The Day of The Shattered Glass

The Day of Shattered Glass

“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” said Alice

Oh you can’t help that,” said the cat.

“We are all mad here, I’m mad, your mad.”

How do you know I am mad?” asked Alice.

“You must,” said the cat, “Or you wouldn’t have come here.”

Lewis Carol

When I arrived at my sister’s doorstep, I realized I would rather be anywhere else. But I felt as if this was my duty to visit my mother after her surgery. It had been a few days since she had been here, so I tried calling her every day to see how she was, with no response. Her phone is probably lost or turned off, I thought. Candice opened the door with no smile, no warmth gesture, and barely a word to me or her niece.

“She is in the back room,” she coldly said as if it was annoying to even have to open the door for me.

As I turned the corner to Yolanda's bedroom, I saw my mom speaking gregariously on the phone. The person on the other side of the phone was granting her love and empathy, what I now know as SUPPLY. So her phone does work, I thought, which now means she is mad at me or she doesn’t care enough to take my phone calls for three days. I knew she was upset with me, even though I was there the first day for her surgery, I pulled in at the exact same time at the hospital parking lot right next to my sisters. I was there twice a day for five days, except Saturday. I went to Sedona and I went for many reasons even though I knew the wrath would come sooner or later. Even if the wrath was to know that the three of them were talking poorly behind my back. My mom was supposed to be leaving the hospital before Saturday but she wanted to stay. The first being that she was understandably nervous about not having a professional change her wound dressings. The other was she had become very comfortable with the potent drugs one can be given at a hospital.

Yolanda is in the shower. My mom screeches happily to see her granddaughter. I realized that if I bought her something I would have been given a better response. The usual response of, “Oh, you shouldn’t have,” but in our family you should have because spending money on gifts and exchanging them is how we always have shown our love to each other. I asked my mom how she felt she showed me her injuries that didn’t look close to healing. I felt sad for her obvious pain and I knew this scar would be one our family would hear about from this moment on. I asked if there is anything I could do for her even though her daughter has obviously taken great care of her.

“Oh that is what you think, she is so fucking cranky about it, I bet you could take just as good care of me and you would do it with a smile,” the usual sly smile.

I looked back at my sister in the shower feeling bad for her, little did she know her ungrateful mother was putting her down on the other side of that wall. I started to realize this was going to be a short visit. My mom continued her complaints as if my young daughter wasn’t present.

She then told my daughter to ask, “Yolanda, why is she fucking trying to kill me, it is so Fucking cold in here.”

It always was in their house, it was the middle of the summer in Arizona and you could probably see your breath in this house.

Seriously, how long is this shower going to take? I thought, because I didn’t want to deal with her all by myself, she is even crazier when she is on meds.

So I told her let's go for a walk, there is some morning warmth outside, the sun will feel good. I honestly thought it would, I knew that she wasn’t being pushed to slightly exercise. I thought the different scenery would help.

Then my daughter started complaining about being hungry. Oh my one more thing to deal with!

I tried compromising with my four-year-old, “Let’s take Nana around the block and I will get you something for breakfast.”

With Nana around she gave an honest effort to get what she wanted at that moment, what she knew Nana would give her if I wasn’t around. “Can I have an ice cream cone?”

“No Cali you may not, you need to have something healthy for breakfast first.” I asked if you were hungry on our way here.”

“You can have some crackers but no ice cream cone,” I tried reasoning in hopes she would just let it go and we could escape. I started to walk back into my sister’s room, hoping she was done with her shower and dressed. I felt as if I needed back-up, I felt that she knows how crazy mom can get after one of her surgeries. She was still in the shower, what she never takes showers this long!

As I walked back into the kitchen I saw my mother behind a pantry door, smiling at my daughter, leaning toward her with that ice cream cone- that carrot stick. A moment, a look I will never forget.

All I simply said in an unappreciative tone was,

“Are you kidding me?”

As she turned to me, her eyes changed, like I had seen a million times before, enough times to feel the hair on my arms remember, enough times to know it was simply time to go.

She slammed her hand down at the counter top, (here we go, I thought) as she screamed,

“I’m not going anywhere with you!”

I wanted to tell her how unfair it was to go behind my back as a mother, but I didn’t. I honestly didn’t say another word to her. I knew she was in pain and I didn’t want to upset her or the situation anymore.

But she wanted more chaos, she always wanted more.

She started saying, “Thanks for coming over while I am in pain and treating me like this, you barely even saw me in the hospital.”

There it was the exaggerated lie that I am sure all three sat around and discussed. The lie that I was not there for my mother while she was on her deathbed, twice. I just wanted to get my daughter and get her out of the situation, I knew too well.

Then Cali started to cry in the corner, I still don’t remember what she was saying. I instantly felt bad for her, she didn’t want to defy her mommy. I had never seen her so upset. I was becoming even more upset myself. I just kept thinking how this doesn’t happen in my household, I have tried really hard for my daughter to have a structured and predictable home.

Then my mom threw Tupperware in the kitchen, screaming she was in pain and didn’t deserve this. Which made Cali even more upset!

I sternly told Cali we were going. I promise we will get something to eat. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough, even writing this story brought me to a place I never want to be in again. In complete chaos over something so little in the grand journey of life.

As I was getting Cali to move toward the door she was grabbing the door handle with her little hands. I was grabbing her karate trophy and as I turned to look to see if my mother was at least ok. I wanted to say something, maybe, “Sorry,” or “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”

And there it was, I saw her sit on the couch in a child-like pose with a child-like look in her eyes with tears beginning to cover them. The guilt I felt at that moment was more to bear, then something snapped in me, all of a sudden I became very aware of what was going to transpire. She was now the sole victim in this situation. I knew she would play this out as if I was the aggressor, I started it even while she was sick and in pain. How could she, they would say. Seriously, what is wrong with her? I could already hear the walls talking. What I saw amounted to three seconds in the world. But in my world it was a lifetime of me being the bad guy, and I saw it in those three seconds, the switch.

