The Backstory …
DH asked me to warn you … this is long.
Let’s face it. Life is complicated and this story is no exception.
I grew up in a stable home with great parents. They were (are) firm (no threats, only promises), kind, supportive. Not perfect, but they did the best they could with what they had. I learned to respect my parents, not because they were my parents, but because they are good people. I’m very lucky in that regard.
My extended family is a mixed bag. Some are goofy, some are angry, some are stable, some not so much for a variety of reasons. But I grew up knowing and loving (or at least getting along with) a large number of grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins to several degrees. One side of my family has a habit of adopting whoever comes through the door and as a result I have a very broad view of the word “family.”
I have a tendency to think the best of people long before accepting the worst of them. Maybe that makes me naive — I’ve certainly been duped often enough. But I’d rather be made a fool of by giving too many chances than blocking a person’s potential to be the very best because I didn’t give them enough chances.
Many parts of my childhood were great. A loving, stable home, supportive parents, opportunities to be independent (but still connected), even a brother to conspire with in between the moments of sibling rivalry.
Other parts … not so much. I was “fat” and “weird” to most of my schoolmates. And while I did eventually find a set of good friends. I was bullied and picked on. I never really knew how to fit in (still don’t), and as a result I often found myself incredibly lonely and misunderstood. Even outside of school in places like my church’s youth group I simply didn’t fit in. Despite being able to chat with anyone on almost any subject, and no fear of going to new places and trying new things, I struggled to find people who really understood me. I was (am) a Christian. I was supposed to make friends at church. Yet at church, I had the least success. I didn’t dress the same, I wasn’t interested in the same things, I just didn’t automatically agree with people (an aspect my parents encouraged). So elementary school was tolerable, Junior High was torture, and I survived High School. It wasn’t until college that I finally felt comfortable.
Love at first sight, but that bit wasn’t in the movie …
I met my husband at the beginning of my first semester in college after seeing a movie with a friend. I liked him. He was smart, funny, a little shy but very kind. I rarely (if ever) had crushes as a kid, and yet, I fell for him immediately. We had (have) similar interests, the same faith, and were different enough to keep things interesting. It wasn’t until a little over a year (and another girl) later that he asked me out. We knew we would get married 2 years later and in 1999 we tied the knot.
It turned out that my husband was a little more than “a little” shy — he’s a lot shy — but masks it extremely well. He also (to me) seemed to be a worry-wort. He warned me that sometimes he would get very depressed and does worry a little too much, but I really didn’t think much of it. What struck me odd, though, was how he dealt with his mother. The way he talked to her, like she was a child, concerned me. In fact, it concerned me to the point where I had a mild case of cold feet before the wedding. I noticed that she was a little “off” at times, and I knew that she had had a period of extreme depression, but by the wedding she seemed fine. I really at the time didn’t think much of it.
After the wedding the rollercoaster really began. Almost immediately after the honeymoon I was informed that I would be laid off. At the same time we discovered that we were way over our heads in debt. Fortunately, I got a job just in the nick of time. We recovered, dealt with the debt and had a couple of relatively quiet years. But then 2003 happened.
2003
Being an optomist, it takes an awful lot for me to declare an entire day “ruined” — even more so for an entire year. 2003 just sucked in every way. My right arm stopped working (a combination of a sprain and tendinitous) for a couple months. My grandfather’s alzheimers reached the point where my grandmother could no longer care for him on her own and he was struck with colon cancer. But the final straw was MDS.
MDS is a disease where a person’s bone marrow is no longer able to produce healthy blood cells. MDS always leads to leukemia and from there, death. The question is when. Some lead full and happy lives for years. Others, including my Father In Law, quickly decline in to leukemia.
My FIL was a good man who did his best. In his own life he drew the short straw more than a few times. Despite that, he made the best of every circumstance he found himself in and was not one to pity himself or give up. (At least publically.) He was no saint, but he tried harder than most to provide a good, happy and safe home for his family. At first, FIL made light of his illness, but within months of being diagnosed the MDS advanced to leukemia. In spite of a successful bone marrow transplant, the leukemia migrated into his spinal cord and killed him in 2005, just 2.5 years after his initial diagnosis.
But it was FIL’s good intentions that threw us for the biggest loop.
Good intentions that went oh so wrong …
FIL, in his later years, spoiled my MIL. He shielded her from the world, and the world from her. As more of his time and energy were taken up by his fight with cancer, it was left to my DH, his brother, myself and my then Sister In Law to take care of my Mother In Law. Normally, it is the spouse who is the primary caretaker. However, my MIL has two major problems that prevented her.
The first is that MIL is legally blind. She has RP (retinitous pigmentosa), a genetic condition that causes a person to slowly loose their sight over the course of years. Because of this, she lost her ability to drive in her 40′s. It also triggered her other, more major and debilitating problem.
At first, we (DH, BIL, myself and SIL) thought that she had simple depression and that her personality was just a little goofy in a harmless (sometimes almost cute) kind of way. When she was down, she’d simply mope. When she was up, she’d baby-talk, act extra cute and silly. Most people’s first impressions (mine included) would be that she’s just a silly but very pleasant sort of woman. DH and BIL, however, were aware of a few isolated episodes that were a little more concerning. In one, MIL was found wandering around the city in her bathrobe. But, FIL never discussed it with them and they were assured that she was fine.
Little did we know that the situation was more dire than that. As the stress of FIL’s illness began to build, and FIL became less and less able to shield everyone, we saw more and more of how just how unstable MIL was. I saw first-hand, the day FIL was actually diagnosed with leukemia, MIL become irrational to the point of scary. I had a feeling then that this was bad, and just the tip of the iceburg. Soon we saw her exhibit behaviors like extreme denial, magical thinking, emotional instability, she had another breakdown, paranoia. She displayed the emotional maturity of a small child.
My relationship with her became more complicated. Because my “job” was driving her and FIL (the leukemia had effected his eyes) as well as communicating with the doctors and nurses (she lacked the ability to understand and he lacked the ability to hear them well) I spent a great deal of time with her and I thought we were becoming close. She often told me how wonderful I was and how I was the daughter she wished she could have had.
