Conceptions: My Mother and Schizophrenia

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Non-Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Non-fiction piece which outlines the battle of Schizophrenia and parenthood from the children's perspective. In this story, my sister and I re-enact the scenario of discovering the heights of my mother's illness.

Submitted: December 14, 2014

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Submitted: December 14, 2014

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"Mom?" I shouted, "Where are you?"

I waled through my grandparent's corridor, and I could hear the faint sound of soft rock music playing upstairs. I walked into the kitchen and my mom was sitting at the dining table. She peered down onto the blank sheets of lined paper in front of her. What was she thinking? Her head snapped up abrupbtly and I jump out of fear. The look in her eyes was not familiar to me, as her face was expressionless and cold. I felt like she couldn't see me, although she was looking directly at me. Something is wrong.

"Mom, are you okay?"

I cautiously moved onto the chair beside her, and her empty gaze stayed focused onto the sopt I stood one moment ago. She continues to stare at wall without saying a word. The silence is unbearable. Is she mad at me? I grabbed the blank sheet of paper that was on the table in front of her.

How are you?

I placed the paper back in frount of her and waited. A couple moments passed and she looked down to the message that I wrote. She did not smile. In fact, her face is still emotionless. I watch her as she slowly begins to reply to my message. I wanted to peer over her shoulder and to read what she was writing, but I was worried. When she dropped the pen, I looked over to read her message.

I am not your mother.

My heart dropped when I read the message. What's wrong with her? Surely, I was looking at my mother. I looked up at her and her facial expression showed no fault. She just peered at the wall barely blinking.

"What do you mean?" My voice cracked.

My mom looked down onto the paper; willing me to write and protesting to speak. I wished for someone to come home. I could feel tears bundle under my eyelids. Reluctantly, I picked up the pen and repeated myself.

I waited for her to reply as she read the paper. Something was different about her; her eyes were no longer kind. When my mom picked up the pen, my heart began to pounce. With every stroke of her pen, I could feel tension growing.

I picked up the paper and read, I am not your mother. I am not your mother. I am not your mother. I am Ursela. They took my body. They came in the night and planted something in my brain. I can feel it. It hurts. I am not your mother. I am not your mother.

I could feel the weight of her gaze pushing me as I read her message. I looked up and she was looking directly in my eyes. the looked scared me so much that I shifted in my seat so that I was further away.

"Mom,"

"I am not your fucking mother!" My mother spoke, but it was not my mother's voice.

She sounded different. She sounded cruel, and that is unlike her. My mother was always soft-spoken and kind. Never before this moment had she used this tone of voice with me. I'm guessing the expression on my face alerted her because she continued to shout.

"They planted something here," She hammered her finger onto her brain, "I can feel it. Your mother is gone! My name is Ursela."

I opened my mouth to say something, but I was at loss of words. I didn't know what to say. Tears poured down my face quietly, as I couldn't bare to let out a whimper.

"Little girl. Little girl." Her voice was different again.

"Mom, stop you're scaring me." I pleaded.

"I am not your fucking mother!" My mom shouted at the top of her lungs.

Fear consumed me. I stood up and ran as fast as I could. I didn't know where I was running to. I was just running to get away. I ran in circles around the house, dodging furniture, and my mother chased me. I could hear her screaming behind me. I didn't want to stop, but I was tired. I hurled myself into a corner and ducked my head in between my legs. Not even my loud sobs could deafen the sound of her screaming at me.  

 

 


© Copyright 2017 A.K.Broz. All rights reserved.

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