There isn’t a happy ending, not really. We didn’t all go on Dr. Phil or a Christian retreat or some such nonsense and live happily ever after. Time passed. She didn’t call; nor did I. Every now and again I’d get an e-mail from her, giving me the barest updates of her life. The next summer, she and my stepfather and two stepcousins came up for a week so that she could spend time with the baby. The day they arrived I’d just gotten back from an alternative press conference where I’d just won a lovely award for the postpartum piece. My mother tried to be happy for me but her congratulations felt hollow. It was a start, at least.
Our move north, which made it impossible for her to visit with any regularity because she doesn’t fly, reopened wounds. She believed that we were doing it specifically to get away from her. Still, she stayed in contact and, unasked, volunteered a little financial help. Last Christmas, we all managed to have a pleasant visit on the north Florida farm that she and my stepfather built when they retired. She can see why I want to write about what has happened and openly admits that you have to bring things into the light of day in order to see them clearly. Maddy had an amazing time with my mom’s flock of chickens and ducks and dogs. My mother is finally happy, out there with her brood. You can see it, when she talks about her life, she almost glows. We will never be the best of friends. We will never whisper secrets to each other or count on never getting hurt because of some sacred mother/daughter bond. But here is where we are. I’m choosing to trust that.
A few weeks after starting this book, I took an informal poll of the friends I’ve made since we moved to this small city in the Catskills. Given that I was still in a self-confessional stage when we first arrived here and felt compelled to let everyone know that I had been completely crazy but was feeling much better now, most of these folks aren’t in the dark about what happened. It became a great litmus test, actually. If new people failed to shun me because of my background, I figured they were good people to get to know. Your mileage, of course, may vary. I can be open about my madness because of what I do for a living, which is sit in a room and type. The image of the hermetic, melancholic writer is one that everyone enjoys. I do my best to keep up appearances for the profession.
The informal poll of my very small sample cohort went something like this: “Just because I’m curious, [name goes here], if you didn’t know from the start that I have a mood disorder, would you suspect me of having one? In short, do I strike you as nuts?” Without fail, each person answered “No.” They may be humoring me, of course. But I don’t think so. My disorder is under control right now. My shit is together. I don’t cry without good cause. I am profoundly lucky and blessed. And there are millions of women like me, mothers who have some problems now and again but who are more or less okay. We are not freaks. We are your neighbors and your friends and your family. We are responsible, reasonable adults who need to be less ashamed to admit that we struggle sometimes.
As much progress as I’ve made with accepting this quirk, I still can’t get past one small thing. I have a daughter. In all likelihood, I’ve passed this on with my genes for a big pumpkin head and long fingers. That is a fact that I can’t change. But I do have control over so much of what surrounds it. I can open my mouth and try to remove some of the stigma surrounding mental illness. I’ll try to keep my own moods in check, if only so that she has an example of how it can be done. I know what to look for, should she ever fall into her own emotional hell. That’s about all I can do. Now we just have to wait and see how this hand plays out. You just never know which cards are at the top of the deck.
In the “Things That I Never Thought I’d Do Again” Department, currently, I’m pregnant with kid number two. This time around, it’s a baby of the boy variety, which has thrown me a wee bit. I’m not sure what to do with a boy. I know the basics are the same—like girls, boys like to be full, dry, and warm—but the details are a mystery. I’ve been warned that I should be prepared for lots of smashing of household items and a deep fascination with his wonderful penis. Beyond that, I’m at a loss. It will be a new adventure, certainly, just like it would have been had the new baby been a girl. They just insist on having their own personalities, these kids, just like they were little people or something.
What threw me most about the boy thing was the stunning realization that all of the adorable baby girl clothes in the closet will never again be worn by one of my baby girls. This baby-in-waiting, who is currently using my spleen as a conga drum, is the last baby I’ll ever have. Two feels like the right number of offspring to keep track of. I will never again see the lavender Easter dress on one of my toddlers. Or that pink onesie on my three month old. My baby girl isn’t a baby anymore, but those clothes remind me of when she was. Then, I just wanted to get through it, to get to this stage where she has more independence. Now that we’re here, I miss the baby, the one who made all of the depression worthwhile. It’s a strange nostalgia.
