Name Withheld 

         For 20 years I lived with a mentally ill Mom. My Mom is bipolar with schizophrenic tendencies. However, we didn’t know this until I was older, so growing up with my Mom was rough. She was mean, both physically and emotionally. Some days she seemed depressed and would cry for long periods of time. Other days, she was angry. Her behavior was completely unpredictable. It was like walking on eggshells living in our home. Some of my early memories include my Mom yanking me up the stairs by my hair and throwing me into the piano, not being allowed to take the sacrament during church, and getting locked out of the house on a regular basis.
        My Mom was always worse while my Dad was gone to church meetings, work, etc. When I was about eight years old, he went away on a business trip, and things were really crazy. My sisters and I were playing downstairs and my Mom called us to come up. I don’t remember all the details, but my Mom got angry with me. I was still standing on the stairs, and she grabbed me by the hair on my head, yanked me up the stairs, and threw me into the piano near the top of the stairs. It hurt, and I cried.
       For several years while I was younger, my Dad served as a counselor in the bishopric (and later in the stake presidency). While he sat on the stand, the rest of us kids braved it out in the audience with my mother. She had a lot of extreme religious beliefs. For example, we weren’t allowed to watch t.v., talk on the phone, or read the newspaper on Sunday. On occasion, we were also forced to fast, before any of us were eight years old. Anyway, as very young children, she didn’t allow us to take the sacrament if she didn’t feel we were well behaved, because we weren’t worthy. I felt like a bad child and was so embarrassed. It felt like the entire ward was watching and wondering why I wasn’t worthy to take the sacrament. Religion and the concept of a loving God became very confusing to me.
        On a regular basis, my Mom locked me and my two sisters out of the house. When she couldn’t deal with us anymore, she would send us outside and lock all the doors, so we couldn’t get back in. The incident I remember best happened while my Mom was pregnant with my youngest sister, on August 13, 1975. I was seven years old and my other sisters were five and three years old. My Mom was angry with us, because we played with the blinds in the bedroom, so she locked us all out. This particular time, it seems like we were locked out for a very long time I always felt like I needed to take care of my younger sisters since I was the oldest. I can still remember how awful I felt. I felt abandoned; like I was on my own and no-one in the world loved me or cared about me. I sat in our front yard on the electrical box and cried. This went on month after month, year after year.
        As a child, I cried a lot. By the time I was a teenager, I didn’t cry in front of anyone anymore. I only cried alone in my bedroom. I didn’t want to give my Mom the satisfaction of knowing she had hurt me again. She could hit me with the metal or wooden spoon all she wanted, but I learned not to cry a single tear. It really hurt, and I felt terrible, but I did not cry.
        Midway through the sixth grade, when I was eleven, I rebelled. It was during Christmas break. (My Mom was so bad during all the holidays). For Christmas that year, I got a flute, a teddy bear, and a back pack. I was in the band at school and my parents bought me a flute. The flute was expensive, and I knew that was all I would get for Christmas So, I was surprised on Christmas morning when I got a stuffed animal and a back pack, too. However, my Mom always thought we weren’t appreciative enough and would take back part of our gifts. Sometimes we would get them back at a later time, sometimes we wouldn’t. This year, after one of my friends called to tell me what she got for Christmas, my Mom really lost it. She called my friends Mom and chewed her out for letting her daughter call and tell me about her gifts. Needless to say, I didn’t play with that friend anymore. Her parents didn’t want her to hang-out with me, because it caused problems with my Mom. This was my breaking point and started my official rebellion. had to fight back somehow, and this was the only way I knew how.
            When I returned to school in January, I received an award that I had been chosen to get before the Christmas break. My teachers told me that they would still give me the award, but that if it were based on my performance and grades after the break, I wouldn’t have got it. They couldn’t figure out what had happened. My grades dropped. I started to swear and purposefully be disrespectful. I didn’t want to go to church anymore. I just didn’t care anymore. I knew then that I would drink alcohol. I just wanted to do the opposite of anything my mother wanted me to do.
