I remember standing with my two older brothers three-deep across the hot-air register under the window, and looking out at the new snow on the woods behind the house. My dad walked in with a big smile and said, "Mama had a baby boy last night! We decided to name him Scott! She will be home in a few days." We were as excited as a two, five, and seven-year-old could get. But she did not come home, and my brothers were shuffled off to different places while grandma came to stay with me.
My mother suffered from Postpartum depression and was institutionalized for a few weeks. I later learned it was so severe that they gave her shock treatments several times. Before she went to have the baby, she was a happy, bubbling, joyous soul who loved everyone. I can remember her patience and her warmth. While she was gone, I knew something was very wrong from grandma's demeanor, and from my dad's demeanor when he thought I wasn't paying attention.
She came home and had gotten a haircut. She was surly and refused to look me in the eye. I tried to get her attention several times and was intercepted by my dad who distracted me. We got in the car, and as my dad drove away I leaned over the bench seat to speak to my mother, who bared her teeth and screamed at me. I remember thinking that this was not my mother, and that someone had replaced her with this fraud. I was furious with my dad for allowing this to happen.
She never was the same bubbling friendly person to me again, although she was able to do so with others. Apparently, she blamed me for her depression. I remember my brothers going to school for the first time after this and running after them, needing to be restrained three times. I did not want to be left alone with her. But I was. Learning to love someone who is always on your back must be what shock therapy is like. I didn't like it, but it has been a blessing and a curse ever since.
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