But there were times I had to be “the heavy” — like when she refused to give the hospital FIL’s living will — she’d be mad, but would quickly forgive (or so I thought). Either way I put FIL’s wants and needs first, if MIL didn’t like it, too bad. Good for FIL … not so great for me. (I regret nothing.)
What should have been the really big hint was from FIL himself.
FIL legally removed MIL’s medical and legal power of attorney and gave it to DH and BIL. He said (I was actually there), “My dear, I love you. But you will not respect my wishes to not be hooked up to some #@%! machine. I don’t want to live that way, but you would refuse to pull the plug just to keep me around for you. I don’t want to end up like that poor woman in Florida.”
Sadly, FIL was right. In 2005 after his heart stopped for almost a half hour, he was in coma for a week. He was completely unresponsive to all stimuli. MIL denied it all. She firmly believed that her husband was going to wake up and be completely fine, never mind that he still had leukemia and several additional complications including a severe viral infection. But the decision was not hers. After tests came back showing the worst possible news, DH and BIL made the decision to unhook FIL from the machines.
MIL’s first response was to blame SIL and myself for killing FIL. She couldn’t blame her sons, so her anger was directed at the Daughter In Laws instead, and at me specifically for the business with the living will. In her mind, it’s my fault that he died, as though I were in some vast conspiracy with the doctors, the medical profession and the whole world to specifically kill FIL.
She apologized (sort of), but the next few weeks after FIL’s death were rough.
Everyone goes just a little nuts in that situation. Funerals and weddings send just about everyone to Crazyland, so I try not to take too much wacky behavior seriously. But there was one glaring thing that had me seething. Everyone, with the exception of one aunt and uncle, did not acknowledge even once that DH and BIL lost a dad. All of the attention and sympathy was for MIL.
Eventually, MIL seemed to get much better. She went on trips, walked places, learned how to use a computer and surf the internet. DH took care of her financial and legal matters, and set her up so that she could be as independent as possible. For a while there it actually looked like she was going to be okay. She even started to date.
OCD sucks, OCD sucks, OCD sucks, OCD sucks, OCD …
Meanwhile, at first, life moved on for DH and I. For my part, the emotional fallout was more than challenging. MIL still would occasionally spew venom at me, and then turn around and be sweetness and light. I had to come to terms with the idea that the MIL that I thought I had gotten to know, never really existed in the first place. It was tough. I had anger, guilt and fear.
For DH, it was much worse. His mother consumed him to the point where he had no time or energy to mourn. With all the attention focused on her and her sorrow, he was not given time or space for himself. MIL became progressively more and more demanding. Even when MIL started becoming more independent, the pressure on DH did not diminish.
Eventually, something had to give.
By the time DH began the mourning process, it was nearly a year after his father’s death. About that time, he started questioning his faith — normal for a guy who went through what he went through. But what wasn’t normal was the conversation. It began simple enough, and was well-structured. Eventually he’d come to a conclusion that maybe God did exist after all with only a few lingering doubts. That wasn’t the concerning bit. What was concerning to me was that we had the same hour-long conversation every morning … for months, almost a full year. I almost memorized it. I would try and get him to skip ahead, but to no avail. We had to go through the same sequence every time. A few times we were even late for work a few times because of it. Eventually that conversation petered out from daily, to weekly, to monthly, to only occasionally.
Then we bought our first house. I couldn’t do anything right. (Well, that’s how it felt at times.) No house seemed good enough (most of the time DH was right … we saw some really lousy houses …), and when we did find a house every stage of the process was filled to the brim with anxiety for DH. There was just nothing good or hopeful for him about the house.
Another wrinkle was extreme stress at work. DH had a job that once had potential to be a good “career job” but with a super-micromanaging boss, lousy pay and a long commute took its toll on him. Add insult to injury, his anxiety and plethora of “bad days” made job hunting ten-times as hard as it normally would.
And so it continued. As DH began to settle about the house, there was another nearly overwhelming fear, and another. As we started talking about kids, the fears continued and worsened. The job situation wasn’t getting much better and DH was getting more and more depressed and decided it was time to get help.
It didn’t come as a complete shock, as a kid DH had some of the more classic symptoms of OCD, like handwashing, and DH still had many habits and “quirks” that many healthy people describe as being “so OCD.” What he did learn is that his OCD was now a less familiar type often referred to as “Pure O.” Essentially, it is primarily mental manifestation of OCD. There are rituals, it’s just that most of them take place inside the brain. Depression and social anxiety are of secondary issues for individual with Pure O and other types of OCD.
A funny thing happens when a person takes ownership of a problem. The problem gets smaller, or at the very least, broken up into manageable pieces. It’s like the monster in the closet or under the bed. Once you drag them out in to the light, they become powerless because their power is based on fear. (There is a Buffy episode that totally works with my theory.)
A very odd sense of relief came over me when DH told me that he was officially diagnosed with OCD. What was suspected is now known, and with the help of Google and guidance from a doctor, a plan of action was formed. DH bought some books, began therapy — both drug and counseling — and educated me on how to deal with it.
[To clarify, DH didn't think much of his symptoms, but when he was doing some research, he discovered a forum with people who had OCD. In describing their symptoms, they were too similar to deny. DH took his self-diagnosis to his counselor and psychiatrist, and they agreed. DH has "Pure O" OCD.]
OCD is one of those weird diseases that never goes away, but can only devastate you if you let it. I’d say it is the physical equivalent would be diabetes. If you’ve ever known someone with diabetes, you know that with constant supervision and smart living, a person with diabetes can live a completely full and almost normal life. They just have to be more health conscious than most. On the other hand, if you ignore it, it does not go away. It will not only get worse, but eventually it will prevent you from living … at all …
In the same way, with constant supervision, smart living, and sometimes medication, a person with OCD can live a totally full and wonderful life. Ignore it, and it will steal your life from you. It will not go away.
DH has learned to cope. With the help of some medication, talk-therapy and reasonable amounts of research DH has found a way to live with OCD. His depression is essentially gone (or at least I haven’t seen it) and his social anxiety is better. The OCD is there, but under control. We’ve learned to use communication, patience, and trust to counter-balance it in our relationship and frankly, it’s better than it’s ever been.
