As Elizabeth's mental illness became more obvious and more acute, there was less time and energy to devote to homemaking. Still, friends helped me paint and lay new flooring. One summer, I sent the girls to my parents, and an amazing number of friends participated in doing a room makeover for them. Someone sewed pillows, someone else made a valance, people painted walls and ceilings, and several helped with new flooring. There was new art and new bunkbeds, with new comforters and sheets. When I'd put Claire to bed at night, she'd look around and ask me to remind her who did what. It was community at its best, and their room was a happy and safe place, at least for a bit.
But a home doesn't remain happy and safe when a family member has mental illness, especially one that causes such violence. It's one of the most isolating things about mental illness. The toll it takes on family members is mirrored by the toll it takes on the house, and I stopped inviting people over out of embarrassment and shame. Elizabeth threw furniture and ripped doors out of their frames. Anything could become a weapon and often was. During her rages she pulled books off the shelves, emptied boxes of papers, threw plants, and pushed over bookshelves. I gave up having houseplants, always a source of enjoyment for me. When the water heater started leaking, I had neither time nor money to deal with it and so I ignored it. A rug covered the buckling and peeling laminate. The broken house seemed to be a fitting metaphor for our broken family.
It's been a good year. Elizabeth has spent the last sixteen months stable and productive. It's been a long time since we've had an entire year with no hospitalizations and no police calls. She lives in an alternative family living home, with a kind couple and two other developmentally disabled children, but she comes home almost every weekend. Elizabeth does well in school, so well that school staff look puzzled when I talk about her past difficulties. She turned 18 this year and I've applied for guardianship so I can manage her finances, talk to her doctors, and help keep this vulnerable young woman safe. We go before the clerk of court next week.
Claire is doing well. She is getting married in March and her fiancé meets with my unqualified approval. She continues to teach at JRA. I enjoy the many facets that our relationship holds, and I love that she lives just down the street.
This has been a good year for me too, one in which I've been able to address and correct many of my own health issues. I've resumed walking and light weight-lifting. I've improved my diet and cut out the sugar. I feel the best I've felt in years.
I'm not sure it's a politically correct thing to say, but I like the empty nest. As much as I love my girls, I love that they have their own lives that make them happy. I love that my house is once again my own. This year I decided to make my house a more accurate metaphor for my calmer life. I started by hiring a handyman to rip out and replace the damaged flooring in the hall. He and his sons began working as I read in the kitchen. I couldn't understand the words, but I began to sense that there was a problem. Finally the one who spoke the best English came apologetically to explain. The problem wasn't just with the flooring. It was with the supporting beams. In the words of a friend, it was house cancer.
He covered it up with plywood and left, refusing to charge me for anything but the wood. I talked to the contractor who does our work at school and he fit me into his schedule, replacing the rotted beams. He charged me far less than the market rate, but it still was expensive and there was nothing left for the flooring. But I no longer worry about falling through the hall floor, and he repaired the guest bathroom plumbing while he was there.
2017's big project will be a new heat pump. The floor will need to wait a bit longer. In the meantime I'm working on smaller projects. The school contractor has made me a great offer to tile the guest bathroom floor. I have items to repair: a lamp, a drawer, the washer, some furniture. I'm going to paint all the rooms. And I've attacked the clutter with a vengeance. So far this week alone I've taken three loads to the thrift store and gone through a whole box of trash bags. There is NOTHING under my bed, except a cat exploring this unfamiliar territory. And I'm slowly bringing the houseplants back.
It's a source of joy, this reclaiming of my life and my house, all the better because it's so unexpected. I thought my life would always reflect the chaos of mental illness, and the peace of healthy children and a calm home is such a gift. I don't mind that the house reclaiming is a slow process; I enjoy the puttering and planning. I hope 2017 will be the year I allow people to visit my home, at least the ones who don't mind a plywood floor. It feels safe and happy here once again.