What I didn’t know is how much me looking back would change my family forever. All four of us would never be in the same room together, never celebrate a holiday, a wedding, or birth. I probably would have continued to let the abuse continue, for the sake of family, if I had never turned back for those three seconds.

My daughter and I were in the car; I was trying so hard to hold it together. I remember saying out loud, “I will never return to this home.” I didn’t for three years. Only once for the last Christmas celebrated (picture #) We hadn’t even made it out of the neighborhood when the middle child called me, I slammed on the brakes to pull over. I thought here we go, not even knowing why I answered, I rarely talk on the phone while driving, and I hated taking a left out of this neighborhood.

Cali screamed, “My trophy!” I couldn’t believe it as if this situation wasn’t bad enough for her now her first trophy from karate was broken!

“No, Cali I am so sorry, I told you not to bring it!” I had never felt so bad for her, she didn’t even get a chance to show her trophy to her family and now it was broken. I was holding her shaking little body in the backseat, rocking her back and forth and crying with her. Telling her I am so sorry this happened, I am so sorry about everything that happened.

I barely cared about the simultaneous phone call from my sister accusing me of coming over while our mother was sick and yelling at her. How could I be so selfish, she was asking. I thought well she finally got out of the shower and already in that little bit of time they had a hearing and the jury had already decided I was to blame, I always was. Then the abusive, predictable hang-up I received my entire life from her and my mom. It was because of her I kept thinking if she would have never called to give her usual piece of mind, Cali’s trophy would have been saved. I had never been angrier, more disappointed, more disgusted with all three of them in my entire life.

Then Cali with more grace and bravery than I have ever witnessed from the ladies I just left said, “It’s okay mommy, daddy can fix it and I will get another one, someday.”

You're right, I thought daddy could fix everything. We wiped each other’s tears and headed home, where it was safe and predictable.

I ensured Cali was alright, I set her up with all of the items that bring her comfort including me hugging her.

I felt so bad for her, I was more worried about her than me. I made her a healthy plate and asked if she was ok? I apologize for yelling at her, explained that I was stressed but that it wasn’t ok. She understood, my daughter is resilient and her maturity is beyond her age.

I knew they would be coming for me. That was my next thought, how can I just stop all of this drama and conflict from coming to this environment. I learned how to block all three numbers on my phone, it was the best decision I have ever made. But at the time I felt guilty and confused. Guilty because my mom just had surgery a week prior and could possibly need me. Confused because I didn’t understand how wanting to see my mom and be there for her and grant some support for my sisters turned out I was the bad guy (again)! I had come over earlier that week, dropped off a salad for my sister and cleaned up her kitchen. It made me feel as if I had done my part while she was taking care of our mom.

The Epiphany

“I can’t go back to yesterday, because I was a different person then.” Alice In Wonderland

Lewis Caroll

I am not a famous person; I am just a person with a story to tell. I am writing my story to obtain inner strength and peace, to heal, and to hopefully help others.

My life started in the beautiful countryside of a small town named Sparta, Wisconsin. But that isn’t where I will start my story. I will begin with the Epiphany, that moment I knew something was very wrong with my family more than just dysfunction and vast amounts of drama. I was sitting at Souper Salad, alone with my own thoughts, asking myself numerous questions. Normally, my daughter would be there to distract me with her needs and my obsession with being the perfect mother. But today she was in kindergarten so I was alone and in turmoil about what happened with my family a few days prior. My mind started to race. Why is my mom always mad at me, and seems to compete with me? Why is our relationship so tumultuous, still? Why would she seem to want my sisters to hate me? I couldn’t eat another bite, I had to know the answers to these questions. I couldn’t just call my mom, because for the first time I had just blocked their numbers so they could not call me in order to give me a piece of their mind over what had transpired days before. If I did call, I would deal with rage, blame, then invalidation of my feelings, and eventually the usual let’s move on and never talk about it.

I rushed home and turned on my computer and researched the questions as if the computer could actually grant me these lifelong disturbing answers. But it did- there it was Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

I dropped to my knees on the side of my bed, the tears were streaming down my face as I read what was a mirrored image of my life with my family. I began to get scared as if my mom would know what I was up to and I would have to deal with her wrath, like an abused soul I shut the door and pulled back the curtains. I printed information as I found it, in case I couldn’t find that validation again. My husband came home for lunch and found me in our now dark bedroom with papers scattered everywhere. He was worried about me, but supportive because I finally found some answers to the revolving pain I permitted myself to endure with my family. I had to pull myself together and pick up my daughter from school, but I was excited to continue my quest for answers the next day.

The answer I found was even more dramatizing than I was prepared for. It was crystal clear I was the Scapegoat of the family. My mom had singled me out my entire life, pointed her finger, and told herself and my sisters, I was the sole problem.

I had started to read all of the symptoms and the continuous cycle of dysfunction that plagued my family and I was in complete shock at how well it described our way of life.

There were questions I was checking off as if I was a captain ensuring all necessities were on deck. Having a tumultuous relationship with your mother no matter how hard you tried to be the loving daughter in hopes one day genuine love and laughter would follow suit.

The first aspect of the disorder that hit me the hardest were the assigned roles. My sisters and I had used the excuse of these roles, as birth order. The youngest, the baby of the family, was the Golden Child, a description I had once given her for a book report for English 102 we took together at Mesa Community College and a title she proudly signed on her cards to our Mommy Dearest. The middle child was the Lost Child, she could scream in the middle of a room and would still be ignored. I was the oldest sister by ten years and assigned the role as the family Scapegoat.