| Essay Non-Fiction posted December 24, 2014 |
  |
Biographical Non-Fiction
Drinkin' Lessons
by michaelcahill
Old Earl: "Why don't you just put this bitch back in Camarillo where she belongs?"
Grandma Bobo: "You lousy Son of a Bitch! How dare you say that in front of Michael. You bastard. Get the hell out of this house."
Mom: "Oh my God! Oh, Michael. It's not true! You son of a bitch! You son of a bitchin' bastard."
Old Earl: "Yeah. Look at her! She could use a few thousand volts. Crazy…."
At this point, my mother jumped on top of the man accusing her and began a pathetic attempt to beat him up. Her mother sat there in a somewhat stunned silence. I rolled my eyes and sighed.
Old Earl, as everyone called him, continued to speak of putting her in Camarillo while he laughed at her piteous assault.
Bobo, seeing she had incited my mother, began to try to diffuse the situation. "Okay now, that's enough. Michael doesn't care what this drunken old reprobate says, do you, Michael?"
"No." I answered correctly. I knew the correct answer after eleven years of this.
My mother ceased her attack and began crying. "I never wanted my son to know his mother was in an insane asylum. He'll never love me now." She turned her attention back to Old Earl. "You son of a bitchin' bastard son of a bitch! You took my son from me!"
This was my cue. "I don't care what he says. I still love you. None of that matters."
Bobo: "See? It doesn't matter what this drunken, old bastard says. He loves his mother."
My mother came over and hugged me too tightly and way too desperately. "You don't care what he says, do you, Michael? You still love me, don't you?"
Sigh, "Yes, I still love you. It doesn't matter what he says."
This was a regular childhood occurrence for me. For some reason my family had the impression I didn't know my mother was severely mentally ill. They thought Old Earl's ill-advised declaration that mom had spent time at the Camarillo State Mental Hospital came as a great surprise to me.
A woman with a bright red wig, pancake make-up applied like a mask and bright red lipstick clearly beyond the outline of the lips, indicated an individual operating outside of the normal parameters of sanity, I would think. Those were the parameters my mom operated under.
I used to enjoy watching professional wrestling when I was a young lad. We watched as a family. Back then, a family had one T.V. and few choices in programming. Every Tuesday night at eight o'clock, I'd grab the pliers and turn to channel five, KTLA, the local Los Angeles station to watch Wrestling Live From the Olympic Auditorium.
I knew it was fake. Old Earl and my mom thought it to be real. Old Earl would sit there wrought with emotion hurling punches into the air. My mom would cackle and scream bloody murder as the villain would cheat his way to victory over the hero. It was entertaining as hell! The matches themselves were amusing and fun, but their reactions were priceless. I'll never forget it. I almost envy them their naiveté, almost.
This to illustrate that it took no great intellectual leap on my part to deduce my mom functioned outside the confines of sanity. Back then, the treatment of choice for schizophrenia consisted of electrical current administered to and through the brain. The theory was to scramble the brain and reset it, hopefully, to a more functional state. The funny thing is it worked. She'd reach a point where hospitalization became necessary and after two or three weeks of juice, she'd be returned in a somewhat normal state. Sometimes her stays were longer. The longest I recall was nine months. Of course, the family would have a lame cover story, but I knew the truth.
I realize it seems like two diametrically opposed topics, pro wrestling and receiving electric shock treatment. However, it goes to show the world I grew up in. I found it all amusing. Pro wrestling is highly amusing to me, and not just the silly fun of it all. It's the fan reactions that truly tickle me to no end and do to this day. My mom could be equally amusing when she went crazy as it were. I know it sounds a bit crass, but we often had a carload of folks laughing hysterically on the way to the nut house.
My mom would become completely delusional about where we were going and start cackling insanely, "Whoo hoo, were takin' her to the nut house!" You'd have to be there in the car hearing it to appreciate how hilarious it sounded. It suppose it was the deadly seriousness of the task at hand opposed to the totally inappropriate demeanor in which we carried ourselves that cracked me up.
The funniest part of the conversation (or confrontation) I started this piece with had to be when Old Earl became frustrated with the nagging and blurted out, "Leave me alone now, it's time to take Michael to his drinking lesson."
I just howled with laughter. It wasn't just the remark either, getting "drinking" mixed up with "piano". It was the fact no one else noticed he said it. Of course, my laughter didn't go over well.
My mom turned to me and said, "Oh, I guess you think this is pretty funny then. Your mother is insane and belongs in the nut house. Maybe we should just take her there right now!" She often spoke of herself in the third person, also highly amusing.