Now that I’ve done it once, I know the reward. I understand why people wax rhapsodic about having kids. I get it now, the joy that exists in watching someone grow up, in moving from babbled words to conversations about princesses and quantum physics. It’s what makes those rotten moments—those screaming, kicking, grouchy days—worthwhile. And it seems like the right thing to add a sibling. It may be selfish, but I don’t want my child to grow up as an only child. She needs someone else who understands at a cellular level what she means when she says, “Mom is crazy.”
Of course, I am scared there will be a repeat of the postpartum depression. Terrified, in fact. But a few things work in my favor. I’ve done it once and can do it again. Now that I know that it’s a likely hazard, I can prepare by calling in every last favor that I can. As a writer/mom friend put it, it’s like jumping into the East River in April. I know I’ll survive, but it probably won’t be pleasant. The rewards outweigh the risks. Sometimes, you have to jump. If you’re lucky, someone will stand by with a warm towel.
Yes, my kids will think I’m crazy. That’s the right of kids. It’s what they do when not shoving the cat into the dryer or marking the walls with impressionist crayon art. This book will give them plenty of fodder for future arguments, for which they’ll neglect to thank me. Perhaps they’ll be pissed that I made their eventual rebellion too easy. All I can do is make sure that mine is a generic-grade of crazy like, “Hey, remember that time Mom left the bag of innards in the Thanksgiving turkey” rather than the “Hey, remember that time Mom hanged herself from the basement rafters” sort. I owe them this.
I had another epiphany last summer. The Hub, the Diva, and I were on our way back from visiting old college friends who now live on a tidal island in Maine. It was a good trip, despite a day of rain, and we all had a good time poking at sea critters and burying our feet in sand. Kites were flown. All our kids played with a half-dozen fresh lobsters, then fled the house when we tossed the crustaceans in the pot of boiling water. A good time was had by all, except the lobsters.
The drive back was as miserable as the weekend was wonderful. Traffic was hopelessly dense and surly. Three separate accidents resulted in multihour delays. By the time we hit the Berkshires, Maddy came completely unglued. She had had enough of being trapped in her car seat. As we crossed into New York State, she finally gave in to the reality that no amount of screaming would change her situation. She gave us one last look of utter disdain, then popped her thumb into her mouth, rubbed her blankie against her cheek, and drifted into a blissful sleep.
Miraculously, the traffic cleared shortly thereafter. We drove into the sunset, which was nicely framed by the eastern edge of the Catskills, which are really just one of the northern hunks of the Appalachians. Quietly, as a Scott Miller CD played, some neglected part of my subconscious whispered, This is where I belong. Here. In these mountains, where you can get lost in a holler and never see a straight horizon. The ocean is untrustworthy and changeable. Wide-open spaces without natural features to break up the monotony give me the willies. Mountains,
however, will always keep you safe. They are constant and true, like a loyal dog. You just have to learn how to meet them on your own terms.
Acknowledgments
It takes a village to write a book—and I’d like to take a minute to send some thanks to mine:
To Robert Faires, my first editor ever, who gave me encouragement when I didn’t even deserve it and whose microscopic comments crabbed in my margins always made my work better.
To Coury, Jesse, Joe T., Ian, and the rest of the boys for letting a girl join the club.
To Elizabeth Kaplan, my agent, for taking on this project and actually selling the dang thing.
To Scott Miller, for all of the beer and sympathy.
To Emily Farmer, for her magical red pen.
To Bob Tebay, Jim Miracle, and Pam Brust for providing Parkersburg leads.
To my parents, my aunts, my cousins, and all of the extended family. I hope you aren’t too unhappy with what I’ve made.
To the Bagbys, for being the best neighbors/friends/ coworkers a family can have and, additionally, for the pies and barbecue.
Most importantly, to my husband, for being who he is, and my children. I love you.
If you or someone you know is struggling with mental illness, do not suffer in silence. Contact your local emergency services provider or the National Alliance on Mental Illness at 1-800-950-NAMI (6264).
About the Author
ADRIENNE MARTINI has been a theater technician, apprentice massage therapist, bookstore bookkeeper, and pizza-joint waitress while picking up degrees in both theater and journalism. She has written theater reviews and features for the Austin Chronicle, blurbs about to-furkey and bottled water for Cooking Light, and knitting summer camp for Interweave Knits. She is a former editor for Knoxville, Tennessee’s Metro Pulse and recently won an Association of Alternative Newsweeklies (AAN) award for feature writing. During the day, she fields freelance gigs and crams knowledge into the heads of college students in Upstate New York. At all hours, she is mom to Maddy and Cory, and wife to Scott.
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