Being married to someone with OCD can be tough and is often frustrating. But when the person with OCD is open and honest about it. Not only is a relationship possible, it can be great.
But half the battle for OCD is defining the triggers. A trigger can be an initial event that sets a person off. Or, for someone with OCD, a trigger can also be something that either creates a new obsessive-compulsive loop, or starts up an old loop that has died down.
For DH, triggers seemed to be centered around situations over which he had no control. Those arguments and debates, sometimes philosophic, that really have no clear answer or reason. After all, those were the topics that is loops tended to center around. But there was way more stress in DH’s life than his obsessions. Something was kicking up the anxiety that fed the anxiety that looped onto itself.
Yup, you guessed it. MIL.
Some Skunks really are preferable as road kill
Let’s back up a bit. MIL started dating less than a year after FIL’s death.
Now, normally, I’d say, “Hey, if you’re ready, you’re ready. More power to you.” But as per usual, when it comes to my MIL, “normal” is less a known middle ground and more a matter of opinion.
As MIL seemed to “recover” we noticed that her behavior wasn’t mature. While annoying, it didn’t seem like a very big problem. She was less a grown woman and more and more like a spoiled teen. She even dressed like a teen. Dieting to the point where she could fit in to some Junior sizes and followed more teen fashion statements than common sense.
Where it became a problem was when she took trips, she looked less and less like a grown, respectable woman and more like a cheap prostitute. Not that I subscribe to the belief that rape victims “deserve” anything because of how they dress — absolutely not! — but when she comes back with “funny” stories about how a young black man tried to “pick her up” while she was on the beach. We got scared for her and she just couldn’t see why.
MIL has absolutely no “street” sense. Even literally. She just didn’t understand why a legally blind woman shouldn’t walk down the center of a major metropolis, through a questionable section, on seriously uneven pavement wearing a real fur and real gold and diamonds … by herself … in heels …
So she was out and about traveling (which was good even if it did make us nervous), and on internet dating sites (which made us more nervous). Most of the guys she talked about seemed like they might be ok, the problem was that DH and BIL just weren’t ready to deal with a new man in her life. So they asked her to be gentle with their feelings and introduce them slowly to them.
Then there was who I will refer to as “Skunk.”
Things did not begin well. We learned that MIL had moved from “dating” to “boyfriend” when she dumped my BIL and SIL and skipped out on their birthday dinner in favor of Skunk.
Skunk’s story from the first was “off.” He was apparently ex-military/police, safety expert kind of guy who was waiting for a disability suit to be settled. Once settled he could move away from his crazy landlady, her bratty daughter and move somewhere “safe.”
It was the supposed “rental agreement” that raised the first red flags. Specifically, the rule of “no female guests.”
MIL bought it, we didn’t. I mean really, after having rented several apartments, and not all of them nice, specifying what gender guest a person was or was not allowed to have didn’t even seem legal. Length of stay would make sense, but no women at all? Stinkier still, MIL “wasn’t allowed” to even have his address, much less his home phone number. She only had access to his cell number and e-mail address.
The other odd wrinkle was that not only did Skunk not encourage MIL to introduce us to him (which, honestly, wouldn’t have gone over well less than a year from my FIL’s death), but he actively avoided all of us at all costs. You’d think that to get in good with a widow, the wise man would at least offer an olive branch to the widow’s kids.
Nope. In fact, we later learned that Skunk did everything in his power to isolate MIL from all of her family and friends.
After the initial storm, begging MIL to demand some more, rather pertinent information from Skunk, like his address, before taking the relationship any farther, we had:
- a weird Thanksgiving where MIL spent about 40 minutes in my only bathroom in a house full of people talking to Skunk on the phone (we could hear every word and giggle … ew …)
- a really uncomfortable Christmas with more, rather questionable, Skunk stories
- Ditto for the New Year
As time progressed, MIL’s behavior became more and more juvenile. Like a clueless 13-year-old, MIL actually couldn’t understand why it was inappropriate to wear a purple faux leapard-skin coat to her mother’s funeral.
(MIL’s mother was more crazy and because of that out and out abusive — MIL wasn’t a bit upset, and considering their history, it’s oddly one of the most normal reactions she’s ever had. Her siblings, however, knew a very different woman and were considerably more upset at her passing. It was for their sakes that my SIL played the fashion police to my MIL.)
MIL continued to play the rebellious teen until the next fall. Somehow, something finally snapped.
Secrets and skeletons
It was sometime in the fall. Or at least I think it was. MIL’s behavior had been erratic for sometime. We knew that she was depressed, and some of that depression seemed natural. After all, she lost the love of her life, who wouldn’t be?
But that love had taught her one coping skill. Hide. Tell nothing. Keep it all a secret and you’ll be fine. Convince the world that you are fine, and then, only behind closed doors, take your medicine.
Sadly, it was all FIL knew. He, a sane man, with a rough childhood, could do that. He had the strength. He didn’t have a chemical imbalance to contend with. He couldn’t understand her situation, but he tried with the only tools he knew worked — which was essentially a form of avoidance.
Skunk, now the boyfriend, and a substitute for FIL in her life. (She had tried to make DH the new FIL, but there were some areas that DH could not fill.) He never fully understood the depths of her illness, which then still seemed manageable. But then too, her health was not his concern.
But her money was.
FIL had left behind a small pension, a decent life insurance policy and some stocks — life savings. Enough to keep her comfortable, if she were just a little bit careful, for the rest of her life.
Like an idiot, she shared this with Skunk. From what we know now, she must have advertised it to him in the first few communications.
Somehow, Skunk convinced her to loan him altogether $45,000. He even drew up loan documents from a do-it-yourself lawyer kit. Skunk even managed to convince her that if she showed the documents to a real lawyer, the repayment agreement would be null and void and he wouldn’t pay her back a dime. As time drew on he’d pay her payments, and borrow it right back again saying, “But I just paid you, I know you have money. Don’t you love me?” Of course, she’d cave.
And those weren’t the only demands. She paid for every date, for gas for his car (that she essentially bought), a diet plan for herself to be more attractive to him. He tried to cut her off from friends and family. He even tried to get her to change her will to cut off DH and BIL completely and make him her sole heir. There was even talk of her selling her house and moving with him or, even just letting him move in “as a tenant of course.”