I have this unfortunate part of me that is unable to resist a joke. In my defense, I will as quickly make it at my expense, as I will at anyone else's.
I said, "Maybe? Why the uncertainty?" Pretty clever for an eleven-year old, yes?
She didn't hear me or refused to acknowledge she did. She turned back to Old Earl and the continued nagging of him for his endless drinking.
The fact she had been hospitalized for her mental illness was well known to me. Up until that point, my family had tried to cover it up with a series of poorly constructed lies. I went along with the deception, as it seemed important to them to hide the facts and keep them secret. Now, the secret was out. They actually believed I didn't know.
The result was she found out her son didn't care a whit about her medical history. I found out I was now officially in charge of her care. I had been caring for her anyway for years, but now it would be known she was mentally ill and needed help.
What is the end result? Well, it seems I have a somewhat warped sense of humor. I'm told I have very mild reactions to events that most people become very excited about. It seems I'm good in a crisis. My wife actually gets mad at me because nothing seems to bother me. I find that quite amusing. She does not.
Is my childhood a factor in how I turned out? I suppose so. Is it an excuse? Never. I remain a big fan of crazy mixed with lots of love.
Old Earl: "Why don't you just put this bitch back in Camarillo where she belongs?"
Grandma Bobo: "You lousy Son of a Bitch! How dare you say that in front of Michael. You bastard. Get the hell out of this house."
Mom: "Oh my God! Oh, Michael. It's not true! You son of a bitch! You son of a bitchin' bastard."
Old Earl: "Yeah. Look at her! She could use a few thousand volts. Crazy…."
At this point, my mother jumped on top of the man accusing her and began a pathetic attempt to beat him up. Her mother sat there in a somewhat stunned silence. I rolled my eyes and sighed.
Old Earl, as everyone called him, continued to speak of putting her in Camarillo while he laughed at her piteous assault.
Bobo, seeing she had incited my mother, began to try to diffuse the situation. "Okay now, that's enough. Michael doesn't care what this drunken old reprobate says, do you, Michael?"
"No." I answered correctly. I knew the correct answer after eleven years of this.
My mother ceased her attack and began crying. "I never wanted my son to know his mother was in an insane asylum. He'll never love me now." She turned her attention back to Old Earl. "You son of a bitchin' bastard son of a bitch! You took my son from me!"
This was my cue. "I don't care what he says. I still love you. None of that matters."
Bobo: "See? It doesn't matter what this drunken, old bastard says. He loves his mother."
My mother came over and hugged me too tightly and way too desperately. "You don't care what he says, do you, Michael? You still love me, don't you?"
Sigh, "Yes, I still love you. It doesn't matter what he says."
This was a regular childhood occurrence for me. For some reason my family had the impression I didn't know my mother was severely mentally ill. They thought Old Earl's ill-advised declaration that mom had spent time at the Camarillo State Mental Hospital came as a great surprise to me.
A woman with a bright red wig, pancake make-up applied like a mask and bright red lipstick clearly beyond the outline of the lips, indicated an individual operating outside of the normal parameters of sanity, I would think. Those were the parameters my mom operated under.
I used to enjoy watching professional wrestling when I was a young lad. We watched as a family. Back then, a family had one T.V. and few choices in programming. Every Tuesday night at eight o'clock, I'd grab the pliers and turn to channel five, KTLA, the local Los Angeles station to watch Wrestling Live From the Olympic Auditorium.
I knew it was fake. Old Earl and my mom thought it to be real. Old Earl would sit there wrought with emotion hurling punches into the air. My mom would cackle and scream bloody murder as the villain would cheat his way to victory over the hero. It was entertaining as hell! The matches themselves were amusing and fun, but their reactions were priceless. I'll never forget it. I almost envy them their naiveté, almost.
This to illustrate that it took no great intellectual leap on my part to deduce my mom functioned outside the confines of sanity. Back then, the treatment of choice for schizophrenia consisted of electrical current administered to and through the brain. The theory was to scramble the brain and reset it, hopefully, to a more functional state. The funny thing is it worked. She'd reach a point where hospitalization became necessary and after two or three weeks of juice, she'd be returned in a somewhat normal state. Sometimes her stays were longer. The longest I recall was nine months. Of course, the family would have a lame cover story, but I knew the truth.
