Category: Family

Longtime readers will be well aware of the ongoing saga that is Ben's mother. It started for us jointly back in 2013 when we reluctantly invited her to move to Denver and stay with us until she got set up with SSDI and properly resettled on her own. At the time she was living in Phoenix under horrible circumstances, had just been fired from yet another job, and we simply couldn't have her out on the street. Little did we know at the time, but putting her out on the street might have been the best thing to happen to her.

What initially started out as six weeks turned into six months, and after deciding not to apply for disability and instead go back to work, it then became over a year. The nightmare only came to an end when we finally gave her notice and threw her out.

At that time she had a steady job working for Comcast and was making good enough money that she could afford to get a place of her own. She was doing well both mentally and physically, supposedly had her pain killer problem under control, and it seemed she'd finally gotten back to having something resembling a normal life. This lasted for a few months until—as has become standard operating procedure for her—things were going so well she had to fuck them up: off the wagon, incidents at work, and once again out of a job with rent due.

This time Ben made it very clear she was not moving back in with us. She destroyed enough of the apartment during the year she was with us (the first time in my life I had to pay for damages upon vacating a rental) and made life such a living hell (not one, but two calls to the paramedics because she was unresponsive) that she had proved herself unworthy of our trust and that there would be no second chance.

So after many telephone calls to Ben's brother in Seattle, what remained of her large belongings were put in storage, and she was placed on a bus heading north.

In Seattle, the same tired story played out once again: promises to get set up with SSDI, find a place of her own and rebuild her life. Of course none of that happened; Ben got all the paperwork together—even going to far as to fly to Seattle on his own dime to get Powers of Attorney signed.

And still nothing got filed. (In case you don't know, getting SSDI approved and in motion is a long process; typically six months at the earliest from when the paperwork is filed until the first check arrives.)

The difference this time was that Ben's sister-in-law was having none of her bullshit and once again she was put on notice that her welcome had worn itself out and she needed to make other living arrangements.

By this time we'd moved back to Phoenix, and being the dutiful son, Ben did all the required research, sent her job listings, scouted apartments, and bought her a plane ticket home since she hated Seattle and wanted to move back here.

To her credit, she found work rather quickly after arriving back in Phoenix. She even met a guy and started dating! While she wasn't living here, she had taken up residence on our couch, and what was once again to be only a week-long stay dragged on and on until I pulled the "no unauthorized visitors over a month" stipulation from our lease and sent her packing to a motel.

Apparently her new beau (who didn't live in Phoenix full time, but had an apartment here) took pity on her and offered to have her stay at his place.

This lasted until about three months ago. For a variety of reasons she moved out of the beau's apartment into a pay-by-the-week place closer to her work (because no one else would rent to her because of her credit and rental history). Things were going well; she had money, a good job, and a decent roof over her head. The only time we saw her was when she came over once a week to do laundry.

She was succeeding.

And you know she couldn't let that last. It was about two and a half weeks ago that Ben got a call from a mental health facility, inquiring how he was planning on paying for his mom's stay.

WTF?

It seems that she was feeling suicidal (she's attempted it several times over the last ten years), and had checked herself into the facility a couple days earlier. Without so much as letting anyone—including Ben or her employer—know.

My dear friend Al, whom I've known for close to a decade, worked as a case manager at a hospital where we were both employed. She's been telling Ben for years that he has to step away from all this; he has to cut her off completely just as his siblings have done and let his mom hit rock bottom. She needs to be on the street, where—hopefully—she can finally get the state assistance she needs. I'm cautiously optimistic that this latest incident has finally flipped that switch for him, because he's not having any of her bullshit any more.

Now let me say we are not being heartless bitches here. Ben's mom is in no way elderly; if she were and it was the cause of this behavior that would obviously affect our disposition toward her. But she's not. She's a couple years younger than I am. She has some real physical pain issues that require meds to mitigate, but it's unaddressed emotional issues that are at the root of her behavior; issues that in her mind are more easily self-medicated than actually addressed directly through proper counseling (something she has been told to seek out each and every time she's been in and out of these mental hospitals and consistently refuses to do). It's that willful refusal that has exhausted all our patience and has forced us to say enough.

So once again, faced with no income (the question of whether or not she is still employed is up in the air,  but since she was approved for short term disability I assume she is), she knows homelessness looms in her future. But being the cunning, manipulative user that she is, she's figured out she can game the system for another week "until she starts getting her checks." To that end, she's feigned suicidal thoughts and has again checked herself back in to that same mental hospital.

What will happen in a week's time is anyone's guess. She's burned all her bridges. She knows she can't stay with us (or, as she ridiculously suggested, in the back of Ben's minivan). She has no other friends or family. Ben is done with it. We're storing her clothing and a few household items from of her apartment until such time that they're needed and that's it.

