Pearl’s mind was simultaneously the most intricate and fascinating machine, capable of so many amazing things, and it was also broken beyond comprehension. She could think on her feet, saw the world in ways only a genius could, and was lightening-fast when in thought mode. Her mouth was equally quick; she was one of the few that could spout off exactly what she was thinking when she was thinking it. The higher the pressure the better.
Pearl was also deeply mentally ill. She danced between two worlds, to music and a rhythm known only to her. When I was younger, she was decidedly anchored in reality but would rapidly float into new mentally tumultuous waters, stay a short while, and sail right home. As fast as she was gone, she’d returned. It was choppy waters for all in her wake, but not a gauntlet like the Transat. As she aged, the speed at which she would drift between places in her mind became slower, the returns took longer. She eventually never returned, staying anchored in her own, distorted reality. Her illness took over. This is ultimately how I lost my mom. Maybe she was more than just mentally ill. I’ll never know. Pathology and psychopathy are hard to diagnose post mortem. And though I had access to her medical records, it’s too heartbreaking to investigate.
Before Pearl left for good, she metaphorically walked next to me as if she was on a different plane, experiencing a different reality, communicating with entities I could never see. We existed simultaneously but not in the same way. She was in the ether, I was not. We were held together by our relationship; often hand-in-hand, connected across realities that were disparate beyond comprehension. I trusted her when she’d drift into her mind. Until I couldn’t.
This is one of my first complete memories of when Pearl lost touch with reality, and this, I think, is the first time she pulled me with her. Perhaps this is the reason why it’s a complete memory; it’s forever imprinted on my young mind. I entered a world that I couldn’t see but it forever altered the way I perceived life, death, otherworldly concepts, good, God, and evil. It also shaped my view of the mother-child dynamic. As best as I can recall, it was my first experience with real fear, fight-or-flight type emotions, and it was utterly terrifying. It was my first panic attack.
At roughly 7 or 8 years old, my elementary school was 2 or 3 blocks away depending upon the route. Some mornings I’d cut through the back courtyard to see our neighbor’s cats in the window and that was the long route. Our neighborhood was lower middle-class, which meant there were rows of ticky-tacky little houses all over. We lived in the newest 80’s rage, a townhome that my parents mortgaged for about $14k. The neighborhood looked like haphazardly placed loaves of white Wonder Bread-looking buildings, each slice representing one unit. Small, narrow dwellings packed with families…most had kids. Our sandwich bread world was situated near a small pool, a library that Pearl and I frequented, and a huge creek that had a rope swing. My walks to and from school were quick and fun. Some of my friends lived in my Wonder Bread world and others in the ticky-tacky boxes just down the street.
On this particular morning, I wanted out of the house as fast as possible. Pearl was on the downhill slide and it was just us. My dad always left for work at 5:30 AM. Our mornings were: get up, get dressed, and eat breakfast. Pearl loved the kitchen and to cook, so mornings meant something tasty and it was always good. I’d sit with her and my doggo, Ding Dong. We would talk about mystical places and fairy tales while she did my hair. Our conversations drifted to cool animals, the latest Bugs Bunny cartoon, and places far and wide. Then, walk to school. Pretty uneventful. Pearl was awesome, until she wasn’t.
When Pearl was in an episode, she would sit at the kitchen table for days on end, chain-smoking and drinking black coffee. Not eating and her beloved ash trays piled high with butts. Drapes were drawn and the house was dark. We didn’t have an end piece in our Wonder Bread world and lived in a north-facing unit so lighting in the house was scant anyway; windows in front and back only. Pearl hadn’t showered and wore her customary pink housecoat all day…for what seemed like an eternity. The pink housecoat only emerged when Pearl was entering a state of disconnect. It usually indicated that about a week of cold food, no songs in the morning, and bad hair days were in store for me. I sucked at ponytails. During hell week, the house went to crap. It stunk, trash was never taken out, clothes dirty, and all the other household things went to hell in a hand basket. Interestingly enough, the kitchen sink always stayed spotless. I’m still not sure why.
