MOTHER SECRET

  MOTHER SECRET

A few years later , they moved to a small town in Arkansas , where I was born . My father says they went through 3 year cycles. the first year was good , the second year was bad , the third year was worse , rinse , repeat . This continued for 9 years of their marriage . So, if I calculate , I think I was born in a bad year . They were legally separated , then reconciled , but eventually divorced in 1986.

My mother was stuck in 1986 until the day she died .

My father remarried a few years later , and this caused my mother's first mental "nervous breakdown" . I remember visiting him in the hospital , looking at his empty eyes , forcing a smile when he showed us the pottery he had created for us . But we could not tell our father . We were warned that if we see, we will never see our mother again .

My sisters and I kept telling people that he had a "chemical imbalance and depression." Until I never heard the word schizophrenia 25.

He returned home . From the moment my mother woke up , she walked around the house - bedroom , living room , kitchen , and back...and forward...until she fell asleep again at night . And he was not silent while he walked . He screamed and raged about all the wrongs that everyone had done to him in his life .

He brutally attacked my grandparents, sometimes us . The three of us , scared, would either lock ourselves in our bedroom or sit on the top stairs , staring and watching him hit anyone and anything in his path .

Some nights he took us all out of the house . We would sneak into the yard and watch her through the curtains as she wailed and cried and screamed for hours. .

Life went on and we just dealt with it , learned how to manage it . My grandparents moved , they were too old to be subjected to his physical abuse . They picked us up and took us to school in the mornings, and left us home with food in the evening . But mostly , we were left alone with him .

UNMOVED

Some days , she was happy , playing Bollywood music on the stereo , singing in her beautiful singing voice , with freshly combed hair and red lipstick . She loved makeup . He loved fashion , dressed in beautiful pants and kameez . Sometimes he even broke into my sisters' closets . Those were good days . I loved those days . Cherished those days .

But most days were spent walking , or sitting in bed with wild hair and bloodshot eyes , crying and begging us to tell him that everything would be okay . Us , his children ... we were now parents and he was the child .

I hated him . "Get out of it ! "Stop being depressed ! "Can't you just be my mom ?!?"

He did not care about me . He didn't cook , clean , come to Parent/Teacher conferences , make my classroom cakes for my birthday , or come to my basketball games . He was a shell . There was no one inside . My sisters taught me about puberty . My sisters cleaned our room . My sisters packed my meals until I could do it myself . My sisters and I were doing our laundry . I barely learned to read the Qur'an and only memorized 3 surahs when I was young17.

We grew up very fast , like animals , just trying to survive .

School was my way out . I was popular , I liked to laugh and spend time with my friends . But no one could approach . I learned my lesson by trying to do it once . Having my friends over meant they would ask , "Why is your mother pacing back and forth ? " Why is your mother looking at me ?" I would try to laugh because my mother is just an immigrant .

So we did . We all got married within 9 months of every other . i used to be the youngest bride at the age of 19. My sisters stayed in Arkansas , but I moved as far as possible to Chicago