes”. And although my parents handled “Crazy” different than I would have, I believe they did the best they could with the information that they had.
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