As I made my way downstairs to leave, I stopped by the kitchen to grab something to shove in my mouth. I wore cool brown corduroy pants and a turtleneck, which I hated. Turtlenecks squeezed my neck too tightly and they always snagged my hair. Today I wouldn’t be getting my hair done, but whatever. Pearl was sitting at the table, staring into nothing. Not catatonic, but also not-not catatonic. My presence sometimes startled her, but she was usually kind, “oh hi sweetie.” This morning she wasn’t. She didn’t see me. I remember feeling sort of creeped out but was more focused on getting to school to see my friends.
On the way out, I leaned over and gave her a kiss. There was a glass of water sitting on the table in front of her. Actually, there were glasses of water everywhere. Little round goblets without stems. All about half full. With toast in one hand, backpack securely attached, I reached in front of her, grabbed what I thought was her glass of water, as kids do. Took a big swig. It would be one of the biggest mistakes of my youth.
Pearl came unhinged. This memory is locked in my mind in slow motion but simultaneously speeds by when I reflect on it. I can freeze frame each scene and see all of the details. Smoke trailing in the air, dish soap on the counter, Ding Dong’s food and water bowls on the floor. This is a very cool feature of my brain but it’s also an enormous burden. I frequently go back to events like this and look around, trying to remember the room and see if I could have avoided what happened to me. Typical of abuse; the person hurt wondering what they could have done differently to make it not happen. Anyway, Pearl slapped the water glass out of my hand, sending it shattering across the yellow linoleum floor. Her actions startled me, but it was nothing I couldn’t get over. I was used to getting over shit.
Pearl stood up and started screaming at me but not at me. Through me. Around me. I couldn’t understand a word she was saying. Was she singing? Thoughts reverberated around in my head. What is she saying, why can’t I understand her, and why is she carrying a gigantic cross with her as she walks around the kitchen? When I think more on it, it was somewhere between a chant and speaking in tongues. Well, at least what Hollywood would have you believe speaking in tongues looks like. Whatever it was, it wasn’t normal and she’d never done it before. At least in front of me.
She grabbed my shoulders and shook me to my core. Screaming words I couldn’t understand, her eyes vacant but fixed, and she was sweating. She stunk. Something stunk. Maybe it wasn’t her. Pearl didn’t stop shaking me. I started crying and begged for her to stop. This was the first time I realized that my mom could hurt me. Worse, I was worried she would. Looking back, it feels like 5 or 10 minutes of violence and then she abruptly stopped. Pearl looked at me and spoke with a completely different cadence, tone, and articulation than I’d ever heard. It was monotone, robotic. The ritualistic chanting stopped. She told me that the cups around the house were filled with holy water, blessed by a priest, and they were catching the demons and evil spirits that were trying to kill us. And I had just drank one. The evil contained in that glass, or so Pearl believed, was now within me. I was now consumed by evil and had to be, “dealt with.”
I broke free, grabbed my backpack, and ran like hell. Out of the house and to the hill where I’d meet my friends every morning. I was utterly terrified and glad to be outside. It was a cool fall morning. As I stood there and told my friends what just happened, I could barely catch my breath. The world around me sort of slowed down again. I remember bright red leaves on trees, some on the ground. The smells of fall coursed through my nostrils. My friend’s shoelace was untied. I still had my toast in my hand but it was now a ball of bread. What the fuck just happened?
School was a welcome destination and distraction. Safety, crayons, and and friends. Chocolate milk. No chanting mom. The events of the morning had passed, the strange belly shaking stopped. My hands weren’t wobbly or wet anymore. I had gone to the nurse and told her I felt dizzy and she wanted to call Pearl to come get me. No way. I was fine. Let me go back to class. Pearl had many episodes before, but none included me. I was usually free to just circumnavigate her and go about my business. It never occurred to me that I’d be walking right back into hell when I got home. Aside from the morning disaster, my day was rather uneventful.
When I got home, Pearl was in the same exact spot. The broken glass and water were still on the floor. Ding Dong was curled up sleeping on her dog bed but she had blood on her paw. It didn’t occur to me that she likely walked through the broken glass and I freaked out. Pearl didn’t seem to care. Smoking and drinking coffee. Ding Dong’s tail flopped and she seemed happy to see me, but in retrospect her tail wag was not excitement; it was one of submission and fear. I nuzzled with her. She was my best friend. Ding Dong was a mutt with a short coat, caramel color, fantastic ears, and a dark nose that was always wet. Her tail was long and thin; actually hurt if it clipped your legs because she wagged it so fast.
