Caring for my mother…

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When you get older, you reflect back on various aspects of your life. One aspect that I keep coming back to is my mother. With all these doctor’s appointments trying to figure out what’s wrong with her. I have to stop to think about various symptoms she’s shown throughout my life. She’s never been stable–far from it. Every time, I tried out for sports, cheerleading, student council or even getting a job–I was guilted into dropping whatever I was going to participate it. Looking back, she manipulated me to keep me there–to take care of her when my father and brothers always ignored her. I guess, I ignored her a bit less. Perhaps because no matter how messed I knew she was–she was still my mother. I needed the motherly advice. Even if later in life I realized that advice was complete crap and completely wrong on so many levels.

For those who missed my previous posting, my mother is a hypochondriac and manic depressant. The first time, I realized what exactly is wrong with her was when I was 16. My father asked me to take her to the doctor for him since he had to work and I didn’t have school. Our family doctor pulled me into another room to tell me that my father needs to call him because he is a hypochondriac that means there is nothing wrong with her. The prescription he is giving her is a placebo pill since this is the fourth time she’s come in within a month for the same issue–bladder infection. There are no signs of that in any labwork. It’s hard to process all of this within the matter of minutes I had with the man. He answered questions I had about her odd behaviors and what I should do to help. I remember not thinking about what I was going to say or ask but jumping in.

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Part of me knew something was wrong with her.  My family doctor knew that I would be the one to carry this burden instead of my father who always disappeared. Now, I see he was just escaping from a prison he was in from her. I feel like that now. I’ve cared for her 100% since their divorce almost ten years ago. She lives with me because she can’t or won’t take care of herself. I and the therapist she used to see agrees that it’s the latter.

I could give numerous examples of how her hypochondria has effected my life and altered it in ways that I not only angers me but depresses me. I wish…don’t we all wish. Wishing will not change anything. This is only one of 15 diagnoses she has from our family doctor, therapist, and various specialists. It’s a never ending struggle with her.

Every day, I hope and pray for strength…

 

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