            Anyway, my teenage years were really rough. My Mom and I continued to clash, and she continued to beat on me and tell me what a rotten kid I was. I drank a lot, went to lots of parties, and I hung out with some rotten crowds and bad friends; people I knew my Mom wouldn’t like or approve of. I’d sneak out of the house every weekend and stay out all night long. I tried to commit suicide twice. I did lots of scary things. I was lost and had no where to turn for help. Alcohol was my only escape from my awful life.
           I started to straighten out when I was 17 - 18. I quit partying and drinking. That was hard. I needed to drink to cope with my home life which was a complete mess. Now I began living a facade. I didn’t want my “normal” friends to know how weird and bizarre my Mom really was, so I made it up. I pretended she was normal. I talked as if she was just an average Mom. I never shared any of the real stories, and I didn’t let anyone meet her or come to my house. When I went on dates, I met the boys at the corner, in my front yard, or right at the front door. I definitely didn’t want them to meet my Mom. I still knew things were bad and definitely not normal, but I put on front for the people around me. I still hurt inside, but it worked for the time.
           When I was 20, I met a good therapist. I started group therapy and counseling. It was so nice to talk to someone qualified, who told me my Mom was mentally ill and understood what was going on. At first, I was relieved to hear she was mentally ill, because that explained her bizarre behavior over the years. Later, I was angry. I was angry with God. I couldn’t understand how a kind and loving God could let me live in such awful circumstances with such a mean Mom. It just didn’t seem right. These were difficult feelings for me to work through.
           Almost a year later, I was married. It was so nice to move out and get away from my Mom. It was hard to go back and see the rest of my family still suffering. I missed the rest of my family and had a difficult time leaving them there with her. A year after I was married, my parents got divorced. (Something I prayed for since I was seven years old). A psychological evaluation was done, and the court awarded my Dad custody of my six younger sisters and brothers. (Which was a wonderful thing! My feelings and experiences were “validated” by a court of law. Also, my siblings wouldn’t have to go through the same experiences I did living with my Mom).
           After several years of counseling, the memories of growing up with a mentally ill mom are no longer overwhelming. I still have a really hard time on Mother’s Day, and wish I could have a normal Mom like other people do. My memories still aren’t pleasant or happy, but I can deal with them. I have children now, something that wasn’t easy.I feared having children for many years, because I worried I might turn out like my Mom and didn’t want to put anyone through an experience like that. However, I love being a mom and a wife, and I feel I’m a good mom and wife, and love my kids and husband a lot. I still remember (and will never forget), how hard it was living with my Mom, however, I can live with it and hope for a better life for my children.
           Some of my siblings still struggle with the memories of growing up with a mentally ill Mom, and still can’t cope and move on. It is hard to watch them suffer, knowing their lives could be better. (Since it wasn’t that long ago that I was in their shoes and know how miserable it is).
           I can cry sometimes now.  I still have a difficult time on "Mother's Day" wishing that I could have "mom" like other people do. A mom I could talk to about my life and my children. My mother lives alone in a nearby city. We occasionally visit her. She typically doesn't open the door when we come so we leave the gifts at her door. I've accepted my mother has a serious mental illness. I've been able to forgive her, my dad and even God for my childhood pain more and more as I grow older.  I've learned about a different God and a different religion from the one I learned in my home growing up. I started praying because I was telling God I was mad. At times, it has been sort of hard to believe that God would allow me to go through all that I’ve been through.  It is not that I don’t have a testimony. I do. I wouldn’t go to Church if I didn’t think it was true. I have a temple recommend. I pray all the time. I've been married several years and have two children. We we're married in the temple. I look forward to and want to be with my husband and children for eternity.   In the future I want to grow closer to God. I always want to be progressing. I don’t know why all that happened, happened. I don’t know if I will ever know all the answers, at least not in this life.