Ding Dong and I went for a walk. Her paw wasn’t actively bleeding and a neighbor’s mom took a quick peek. My girl was going to be ok. We explored the creek together, she sniffed trees and bushes, and she barked at cats. Ding Dong hated cats. She was a rescue and felines never struck her fancy; they weren’t play things they were food. I kept treats in my pocket for her. On this walk, we took time to sit under a gigantic tree at the end of our street. Something in my gut told me to stay gone. So, we ate treats and I scratched her belly. Looking back, those were the last moments of childhood innocence and somewhere in my gut, I knew things weren’t right.
To my surprise, when we got home, Pearl was in the same place. Drinking coffee and smoking. Still. She didn’t acknowledge me at all. For the rest of the night. It was all very bizarre. I don’t know where my dad was, either, but the minutes clicked by and he never came home. Ding Dong and I ate dinner, hot dogs and baked beans, and I got myself ready for bed. I put myself in my nightgown, brushed my teeth and hair, and hopped under the covers.
Pearl didn’t move.
Sometime in the middle of the night, I felt shaking. At first I thought it was Ding Dong scratching herself in my bed, but it didn’t stop. Then I realized there were hands on me shaking me back and forth and it felt eerily like what Pearl did earlier that day. I squeezed my eyes closed and remember thinking that I didn’t want to open them. They were Pearl’s hands and based on her demeanor, I had no choice but to open my eyes.
In the darkness of my bedroom, all I could see was Pearl, a flashlight, and a machete. A gigantic machete. I didn’t know what it was at the time, but I sure as hell do now. I remember fixating on her hands; her delicate fingers and wedding ring clutched around the handle. It all seemed so out of balance, distorted, surreal. Little Pearl, gigantic knife. The whole scene was like a game and I can hear the jingle in my head, “one of these things is not like the other.” Only this was the supernatural edition and I didn’t want to play.
My brain unfroze time and there she was, speaking in that strange language again. Yanking me out of bed. Ding Dong was there, and her tail wag was back to the flopping again. She was scared, and I can see that now. Pearl looked at me and said, “the demons have possessed you and this house and we must get rid of them.” This was my first experience with fear, real fear, life-ending fear. At the hand of my mom. Nothing made sense and I was terrified.
My breaths were shallow and rapid and I could hear my heartbeat in my head. Nothing but tears fell from my eyes, and no noise. Mick had sufficiently distorted my view of death and the afterlife a few months prior (that’s another subject, stay tuned). I was convinced I was off to meet God. Only maybe I wasn’t off to meet God. Pearl kept telling me I was evil, and bad, possessed with darkness, that I needed cleansing.
We entered the hallway and the streetlights shone in my window and bounced light off a wall in the hallway. I wanted Ding Dong. Please let me bring Ding Dong mommy. No. Ding Dong wasn’t going where we were going. She was resolute in her forward motion; there was a mission in her broken head and I was an unwitting participant. We didn’t walk together so much as I was dragged. 4’11” Pearl was pulling me along, kicking and screaming, like she was superhuman.
All of the lights were off and in their place were candles of every kind, shape, and scent; it was as if a Hallmark store dumped its old inventory in our living room, struck a match, and left. They were interspersed through the house. No lights. As I looked around, I noticed that all of the glasses of water, the ones that previously littered every horizontal surface in the kitchen, were lining the hallway and down the stairs. Wax and wick bounced light off of the little goblets of water and it was actually quite beautiful; fire, water, and light playing together, holding my attention for a moment.
Once on the second floor, I made a decided effort to fight my way out of the horror. The rules in my house were clear, don’t go outside once in your jammies. But I didn’t care. I was getting out. No matter what I had to do.
In this moment, and for the longest time after, I believed in demonic possession. I can now see that Pearl was delusional, living in an alternate reality driven by her brain and propelled by her faith. This is not to say her faith was distorted, it was not. She viewed life through a broken lens, her mental illness, and she believed in her Catholicism to her core. Pearl believed in God until her dying days, and so do I. It occurred to me, as I fought with every ounce of my being, that maybe she knew something that I didn’t. Maybe me sneaking that Hershey’s Kiss or staying out too long with friends eating marshmallows in the courtyard were signs that I was not right.