All of which was to be kept an absolute secret.
That was no new concept to MIL. She’d been keeping secrets for years. In fact, Skunk was still largely in the dark. The idiot was so self-involved he didn’t even notice that she was blind. Granted, MIL put on a good act, but really dude, how could you miss it?
But a mentally and emotionally fragile woman, with no close support from whom she could hide nothing was bound to crack. And in the fall, crack she did.
I’m still a little fuzzy on the details. I just know that I got a call from DH. MIL was bad, really bad, and he had to stay until we either knew more, or she was better … preferably both.
At this point in time, I was really worried for DH. His mourning process had barely begun. We were having circular conversations and I knew that emotionally DH was fragile himself. His dad was gone. His mom was causing him incredible amounts of grief. Aunts, uncles and her friends had begun to nag him about “taking care of her.” Our own lives had been put on indefinite hold until she had her feet on the ground. There was no way, no how, I was going to let him be up there alone with her. He needed support. It didn’t matter to me if she hated me at that moment or not, DH needed to not be alone.
“I’m coming.” He tried feebly to argue, the strain was already showing.
“I’m coming.”
The mess
When I arrived, MIL was on her couch somewhere in between sobbing, apologizing, confessing, and just plain numb. DH had called her psychiatrist and was told what meds “usually worked.” Sadly, they were no where near as effective as they were the last episode. Worse, we (well, I at least) discovered for the first time that they were actually anti-psycotics.
MIL, who was totally hysterical when I arrived, wasn’t anywhere near coherent until at least the next day. That’s when I learned about Skunk, the loan, the will, the mess that she had gotten herself into. She confessed nearly everything, even some of the physically intimate details.
We spent the next two days medicating MIL, setting up Dr.s appointments, counseling her on what to do about her relationship (essentially, dump him), her finances (set up new bank accounts, my dad would do her taxes for her and at least attempt to lessen the blow), her health (AIDS test!), and her meds. DH did most of the work since she still went back and forth from apologizing and telling me that she loved me, to accusing me of murdering FIL.
But I was there more for DH, and the longer he stayed, the more worn he was. What was 3.5 to 4 days was more like months. His own sanity was suffering and I could see it.
But the really scary part came at lunch the day we left.
The neighbors and their watching ways …
MIL finally seemed to pull herself together about 4 days after her breakdown. To that date, the longest breakdown she’d ever had and possibly the worst. But after some stronger meds, some much-needed sleep and the comfort of DH’s taking care of her business, she seemed to come back to herself. Subdued and unsteady, but more like herself, enough that DH and I felt a little comfortable to come home.
Besides, neither of us had the energy or patience to give her 24-hour attention any more. Our well was completely dry. Worried about him and her I was determined to stick it out as long as necessary, but I knew I’d pay for it later. Still, worth it for DH. (And I did. I react physically to stress. I was nautious and my psoriasis had another flare up.)
MIL even felt well enough to go out for lunch. She knew she didn’t look like her usual self, but we convinced her that it didn’t matter, no one would judge, and even if they did, who cares? All was well, then …
“I know my neighbors called the people here at the diner to tell them that my hair is a mess.”
She was dead serious. There was no convincing her otherwise. She was certain that she was being watched. She was still uncertain that DH and BIL weren’t going to try and kill her and make her think she was crazy to get at her money. She was scared and uncertain and didn’t know who to trust. Much, in part to Skunk’s lies. Much, in part to her own brain chemistry. And very much due to the stress of far too many secrets.
We didn’t know whether it was safe to leave or not, for her. I was certain that it was imperative that DH leave. He was very near to a breakdown himself, and really, I couldn’t handle him and her. She didn’t trust me anyway, and I was far to pissed at her, FIL, Skunk and the whole situation to maintain my patience much longer. Those damn secrets were going to destroy my husband and they weren’t even his secrets.
So we went home. DH called her doctor and then finally rested. He had already been going with her to her appointments, but now there were more of them, and DH would regularly “rat her out.” He would tell the Dr. tidbits that brought out those secrets. Childhood abuse, fears, dilusions, secrets, all of it. It helped to some degree. But there fears and paranoia never really went away, and sometimes, got a little worse.
But there was one other thing that we could do. We researched Skunk. Using what little information we had to go on we were able to find his (still active) singles ad, where he lived (with a picture), his favorite screen name. But the real find was the daughter of his “land lady.” DH and I debated a little about that one. On the one hand, start a convo now? She and Skunk did not care for each other at all, but on the other hand, she was a minor. DH approaching her over the internet could be taken very badly. DH thought about it and agreed and put all our research in a back pocket in case we needed it for later.
A truce?
The mess, while slightly better, never fully went away. Skunk remained in the picture. MIL was too easy a mark, too desperate, too gullible, and too delusional to easily let go.
But Skunk himself, was in a small way also a victim. Little did he know or understand just how sick MIL was. After all, she’s an expert at putting on a good act. And she was in her own way playing him like he played her.
MIL is an attention fiend and an emotional vampire. It’s hard to say if it’s personality, illness, situation or all of the above. But in the end, she very much toyed with him. Breakups, get togethers, little teases here and there. Granted, if there was any emotional connection coming from him, it was coincidental. Later evidence tells us this. But still, it must have scared the crap out of him when she toyed with him like a yo-yo.
Come to think of it, she toyed with us too, and still does. It’s her thing.
Her biggest game is to play certain parties against one another. It’s not a surprising one. I later learned that it’s quite common for addicts and the mentally ill.
One day it came to a head with DH and Skunk yelling at each other over the phone. That is when Skunk learns that MIL is blind. More than two years, and that’s when he finds out that she’s blind. Skunk also learns from DH that MIL is at least occasionally delusional. Half of what she told us were lies, half of what she told him were lies, all designed to bring everyone’s energies and attention on herself.
I had had it. I was done. Secrets and lies were killing us. Communication had always been paramount to me and DH, and now more than ever. DH at this time was recently diagnosed with OCD. While he was getting himself under control, MIL was still spinning out of it. I believed that we needed to gamble.