I realize it seems like two diametrically opposed topics, pro wrestling and receiving electric shock treatment. However, it goes to show the world I grew up in. I found it all amusing. Pro wrestling is highly amusing to me, and not just the silly fun of it all. It's the fan reactions that truly tickle me to no end and do to this day. My mom could be equally amusing when she went crazy as it were. I know it sounds a bit crass, but we often had a carload of folks laughing hysterically on the way to the nut house.
My mom would become completely delusional about where we were going and start cackling insanely, "Whoo hoo, were takin' her to the nut house!" You'd have to be there in the car hearing it to appreciate how hilarious it sounded. It suppose it was the deadly seriousness of the task at hand opposed to the totally inappropriate demeanor in which we carried ourselves that cracked me up.
The funniest part of the conversation (or confrontation) I started this piece with had to be when Old Earl became frustrated with the nagging and blurted out, "Leave me alone now, it's time to take Michael to his drinking lesson."
I just howled with laughter. It wasn't just the remark either, getting "drinking" mixed up with "piano". It was the fact no one else noticed he said it. Of course, my laughter didn't go over well.
My mom turned to me and said, "Oh, I guess you think this is pretty funny then. Your mother is insane and belongs in the nut house. Maybe we should just take her there right now!" She often spoke of herself in the third person, also highly amusing.
I have this unfortunate part of me that is unable to resist a joke. In my defense, I will as quickly make it at my expense, as I will at anyone else's.
I said, "Maybe? Why the uncertainty?" Pretty clever for an eleven-year old, yes?
She didn't hear me or refused to acknowledge she did. She turned back to Old Earl and the continued nagging of him for his endless drinking.
The fact she had been hospitalized for her mental illness was well known to me. Up until that point, my family had tried to cover it up with a series of poorly constructed lies. I went along with the deception, as it seemed important to them to hide the facts and keep them secret. Now, the secret was out. They actually believed I didn't know.
The result was she found out her son didn't care a whit about her medical history. I found out I was now officially in charge of her care. I had been caring for her anyway for years, but now it would be known she was mentally ill and needed help.
What is the end result? Well, it seems I have a somewhat warped sense of humor. I'm told I have very mild reactions to events that most people become very excited about. It seems I'm good in a crisis. My wife actually gets mad at me because nothing seems to bother me. I find that quite amusing. She does not.
Is my childhood a factor in how I turned out? I suppose so. Is it an excuse? Never. I remain a big fan of crazy mixed with lots of love.
Grandma Bobo: "You lousy Son of a Bitch! How dare you say that in front of Michael. You bastard. Get the hell out of this house."
Mom: "Oh my God! Oh, Michael. It's not true! You son of a bitch! You son of a bitchin' bastard."
Old Earl: "Yeah. Look at her! She could use a few thousand volts. Crazy…."
At this point, my mother jumped on top of the man accusing her and began a pathetic attempt to beat him up. Her mother sat there in a somewhat stunned silence. I rolled my eyes and sighed.
Old Earl, as everyone called him, continued to speak of putting her in Camarillo while he laughed at her piteous assault.
Bobo, seeing she had incited my mother, began to try to diffuse the situation. "Okay now, that's enough. Michael doesn't care what this drunken old reprobate says, do you, Michael?"
"No." I answered correctly. I knew the correct answer after eleven years of this.
My mother ceased her attack and began crying. "I never wanted my son to know his mother was in an insane asylum. He'll never love me now." She turned her attention back to Old Earl. "You son of a bitchin' bastard son of a bitch! You took my son from me!"
This was my cue. "I don't care what he says. I still love you. None of that matters."
Bobo: "See? It doesn't matter what this drunken, old bastard says. He loves his mother."
My mother came over and hugged me too tightly and way too desperately. "You don't care what he says, do you, Michael? You still love me, don't you?"
Sigh, "Yes, I still love you. It doesn't matter what he says."
This was a regular childhood occurrence for me. For some reason my family had the impression I didn't know my mother was severely mentally ill. They thought Old Earl's ill-advised declaration that mom had spent time at the Camarillo State Mental Hospital came as a great surprise to me.
A woman with a bright red wig, pancake make-up applied like a mask and bright red lipstick clearly beyond the outline of the lips, indicated an individual operating outside of the normal parameters of sanity, I would think. Those were the parameters my mom operated under.
I used to enjoy watching professional wrestling when I was a young lad. We watched as a family. Back then, a family had one T.V. and few choices in programming. Every Tuesday night at eight o'clock, I'd grab the pliers and turn to channel five, KTLA, the local Los Angeles station to watch Wrestling Live From the Olympic Auditorium.
