As far back as I can remember, there was always something a little “left-of-center” about my mother’s behavior. She was a highly intelligent woman who had worked in medicine during the ‘50s, prior to my birth in the early ‘60s. My father was completely devoted to her in every way, and seemed almost protective of her. They had a great, solid marriage, but little did I know that there was something seriously wrong, brewing just underneath the surface, and that both of my parents were working very hard to try and hide it.

When my mom would get angry towards me, it was over things that had no rational basis to them, seemingly created in her own mind. As a small child, I never knew what would set her off, because the rules seemed to change everyday, sometimes every hour. What had made her angry yesterday, was what made her laugh today. What made her laugh an hour ago sent her into a verbal and physical rage towards me in the next hour. When my father wasn’t around, her delusions and paranoid behavior became more apparent. If someone rang our doorbell or knocked on our door, a flood of quick, precise, and silent hand signals would come from my mother, instructing me to quietly crawl (not walk, because the person on the porch may “sense” sudden movement) from where I was towards a room in the back of the house, where I was to sit very still until the “danger” had passed. The reasoning for my exit to the back-of-the-house, according to her, was so that the people standing on the front porch wouldn’t hear us breathing behind the front door, or spy any possible movement from within the house.

Already as a young child, I knew I had to “play” my mother like a chess game, carefully placing each piece on the board, for I was fearful of what would happen to me if I was incorrect. On rare occasions I felt brazen enough to tell my mother the truth as to “why” a particular individual had tried to call upon us. I would usually say something logical, like “They stopped by because they’re family or because they are a dear friend.” This was not the correct answer, according to my mother’s paranoid rational. It would be at this point when she would realize that I was really on the “other” side, the side that was against her, the side on which the visitor belonged, and we were all really up to something. We were all conspiring against her, and for the next couple of hours, I was treated like a prisoner of war, being interrogated as to what I “really” knew about the visitor and why they had really come to our house. After many tears and cowering in the corner, I was allowed to go to my room, and she would go to bed because my “antagonism” had exhausted her. This was one of many different, strange customs I was put through while growing up, and these incidents worsened after the death of my father. I was scared to death to be left all alone with only my mother as my parent. I was able to confide in my father, some of the strange things that went on while he was away at work all day. He would simply offer a big hug, and make me feel validated by taking me out for ice cream or to an amusement park; some place far away from her, so that I could forget for a while.