Either Skunk was horribly misunderstood, or horribly bad. We were pretty much taking care of MIL on our own. BIL and SIL had broken up, BIL was off several states away avoiding all of the mess as much as possible (he had his own), and SIL naturally was just done (and we couldn’t blame her). I believed that if we could make Skunk an ally, instead of an enemy, maybe there was a chance that MIL could be stabilized.
So I got Skunk’s number and called him. To say that I “asked” him to dinner would be recognizing the formality of my statement. In truth, my tone read that it wasn’t a request. He attempted a few excuses, and seemed resigned when I simply didn’t accept them. He was to come to dinner.
Skunk was wise in his approach to me, he brought wine, he paid compliments. He at least pretended to like the food (I think he actually did, he had seconds.) Skunk even sent a thank you note. But in all other aspects, he was still an idiot.
The man loves the sound of his own voice. He didn’t know when to shut it. He started off well enough, talking about things that he actually knew (he actually does know about safety … I can tell because I know a little myself thanks to my own profession) but then, when he relaxed, he made the mistake of thinking that I was like my MIL. Dumb and girly.
He insulted women in general, believing them to be just about every negative stereotype out there. He held extreme political views that made no sense, even to the point of the wisdom of making him “king” — cause you know he could fix everything. And even shared some of his plans for securing his future. He wasn’t so stupid as to give us any hard evidence of his specific plans for MIL, but certainly gave us enough breadcrumbs to know what areas to watch.
DH and I ended the evening almost as uncertain as it begun. He believed that Skunk leaning toward bad, I believed that Skunk was leaning more towards “idiot.” Either way, he needed to be closely watched.
It all falls apart …
For a time things were relatively quiet, and in some quarters, things seemed to even be looking up. Skunk was behaving himself, MIL was behaving herself and DH and I could once again concentrate somewhat on our own lives.
Despite having met Skunk under relatively pleasant terms, we still stressed that MIL be careful. After all, there was still the question of the $45,000 and despite him making regular payments, she was turning around and spending it on him as soon as he paid her. (Leaving her financially in the same predicament as before.)
The first sign of trouble was when MIL told us that Skunk was having trouble with his landlady. He was spending the majority of his time in his RV than in his “rented” room. Over the days and weeks the tales of Skunk’s woes only increased until finally DH found out that he had spent the night at MIL’s … several nights in fact … and was making no move to leave.
Something inside of DH snapped. Skunk was already very entangled in MIL’s life, and not in a good way. He had access to one of her bank accounts (we had taken steps a year earlier to disentangle him, that account had very limited funds in it), he had a great deal of influence over MIL and continued to slowly but surely cut her off from her friends and relatives. We would even get the occasional phone call from one of them over their concern for her. — But to have Skunk permanently move in? Absolutely not.
On the one hand, one may ask why a son should be permitted to be such an authority figure in his parent’s life. After all, she’s a grown woman, capable of making her own decisions and living with the consequences of them for better or for worse … right?
Wrong, oh so very wrong.
DH was the one to pick up the pieces when things went wrong for much of his life. Even when his father was alive, there were times when it was DH who dealt with his mother’s issues. His dad just didn’t have the patience or the (calming) disposition that DH seemed to have an endless supply of. After his dad died, the burden of living his mother’s life for her increased ten-fold. Bad, in that for the most part his mother insisted that he did. She even wanted to go as far as giving him legal control of her assets so that she didn’t have to worry about writing out her bills each month (and yet maintain enough control herself so that she could spend what ever she wanted, whenever she wanted). Worse, her family would occasionally call and ask why DH wasn’t doing more for her.
Is it any wonder DH has OCD? Or that his mother is the main trigger?
So yes. DH made the decision and Skunk living with MIL was absolutely forbidden. If Skunk bled his mother dry, it would be DH who would have to rescue her. And if worse happened, DH would not have been able to live with himself.
Remember that research on Skunk? DH contacted the daughter through Facebook. He gave her his cell number, access to his profile and encouraged her to pass all of it on to her mother. He was concerned because Skunk was entangled with his mother and wanted to know what the story was.
Sure enough, the “landlady” got back to DH. Turns out, yes she owns the house, but she’s no landlady. She was Skunk’s fiancee. Turns out she suspected something, broke of the engagement and kicked him out.
DH then called his mom’s house. Mom answered. DH told her to wake Skunk and put him on. I believe the conversation began with, “It’s over. Get the [f] out … now.” DH informed him that if he wasn’t out of the house by the time he got there, the police would be called and Skunk would be forced out. (Under what pretense I don’t know, I don’t think Skunk did either.) Skunk responded with some manly-sounding noises and called DH a “Crazy bastard” (like that was going to phase him — DH made his peace with his mental state) — but was still no where near as brave as he sounded because when DH showed up with a crowbar, Skunk was no where near to be found.
MIL’s only true moment of clarity at that point was that she recognized that DH was good and truly pissed. It doesn’t happen often, so I imagine that the impact was pretty poingent. Other than pointed out the folly of allowing Skunk to move in, or even keeping him as an indefinite guest, DH made one thing good and truly clear: it was Skunk, or him. If she so much as talked to Skunk ever again, DH would cut her off for good. Skunk was the cause of her crash, he still owed her an excess of $30,000, and he two-timed other women, using them until they either ran out of money or refused to give them more. The “landlady” it seemed, drew her line at the house and would not put him on the mortgage. He even tried to cut the landlady’s daughter out of the will. Oh yeah, and they were engaged.
And even to drive the point home, DH sent an e-mail to some of MIL’s relatives explaining the situation and the consequences of MIL’s resuming a relationship with Skunk.
As with any jarring event in her life, MIL’s paranoia and confusion ramped up. The neighbors were spying on her even more than before, and she just didn’t know who to trust anymore, Skunk or DH and BIL. But the fear of losing her reliable son kept her from mostly talking to Skunk.
Skunk, for his part, wasn’t quite finished with MIL. Or with his Landlady either. With MIL he left message after message trying to guilt her into taking him back. He would try to convince her that DH and BIL only wanted to convince her that she was crazy so that they could take all her money. With Landlady, he threatened to sue her for his stuff (which was packed up and ready for him to pick up whenever he wanted). But even with all his bluster, both Landlady and even MIL (to a degree) were able to weather the storm.
