Coping with a Bipolar, Schizophrenic Mother as a Young Woman

A few months ago, I saw my bipolar, schizophrenic mother in Wal-Mart. The details of her face were different, but I knew by the expression that it was her. Her daughter, about ten, was walking beside her as she pushed her cart, looking distant and forlorn. I felt myself regress to that age, becoming so small and meek in her presence. I knew the look on her face, the one that meant I had been bad, that I was in trouble, that everything was terribly wrong. I felt my blood turn to ice as she passed me, fuming, her words cutting my heart like razors. Her face was twisted and contorted in rage, an expression that immobilized me with fear.

"Bitch, she spat out." Where did you have it last? That had ALL my money in it. You bitch. You're so stupid."

I tried to ignore it, but I could feel myself gazing over out of the corner of my eye, awestruck, full of terror. I froze, not knowing what to do, what to say, but wanting so much to act. My son babbled quietly, pulling me back to reality--reminding me that this was not really my mother, that the little girl was not me, and that I was a grown woman with a child of my own. Nevertheless, I still felt like a ten year-old little girl again, staring my raging mother in the face. Paralyzed, I could only listen and watch--trying not to be too obvious. Memories rushed over me of the torment of my childhood.

The little girl was trying to explain. She insisted that she did not lose it, apologizing, pleading in her angelic voice. The mother's reply was uncompassionate. I heard her voice again and was pulled out of my thoughts. I winced each time she spoke, my soul crying out to make it stop. The memories were too much; the pain was too real, though I was not the one being admonished. Again, and again, she attacked.

"You're so stupid."

"You bitch!"

"Bitch. Stupid bitch."

Silence.