My efforts were futile. I begged not to go downstairs, in the basement, the place with no windows. Please, mommy, don’t make me go. I’ll be a good girl, and I’ll go to church. We can pray if you’d like. I pulled out every one of Pearl’s hot buttons and leveraged it for all it was worth. At some point, after what seemed like hours of fighting, me drenched wet from sweat and tears, I gave up. I had nothing on Pearl’s strength. I was a little girl. She was a grown woman, and, despite her small stature, she was strong as hell. Ok, I’ll go downstairs mommy. Please don’t hurt me. I looked up the stairs as walked by and Ding Dong sat at the top looking down at me. I believe with all of my soul that we underestimate animals. My dog knew I was scared, she was too. But she couldn’t help me. Instinct drove her to hide.
Walking down the stairs, there were 13 in total, I felt her foot snag my leg and I fell down the last half of them. Pearl deliberately tripped me. I was now bloodied lying at the bottom of the stairs to the basement. Looking up, I saw her; candle in one hand, machete in the other. Pearl was beautiful, her dark hair and blue eyes always drew me in. She had a beautiful, albeit twisted smile on her face. It’s how I imagine a serial killer looks right before capturing its prey. I have chills as I type this.
Once downstairs, her flashlight sent lights bouncing off of the mirrors on the walls. That one small lightbulb in her hand set off so much light and it bounced off the square tiles that Mick had affixed to the walls. It was like a bad 1970s disco. Whatever his mission was for light effects, it was working. She shoved me to the floor. The chanting wouldn’t stop. She made no sense. I remember being hit several times. My brown hair was a tangled mess of blood, sweat, and tears. At some point, I just gave up. I was so tired and scared. I curled up on the floor. No noise. Only tears.
She held the machete close to her. In retrospect, I don’t know if she intended to use it on me or if she had it as a means of protection for the ethereal creatures that had invaded our home. She continued the chanting and she moved to precisely the right location where I saw the source of the odor. Dead chickens in our basement. I cannot say with absolute certainty that she killed them, because I didn’t witness it. Maybe she was collecting them? Before you go and say, “nobody collects dead animals” check yourself. My mother was not like other people; she was significantly mentally ill. I have never been more confused and scared. My brain whipsawed between trying to make sense of the fucking mess I was in and just wanting it to end. In retrospect, my focus on making sense of the situation was a coping mechanism that disconnected me from the reality I was enduring, if only for a second. I felt like I had been to war and I didn’t even know what war was.
When Pearl realized that I had urinated, defecated, and vomited all over myself, she squatted down and hugged me, lifting me to my feet. She told me I was “the best baby she ever had.” My body recoiled as she put her arms around me. I stiffened up, head moved backward, and arms dropped to my sides like slabs of meat hanging on in locker. There are no words to explain what happened to me that night. No words will ever do it justice, the night I lost my childhood. In that moment, that precise place and time, Pearl became a person to fear. My relationship with her would never be the same. I would forever dance a fine line with her and toggle between love and fear.
We walked together upstairs, and she stopped to blow out each candle as if we were cleaning up from a dinner party. Hand behind the flame, quick puff of air. She turned on the shower and undressed me. I didn’t fight; my limp little body was so tired, so defeated. I was covered in bodily fluids and excrement. My mommy had hurt me. As she washed my hair and rinsed me off, she hummed. Those same delicate hands that, moments prior, held on to a blade the size of my torso and hit me, were now lovingly cleaning me.
In a completely bizarre twist of events, I didn’t want to go to bed in my room that night. I didn’t want to be alone. It’s a fucked up instinct. I wanted my mom to protect me from my mom. It’s a paradox beyond words. Mick wasn’t home and I reluctantly told Pearl that I was scared. She looked at me and said, “you can sleep in my room sweetheart.” For a split second, I was happy. She made a bed for me on the floor, a sheet with a pillow on top of Ding Dong’s dog bed. I curled up, closed my eyes, and my sweet friend came to snuggle with me the rest of the night. I snuggled her tight. My head nuzzled between her ear and collar. I could feel her heartbeat with my hand.
Pearl changed her clothes, washed her face, and brushed her teeth. She climbed into her king-sized bed, all alone, and looked down at me lying on the dog bed and said goodnight. That she loved me.
I had Ding Dong for comfort that night, and as I closed my eyes I asked God what I had done wrong.
Where the fuck was Mick?