While MIL feared DH’s wrath, Landlady found a small measure of comfort in it. DH kept in touch with her, keeping her abreast of the status between Skunk and MIL. And Landlady copied DH on her e-mails with Skunk so that DH (very willingly) played the part of a virtual witness. DH even volunteered his services should Skunk’s threats of a court date even come to pass.
An interesting thing to note: while packing up his belongings, Landlady found a notebook. In it were the names and numbers of women that Skunk had contacted. Also included was a rating for their financial health, physical health, and looks.
Yeah … no regrets on that front.
Even further down …
I would love to say that at this point, MIL recovers back to where she was before Skunk got involved in her life. Sadly, this was not to be. And as tempted as I am to blame Skunk for the progression of her mental illness, I cannot. While he may have sped up the development of some of her problems, it was inevitable that she got worse.
As time went on, she voiced less doubts about Skunk, and eventually, even Skunk gave up and moved on (shaking his fist at us no doubt). So MIL mentioned him less and less.
But her paranioa continued to get worse. Sometimes she would call DH, and occasionally myself in a panic fearing that someone (sometimes Skunk) had broken into her house and either stolen odd items, like a single diamond ring — and nothing else, or leaving something behind. A couple of times she even called the police to report a burglary. Other times she would call, weepy, “confessing” her sins to us begging for forgiveness.
But what really would creep us out were the odd statements in the middle of an otherwise ordinary conversation. She could be talking about getting her groceries and then out of the blue she would say, “I heard my neighbors talking about me when I was in the downstairs bathroom. They’re going to kick me out of my house and put me in the hospital.” All in a totally normal and matter-of-fact tone of voice.
And yet, life continues on for us all. We really didn’t know what to do about MIL. On the one hand, she was relatively stable, even if her stability was deep inside of Crazyland. On the other hand, life was not good for her. After much research and deliberation, we realized that unless MIL reached a point where she truly wanted to help herself, there was nothing we could legally do to help her.
Despite all the time and attention we were devoting to MIL, we had plans of our own.
Oh baby!
We finally had a house, it was time to move on to the next chapter of our own lives. DH and I decided to try having a baby. Granted, both the attempt to get pregnant, and being pregnant are enough all by themselves to land one deep in Crazyland. Trying to get pregnant with a severely disturbed MIL who was dating a scoundrel and a DH who is dealing with OCD is a whole new challenge on it’s own. To be fair, I had my own issues to contend with as well. But after 14 months of trying, on Mother’s Day weekend in 2008 I finally got to announce that I was pregnant.
The effect on my MIL was, at first, very positive. We briefly thought that, “Great, it gives her something positive to focus on.” However, very soon after telling her, all her focus shifted back to herself.
I didn’t think much of it. I couldn’t. I was exhausted from the beginning to the end of my pregnancy. I was also exhausted from the sheer effort of contending with MIL. I no energy and far less patience for her.
Call me terrible if you will, but for once I really wanted a little attention for myself. I was pregnant. I didn’t need the whole world to shift its orbit around me, but darn it. My first pregnancy, my first baby, it’s a special thing and for once I wanted at least a little positive attention.
With so many issues swirling around MIL, so much time and energy was devoted to her constantly, I was actually getting a little jealous. I felt like I had to share my marriage with her, and most of the time I was pretty good about keeping it to myself. I did share my concerns with DH as gently as I could, but then too, the last thing I wanted to do was add to his stress.
My biggest fear was that DH would simply not be available because MIL needed him. I even had nightmares that I would be in labor and DH would stuck in traffic because he had to pick up MIL so that she could be in labor and delivery watching me give birth.
I am a very lucky woman, though. DH was already one step ahead of me in many ways. And in telling MIL that I was pregnant, he began to prepare her for the inevitable major change. That DH would have to be available first for his wife and child. In dealing with his OCD, he was already disengaging himself from his mother, so DH was already more available for me. DH reassured me that he would not let MIL interfere. In fact, he told MIL from the start that after first meeting the baby in the hospital, we would not be visiting her (or her us) for at least a month to give us time to bond and me a chance to recover.
Once the initial excitement wore down, MIL seemed oddly subdued about becoming a grandmother. She would occasionally ask the “right” questions as to how I was feeling and did I feel the baby yet, but otherwise carried on as though there was nothing new going on.
At about 5 months pregnant, DH and I took MIL (after much drama) to her family’s reunion. Her relatives, who had only met me twice before, were more excited about the baby than she was. But none of this came as a shock to me or DH because we knew why.
MIL didn’t believe that I was pregnant.
How do I know? Despite the ultrasound pictures to prove it, she questioned DH on more than one occasion if he were sure that I wasn’t faking my pregnancy, her cries for attention only got worse. There were more phone calls (some of them very nasty), and even one whopper of a temper tantrum. 5 hours of kicking and screaming on the floor, sobbing and even some pill popping. All because I asked if we could leave after having been there for 5 hours. (I was literally falling asleep sitting up.) Yes, that was a 10-hour visit, 5 of which she was pitching a massive fit.
And no, it didn’t get much better from there.
Another fall …
Autumn used to be one of my favorite seasons. The weather is beautiful, the sky is often that lovely shade of blue you can only get at that time of year. The trees are all in their glory. The holidays get a little more fun …
But not anymore.
For the second year in a row, MIL had another breakdown. I don’t even know what triggered it this time. To be honest, I stopped keeping track. This time I had been screening calls for DH. He was still relatively new at his job and nearly got into trouble because of MIL’s calls. So, I fielded the calls, and if MIL actually had something significant going on, I’d call DH to let him know that this time it actually was important.
I got a call from MIL, crying and desperate to talk to DH. She actually wanted to check herself into a hospital because she didn’t like the way she felt. It was honestly the most rational thing I had heard in a very long time coming from her. She was always scared, always sad, always lonely, always miserable. I let DH know and he took off to take her in.
Little did MIL know was that part of the policy was that once a person began the checking in process, they had to follow it through. If there was no good reason, stays were as short as 24 hours. If there was a good reason, stays could be much longer.
