Or What Happened When She Visited My Stepdad with Dementia I really had no idea
Sometime in late 2013 or early 2014 I looked at my dog and realized that she had gotten really fat. Her harness wouldn’t close anymore without being adjusted, and fat rolls had collected around her neck and near her tail. She’s a small Chihuahua mix that normally weighs about 15 pounds, but the scale showed she was 21 pounds.
Why I Shouldn't Have Let My Mom Plan a Birthday Party Or Anything Ever
I’ve already written about how when you live with a mentally ill parent you get used to embarrassment. That’s just a fact of life, and all those embarrassing moments are pretty horrible, so it’s hard to say which is the worst.
Is it the time my mother yelled at me in front of my coworkers when we were shopping in the store in which I worked? Is it when I had to put food back at the grocery store because my mother spent too much money on CDs before buying food? Is it being taken grocery shopping by my friends’ parents’ because my mother drank all the money away again, and they’ve been begged to help? (Yep, those are all true stories.) Or is it something altogether stranger, like a birthday party my mom threw for my dead stepfather? Hint: despite the seemingly less traumatizing nature of that summary, it’s the last one.
Living With a Mentally Ill Parent Can Be Really Embarrassing And Sometimes Results in Terrible Nicknames
Living with a mentally ill parent is way more embarrassing than living with normal embarrassing parents. You can argue about the bad clothes and weird behavior of your parents all you want, but it’s a fact that mentally ill parents go out of their way to do things to traumatize their children.
My evidence is the single most embarrassing moment of my life until June 8, 2014 (You’ll have to read that for yourself. That day defies any sort of simple explanation). Until then, it was what my mom did when I was in eighth grade that lead to me having a super cool nickname for three years: Squeezel.
My Cousins Lived In Half a Trailer No, Really...
In my freshman year of college I took a class called Garbology. It was one of the choices for Perspectives on the Environment, a part of the freshman seminar series for all first-year students.
I would just like to point out that despite my intense phobia of garbage stemming from OCD (no really), this was the best option.
We took field trips including one to the dump in January, which is exactly as terrible as it sounds because it was cold, we were at the dump, and I was walking on giant piles of garbage (the thing I fear most in the word) that the dump had turned into a field for soccer practice and model airplane flights.