Dear Mom and Dad,

It's been years since you both left this mortal plane, and while I am not suffering the ongoing level of distress that my sister still is, it's rare that more than a day or two passes that I do not think of one or the other of you. What I miss most is just being able to call you up and tell you about some silly, inconsequential thing that happened during the day—or bitch about work, or ask for a recipe, or any of the dozens of other things that had become second nature for all of us when you were alive that are now gone forever. I also miss being able to share the big things with you and miss receiving your wisdom and reassurances in the face of uncertain futures.

And yes, I even miss those occasional "What were you thinking?" and the subsequent reprimands as you tried to steer me away from making some very poor decisions.

I'm sorry that you missed my wedding, although I'm reasonably certain Mom knew and approved of where things were heading; it was shortly after she met Ben and sensed that I'd finally met "the one," that she was able to finally let go and move on to whatever it is that comes after this life. And Dad…you missed it by only a few months, but ironically it was spurred in no small part by your own passing. "After all the horrible things that have happened this year," Ben said, "we need something positive to happen."

On the other hand, I'm glad you're not still here to see what is happening in this country today. You taught me me tolerance and acceptance of everyone as I was growing up (proving that when you wholeheartedly accepted me when the time came) and I think you would be appalled at the level of intolerance rising in our communities. Having lived through—and fought during—the last World War and witnessing the rise and fall of the Third Reich, I'm sure klaxons would be ringing for you every time that Cheeto-faced baboon took to the podium. Perhaps if more of your generation were still alive to remind us of the horrors of fascism, we might not be facing its possible resurgence now.

I received another little gift from my sister today: my mom's daily planners from the mid 60s through the late 70s.

Some of the entries are cryptic: Bob/1. Some are humorous in that she recorded them: Owe Mark $3 Lawn. Mark started work at Sirloin Stockade. Others are bittersweet, like my class schedule for the first semester at college:

8:00-9:00 (M-Th) Russian
9:00-10:00 (M-W-F) Freshman Composition
9:00-10:00 (T-Th) Graphic Communication
10:00-11:00 (T-Th) History of Western Civilization
11:00-12:00 (M-W-F) Algebra
11:00-12:00 (T-Th) Graphic Communication
12:00-1:00 (T) Graphic Communication Studio

She also recorded every doctor/dentist appointment for myself, my sister, my dad, and herself. Student holidays, PTA meetings, early dismissal days, plant watering/fertilizing schedules, hair appointments, dinner parties, and some very personal stuff that I just simply didn't need to know about.

If nothing else, the woman was very methodical. I guess that's where I got it from.

…this happened.

And our lives got so much better.

I can't believe it's already been six years since my mom passed. In many ways it seems like just yesterday.

I won't lie and say I still think of her every day, but she does manage to pop into my thoughts once a week or so; mostly when something happens and I want to pick up the phone and call to tell her about it—and I realize that's no longer an option.

Sammy's the newest addition to our family, a 5-year old miniature poodle/mix. His previous owners were apparently moving and couldn't take him with them. We found him at The Dumb Friends League, and the moment he walked into the room both Ben and I were smitten.

As I write this, Ben's mom is in the process of finally moving out of our apartment. This day has been a long time coming, and not unsurprisingly it is not the happy, positive event that we envisioned over a year ago.

Yesterday, when Ben picked her up from the psych facility, one of her first comments was that she wasn't going to go to the intensive outpatient therapy that her doctor had prescribed; therapy that her caseworker pushed for in  lieu of the actual rehab facility in Florida that we'd found for her and which she had initially agreed to go to just a few days earlier.

So in other words, nothing has changed. "Doctors don't know anything." Just like when we moved her up from Phoenix over a year ago with promises that once here she would be making positive changes in her life and seeking therapy, she's simply moving her addiction from one location to another. At least it will no longer be in our home.

She's been off the worst of her meds—the lorazepam—for over a week now and has no more readily available to her, but there is little doubt in my mind that first thing Monday morning she'll run back to her dealer doctor to get loaded back up and the cycle will begin anew. The difference is that when she attempts to kill herself again—and Ben and I are in agreement that unless her behavior changes and she actually admits that it's not just the physical pain that's causing her to pop the pills but also the myriad of emotional demons haunting her and seeks appropriate therapy—there will be an again. The difference is this time there will be no one there to call 911.

I don't want to see that happen, but honestly, we've done everything in our power to get her well, and each attempt has been rebuffed. Because there's nothing wrong. Having played this addiction game with several other people over the course of my life, I know that until she admits there's a problem, her path of self-destruction will continue unabated until she finally admits it or succeeds in ending her life.

…that it was supposed to be better than 2013.

Two weeks ago the mother-in-law finally put money down on an apartment, for a scheduled move out today. She and Ben even went out and bought a bed and sofa (since she has no furniture of her own at this point).

But of course—like always happens when she's on the verge of finally getting her act together and out of our house—she blew it.

I'll spare you all the ugly details, but suffice to say she's back in the psych ward again after another failed suicide attempt yesterday afternoon.

While the future is anything but certain at this point, on Monday Ben is going to court to get custody, and once she's out of lockup, she's going into rehab. The one thing that is certain is that she's not coming back here. We're both done with this bullshit.