MIL freaked out. She even tried to escape a few times. (A couple of times, the staff almost mistook DH for a patient.) But she was admitted primarily because she had mentioned that she emptied one of her pill bottles in single day. (In other words, she was a danger to herself.)
The stay was far longer than everyone expected. DH drove up to visit her when he could, and we both went together on the weekends. Sometimes, she seemed to make good progress. Other times, not so much. It took a long time for the doctors to find a medication that was effective. Years of medication seemed to finally catch up to her. Her body and brain was so accustomed to the powerful drugs that it took just the right combination and timing of some heavy-duty drugs to reach a place where she was approaching lucidity. It didn’t help that MIL was also very resistant to the doctors attempts to help her.
It was there at the hospital that MIL was finally convinced that I was pregnant. The baby, who was/is extremely active, was kicking with enough force that not only could MIL feel her, but see her as well.
After being in the mental hospital for about a month (2 weeks longer than normal), MIL was released.
A little better, a little worse …
Despite the experience being pretty traumatic for MIL, DH and even myself, overall the hospital was a good thing. For one, it gave DH and I a clearer idea of what her diagnosis probably is. (Still a little fuzzy though.) For MIL, it got her on a decent track in terms of medicine and opened the door for seeing a new, better psycologist …
That is, if she would go …
In short, MIL blew off the outpatient program. She made excuse after excuse and just didn’t go to any of her appointments. Eventually, the program dropped her.
DH didn’t let it slide though. Eventually he managed to get her to make and keep an appointment with one of the practices who is involved with the hospital. He could no longer attend the appointments with her, but that was necessary for his own mental health anyway.
Meanwhile, I was getting more pregnant everyday.
Normally, I host Thanksgiving. I’m not afraid to say that it’s really for my own convenience and sanity. Not wanting to deprive myself of the joy that I get from spending time with my own family, and unwilling to leave MIL on her own for the big holidays, we combine the families as much as possible. It’s one of my more selfish things, but I can’t say that I regret it.
The previous year, my brother’s fiancee asked if I would mind it if she hosted the next Thanksgiving. I was fine with it so long as DH’s family were also invited. Fortunately (in a very weird way), she had a family just as screwed up (who would not be there), so it would be nothing new, and since this time the crazy wasn’t her problem, it was no problem to have them there.
What luck for me! At 7+ months pregnant cooking a Thanksgiving meal was simply impossible. For me the only real trick was going to be figuring out transportation. MIL can’t drive, and at the time BIL lived too far away for it to be practical for him to help. Adding to the complications were the fact I simply could not spend hours upon hours in a car, as it was I had to get clearance from my doctor to travel to my brother and his fiancee’s house.
Fortunately it worked itself out. BIL had to be in MIL’s area anyway, so he took her down to my brothers, and we brought her back.
It helped a great deal that everyone knew about MIL’s issues. She was surly and made odd digs at people. She tried to create a scene a few times (DH very quickly nipped them in the bud, especially after the tantrum from that summer), and was mildly unpleasant. DH and I pretty much ignored it. My parents treated her just like anyone else and even went out of their way to engage her in the conversation, and my brother and his fiancee acted as if she were perfectly fine.
But the ride home was nasty. She insulted my parents, claiming them to be cold and unkind to her. She made rude comments about my brother and his girlfriend, and then … the dirty laundry came out.
Every issue, every complaint that she had with FIL came out. It was oddly fascinating, disturbing and enlightening all at the same time. On the one hand, I learned a lot about FIL that gave me a good deal of insight to both MIL and DH. But I was also disturbed.
I had no idea if it were the new meds, or a new problem, but MIL’s inner nasty self surfaced.
We all have them. Those parts of ourselves that we chain up in the basement of our soul because letting them out is a very bad thing™. We hear their voices, but we don’t usually repeat the things that they say.
MIL’s nasty self was not only out, but running the show. Beyond Thanksgiving, MIL’s nasty self by Christmas had managed to alienate every kind soul who dared reach out to her. By the time Christmas rolled around, the only people even willing to help out MIL voluntarily were DH, myself and BIL.
Heart to heart
It wasn’t long after Thanksgiving when DH started experiencing some odd dizzy spells. After one particularly bad one I took him to the ER to get checked out.
The symptoms pointed to a problem with his heart, and although the tests revealed nothing alarming, DH was referred to a cardiologist to get thoroughly checked out.
After a stress test and a month of wearing a heart monitor the only real conclusion the doctors came to was that DH’s heart was reacting to stress.
We ended up having a conversation that began after the ER, continued through his heart monitoring, and “diagnosis.” MIL was not only making DH crazy, now she was materially damaging his health. Baby’s do not make for stress-free environments, but are worth the effort. MIL, on the other hand, seemed to be literally sucking the life out of DH. DH had to pull back even more — and this time it was more for his own sake.
Fortunately, DH saw the necessity (I blame hormones for the veracity of my arguments). Between both me and his counselor, he came up with a plan.
Brother In Law …
Now to this point I haven’t mentioned BIL much at all. Primarily because for those previous years he wasn’t quite as involved with MIL as DH and I. In part to some personal issues, in part to physical distance, and in part because he simply either could not or would not face his mother’s issues. DH has been traditionally “The Responsible One” and BIL happily let him have the title. Despite some times BIL would complain that he didn’t have the opportunity to help out as much, he didn’t exactly volunteer much either.
Then one day while DH was still on the heart monitor, we got a call. It was BIL, and he wanted to “talk.”
BIL had recently been dumped by his girlfriend and lost his dream job. Life was not going very well at that point for him, and he had a revelation of sorts. He decided that it was time to put “family” first and he decided to move back up to MIL’s area. Since DH was going to soon be a dad and no longer worked near MIL’s neighborhood, BIL actually volunteered to take over the many duties that DH had been doing since FIL had died.
DH was careful to advise BIL to never move in with MIL. Even when she was sane she drove BIL crazy, and at that point it would be magnified x1000. BIL assured DH that he would be careful, and that he had everything under control.
To BIL’s credit, he really has stepped up. He’s doing the doctor’s visits, many of the pharmacy runs and even takes her out to dinner every now and again. The biggest deal for me was that he made sure he was there to take MIL to the hospital after the baby was born so that DH did not have that added pressure.
