I spent the day with my mom today. This is a significant event, since my mother and I have never been very close. Actually, you might call our relationship adversarial. We are truly cut from different cloths. I am more like my father. It has been a bone of contention most of my life. Especially after my folks divorced when I was 12.
But looking back at my mother's life, I can see with complete clarity, that my mother has suffered from clinical depression for most of her life. It does explain much of the behavior I struggled to understand all of these years. It may have contributed to my parents' failed marriage, though I believe neither of them realized my mother's problem.
She became a single mother of two. Divorce had cost her most of her friends. Relatives distanced themselves from us. She became angry, bitter and resentful. She resented the change her life took. She dated but never remarried. She would tell my sister and I that no one wanted to marry a woman with children. She used to tell me her life would have been easier if she had never had children. My old soul forgave her, over and over again. She struggled with painful shyness and a disappointed father. She fought to keep a roof over our heads, food on the table, clothes on our backs. She did the best she could. But I see now that she was depressed. I got jobs after school, bought my own clothes and extras. Took care of my car fare and school and art supplies. I took my sister shopping for clothes. She never asked, we never told. We did fine.
Counseling back in the 70's lacked a great deal. She tried counseling, but never got the help she needed. My mother, has over the years, to my utter frustration and disappointment, been a teller of stories and lies. I never understood the need to tell people that which was not true. I was frustrated and embarrassed when she would tell tales and lies to family, neighbors, friends, coworkers, strangers. She could not keep confidences. She still does this. It still bothers me. But I have learned to work around it. It has become part of who she is. It has contributed to the mounting problems she now faces.
My sister and I have noticed my mother's decline for several years now, but we have both turned a blind eye to her problems. My sister, because she has her own issues about her childhood and my mother. Myself, because I know the road ahead will be difficult, and as the older child, I know it will be mostly my responsibility to care for my mother. I have avoided it and I am ashamed.
But the problem hit us square in the face about 2 months ago, when my mother's house was listed along with thousands of others in the local newspaper as being in jeopardy of being taken by the city for non payment of real estate taxes. It seems she has not paid her taxes for the past 4 years. It is not that she didn't have the money. That wasn't the problem. My sister (the drama queen) and I showed up unannounced at her house that evening to discuss the problem with her. To our shock we walked into what looked like a squatter's house. Garbage, rotting food, unopened mail, filthy kitchen, bathrooms, indescribable conditions that if social services walked in, they would have removed her for her own safety.
I sobered up. I could no longer ignore my mother's problems. I was angry at myself for allowing her to get to this point. I neglected my mother. The woman that gave birth to me. The woman that tried her best to raise us and provide for us. A woman that gets her hair done and a manicure each and every week. A woman who outwardly is neat and clean and meticulously put together. This woman, my mother, was falling apart. Shame on me. Shame on my sister. Shame on my aunt.
We straightened out her tax problems. My sister and I cleaned her house from top to bottom. It was heartbreaking to see how my mother was living. She has a beautiful home which she fought to keep all these years. And although she hates cleaning and cooking, always has, and is not very good at either, she has managed to keep her home clean.
We are a small family. Just the 4 of us. My mom, her 82yr old sister, myself and my younger (42yr old) sister. Yet we are very dysfunctional. My aunt is a very nervous, lonely widow who is a bit of a hypochondriac. She doesn't drive anymore. She does however, drive my mother nuts. My sister is a martyr. She wears her badge of martyrdom like a tattoo on her forehead. She also doesn't drive, never has, doesn't ever want to. She does also, drive me nuts. She is also a teller of stories and a keeper of secrets. A drama queen. My mother's favorite. Go figure.
My sister and my aunt talk. My aunt and I talk. My sister and I talk. We all talk to my mother. Yet no one wants to tell the others who we talk to and what we talk about. It is about gathering information about one another, and not sharing it with the others. It is a hard relationship to describe adequately. I have a hard time understanding it myself. I hate games. I hate secrets and lies. It frustrates and angers me. It makes me tired. Yet it is how things are. I've tried to change it on several occasions. It just made things harder for me. It bites me in the ass. I become the bad one. The bad daughter. The bitch.
But now as my mother is approaching 74, she has begun to take medication to control her depression, and it turns out, her thyroid. It is making a difference. She and I are communicating in a way we were never able to before. She is beginning to realize her limitations. She understands she is slowing down, and has cut back on her hours at work. Now she works only 4 days, as she understands she needs to rest. And she is allowing me to help her sort out all her papers and mail. But as a condition, she made me promise not to tell my sister or my aunt that we are doing this together. In my desperation to help her, I agreed. She needs help.
I am glad she is realizing my intentions are to help her and not to get into her business or tell her what to do. I respect her independence. I will not take her dignity away from her. Unlike my sister and aunt, who are constantly pushing her to sell her house and sign over her medical and financial affairs to one of us, she sees that my intentions are to help her live her life the way she wants to. She realizes my wish is to help her, not to impose on her. For me, it's not about her money or assets. It is about my mother.
And so we are working together. It seems I'm not so bad after all.
Pilar 
One can just picture the NYCTA board members rubbing their hands in devilish delight at the thought of once again screwing over the working masses.