I knew it was fake. Old Earl and my mom thought it to be real. Old Earl would sit there wrought with emotion hurling punches into the air. My mom would cackle and scream bloody murder as the villain would cheat his way to victory over the hero. It was entertaining as hell! The matches themselves were amusing and fun, but their reactions were priceless. I'll never forget it. I almost envy them their naiveté, almost.
This to illustrate that it took no great intellectual leap on my part to deduce my mom functioned outside the confines of sanity. Back then, the treatment of choice for schizophrenia consisted of electrical current administered to and through the brain. The theory was to scramble the brain and reset it, hopefully, to a more functional state. The funny thing is it worked. She'd reach a point where hospitalization became necessary and after two or three weeks of juice, she'd be returned in a somewhat normal state. Sometimes her stays were longer. The longest I recall was nine months. Of course, the family would have a lame cover story, but I knew the truth.
I realize it seems like two diametrically opposed topics, pro wrestling and receiving electric shock treatment. However, it goes to show the world I grew up in. I found it all amusing. Pro wrestling is highly amusing to me, and not just the silly fun of it all. It's the fan reactions that truly tickle me to no end and do to this day. My mom could be equally amusing when she went crazy as it were. I know it sounds a bit crass, but we often had a carload of folks laughing hysterically on the way to the nut house.
My mom would become completely delusional about where we were going and start cackling insanely, "Whoo hoo, were takin' her to the nut house!" You'd have to be there in the car hearing it to appreciate how hilarious it sounded. It suppose it was the deadly seriousness of the task at hand opposed to the totally inappropriate demeanor in which we carried ourselves that cracked me up.
The funniest part of the conversation (or confrontation) I started this piece with had to be when Old Earl became frustrated with the nagging and blurted out, "Leave me alone now, it's time to take Michael to his drinking lesson."
I just howled with laughter. It wasn't just the remark either, getting "drinking" mixed up with "piano". It was the fact no one else noticed he said it. Of course, my laughter didn't go over well.
My mom turned to me and said, "Oh, I guess you think this is pretty funny then. Your mother is insane and belongs in the nut house. Maybe we should just take her there right now!" She often spoke of herself in the third person, also highly amusing.
I have this unfortunate part of me that is unable to resist a joke. In my defense, I will as quickly make it at my expense, as I will at anyone else's.
I said, "Maybe? Why the uncertainty?" Pretty clever for an eleven-year old, yes?
She didn't hear me or refused to acknowledge she did. She turned back to Old Earl and the continued nagging of him for his endless drinking.
The fact she had been hospitalized for her mental illness was well known to me. Up until that point, my family had tried to cover it up with a series of poorly constructed lies. I went along with the deception, as it seemed important to them to hide the facts and keep them secret. Now, the secret was out. They actually believed I didn't know.
The result was she found out her son didn't care a whit about her medical history. I found out I was now officially in charge of her care. I had been caring for her anyway for years, but now it would be known she was mentally ill and needed help.
What is the end result? Well, it seems I have a somewhat warped sense of humor. I'm told I have very mild reactions to events that most people become very excited about. It seems I'm good in a crisis. My wife actually gets mad at me because nothing seems to bother me. I find that quite amusing. She does not.
Is my childhood a factor in how I turned out? I suppose so. Is it an excuse? Never. I remain a big fan of crazy mixed with lots of love.
 Recognized |
We don't bother with political correctness among ourselves. Within our family or even within our household here, where we take care of several people with mental illness. We call home, "The Crazy House", and we call ourselves, "The Crazy People Who Live Here". It suits us. We aren't crass when referring to others in similar situations. But, P.C. isn't for us. :) I don't advocate being insensitive to those it may offend.
Michael: Me
Mom: My schizophrenic mother. When I was growing up, there was very little meds available. Shock therapy was the accepted treatment.
Grandma Bobo: I couldn't say "Pauline" when I was a baby, so "Bobo" became her name. It stuck for the rest of her life.
Old Earl: This was grandma's boyfriend of sorts. An "uncle" not related by blood. He was an alcoholic.
Pays
one point
and 2 member cents. Michael: Me
Mom: My schizophrenic mother. When I was growing up, there was very little meds available. Shock therapy was the accepted treatment.
Grandma Bobo: I couldn't say "Pauline" when I was a baby, so "Bobo" became her name. It stuck for the rest of her life.
Old Earl: This was grandma's boyfriend of sorts. An "uncle" not related by blood. He was an alcoholic.
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