Is she here yet?
Christmas was thankfully uneventful, due in large part to the fact that I simply could not travel the distances I would normally travel for the holidays, and by extension, neither could DH. With the baby due on New Year’s day, Christmas had to be pretty low key.
The baby, missed the memo and was two weeks late.
MIL, called nearly everyone of those days leading up to the baby’s arrival and the two weeks beyond the actual due date. If only nagging made babies punctual!
Still, after some pretty scary complications, the baby finally came.
Granted, by the time I had the baby the Pope could’ve walked into the room and I would have been unfazed. Between sheer relief that everyone was okay, and sheer exhaustion, my MIL pretty much could have said or done anything and I wouldn’t have really noticed.
It was actually one of her “better” days. A full 2/3 of the time, she was focused on the baby (better than I was expecting, especially when you consider that she wasn’t convinced of the baby’s existence until about the 7th month). BIL, was actually disheartend by the fact that 1/3 of the time MIL was focused on herself.
DH warned MIL that I couldn’t travel far for at least a month (there was some truth to it, I had had a C-section), so it would be a while until we saw her. Sadly, he could have written it in Sharpie® on the back of her hand and forehead and it still wouldn’t have made any difference. We still got copious phone calls, and me, being relatively normal, would answer the phone.
Let me tell you folks, granted as exciting as it is to have a new baby, there isn’t a whole lot material in daily newborn updates. “Yea, she’s eating, sleeping and pooping … yup, she’s good …” That was about it. Additionally, I was recovering from a tough delivery, so I was exhausted and hormonal on top of it.
Life just keeps going on …
There comes a point in every backstory — even the incredibly long ones — that if you keep trying to write the backstory, you never really catch up to the now. So I’ll just wrap up the last couple of months:
- I too was a victim of this economy and was laid off in March about a week after I got back from maternity leave. DH did swimmingly well OCD wise, and MIL didn’t seem to care much. She’s been consumed with BIL’s employment and financial status (which has improved).
- DH, despite everything, has weaned himself (with his doctor’s approval and monitoring) off of Effexor. He’s doing great managing his OCD with changes in lifestyle and actively taking a stand and working against his anxiety. He still is seeing his counselor, although he hopes to not have to see her quite as frequently.
- MIL now want to move out of her house, and now makes finding a place for her to live as part of her nagging regimen. Her eyesight is worse, but by how much, no one really knows.
- I found and started a new job, which I love. My new challenge is balancing work, motherhood and DIL-hood to a crazy MIL. The upshot is that MIL doesn’t know my new work number.
- BIL has been true to his word and has been doing a lot to help out MIL, if not the lion’s share for most of this year. DH is available to him for support, but for his own health took some huge steps back. But, understandibly, BIL’s feet are getting itchy again (I can’t blame the guy for wanting to live his own life) and is as anxious to get MIL to a new place closer to us, as she is.
- MIL is enjoying being a grandmother as much as her illness allows. In fact “LittleZ” is actually a good distraction. But LittleZ is not a sedate, doll-baby that MIL always envisioned having. She’s a squirmy, super-active kid who, at the time I’m writing this is discovering her will. This does not bode well for MIL.
- MIL also feels a sense of competition with my mom. Granted, mom is a healthy, active, sane, woman who can and does help me and DH out a lot. MIL wants the “Grandmother of the Year” title and is jealous of mom. Me, I’m not going to punish my mom by denying her access to LittleZ just because MIL should not, for LittleZ’s sake, have the same access whether it would even be possible or not. To my mom’s credit, who pities MIL and wishes her well, does not advertise her activities with LittleZ to MIL. When they’re together, mom keeps the conversation strictly to how wonderful LittleZ is and does not mention the time that she has already spent with her to MIL.
- LittleZ, despite being a baby is actually one of the least stressful aspects to our life at the moment. I’m sure that eventually will change, but considering what DH and I have already been through, it’s going to take some real effort on LittleZ’s part to push our “Stress-O-Meters™” to the limit.
So, that’s the backstory. If you made it through … way to go! It only took me a couple of months to write it, so kudos to anyone who actually managed to read it.
Oh, and if you want movie/book rights … send me an email. 
read the backstory after my post on e-hell – your MIL sounds terrifyingly like my sister. The childish behaviour, the obssessive dieting, the Skunk(s) and over-protective husband, the tantrums, and everything else…
There’s no real way of dealing with this is there?
Well, the first thing you have to accept is that you can’t fix her. She may not even be able to fix herself. BUT if, and only if, she owns her problems she can improve the quality of her life. It takes humility and hard work, but it can be done.
What you can do is support her by encouraging and rewarding good behavior and discouraging and disciplining the bad.
Note that I said disciplining. Discipline is very different than punishment. Punishment does not give a person a reason to alter their behavior, it just makes them feel lousy. Discipline leads to a better way to behave.
Boundaries are a good way to accomplish both the reward and the discipline. A boundary is a predefined behavior and your reaction to it. To use an example from your post, your sister’s tendency to disrespect others by trash-talking them. So your boundary can be: When sister trash-talks another person, you end the visit immediately. When she doesn’t trash talk, the visit is the reward.
So that’s the boundary, but now you need to present it to her. Boundary’s are not invisible lines. They are clearly defined for everyone. The formula is: Behavior->How it makes you feel -> what you are going to do about it. The Boundary accomplishes: 1. An open line of communication between two people; 2. The opportunity for success; 3. A clear consequence for unsuccess.
There are two things that you will need to remember. For one, boundaries go both ways, your sister may bring up something that bugs her about you. If it’s reasonable it will strengthen your relationship if you help her to formulate a reasonable boundary for you, and then you model boundary-keeping for her. Another is that a boundary without a consequence is useless. You must follow up with the consequences even when it breaks your heart.
There is a series of books written by a Dr. Cloud on the topic. They are written from a Christian point of view, (if you’re not into that), and they give really good practical advice that really can help in a situation that we’re in. Especially where there’s a risk of becoming an enabler.
It’s not easy, and feel free to contact me when you need to vent. It is a tough balance between treating a person with respect and preventing that person from stomping all over you, especially when that person is missing some key filters. Stay strong, and continue to love her the hard way.