Opinion: A tribute to my mom, because despite her struggles, she was enough

My mom was a pushy person. It was a trait that served her well, given her precarious life. But as a kid, I often felt embarrassed by it.

One moment that sums up her forceful nature and killer wit happened at Northland Mall in Southfield, now long-gone, where we shopped for years. Like most malls at the time, Northland had a bank of pay phones, where people waited in line to make a call. Lacking the patience of other shoppers, my mom cut straight to the front, and picked up the phone just as someone had hung up. “Hey, I was first,” complained the person next in line. Without skipping a beat, my mom turned, said, “Well, now you're second,” and proceeded to make her call.

My mom, Ellen Theresa Mullen, has been gone nearly 25 years. I can’t say I miss her, exactly, or that I wish she were still here. For much of her life, and mine, she was in and out of Clinton Valley Center, a state hospital in Pontiac that closed in 1997, and other state-run hospitals that served people who suffered from mental illness and other challenges.

Transitioning people from state hospitals to community mental health facilities has been a national trend for decades, and, by and large, a catastrophic failure. Many have landed in homeless shelters, jails and on the streets, including my mom. She cycled through adult foster care homes, some good, some not, was jailed twice, and more than once spent the night on the street when kicked out of a shelter for breaking the no-smoking rule.

It’s not a mystery why so many people who suffer as my mom did live a life of instability. It is the nature of mental illness. But it is also mostly because we fail as a state and nation to fund the care required for this vulnerable population. This is not news. Countless studies, articles, and books have been published about it. I am not writing to add to the heap. I am writing because my mom, and other moms, dads, daughters, brothers, children and millions more who suffer from a mental illness deserve to be seen, and remembered. And on this Mother’s Day — and because it is also Mental Health Awareness Month — I wanted to pay her this tribute.

Although my mom suffered from schizophrenia and paranoia, you wouldn’t recognize it unless you knew her well. She was passionate about politics and social justice, was sharp, honest, funny, generous and fiercely loved her kids more than anything, except for God and the church. She was a hardcore Catholic like her Irish parents and nine siblings, all devout for years, though most have since left the church. Not my mother. She wanted to be a priest. And, due to her illness, thought she would one day be Pope. Of course, that is still not possible for women, which she thought was wrong, but she believed that you don’t abandon what is broken, you fight to fix it.

My mom grew up in Detroit and was kicked out of St. Francis de Sales in the 11th grade, probably because of her undiagnosed illness. She worked as a teller at the National Bank of Detroit downtown, along with Hudson’s and Himelhoch’s, where she said she spent her paychecks on a new dress each week. She loved clothes.

Her illness began to show, in earnest, after my parents were married. I was nine months old the first time she was hospitalized. She came and went again and again. But she was still always there. My brother, sister and I always felt her love and loyalty. When we were very young, we would visit her on Sundays at Clinton Valley Center, with our dad before they divorced. During the week she would call often, sometimes two or three times a day, to check on us: How’s school? Did you brush your teeth? What are you up to?

When she was well enough to leave the hospital and be on her own, my mom visited my siblings and me nearly every day. She’d take us to Jack-in-the-Box after school, played whiffle ball with us and bought us kites in the spring. She loved camping and fishing, the sky and nature, and gave us an appreciation for the changing seasons. I’m sure I’m an avid gardener because of her. I have vague memories of being by her side as she dug in the soil in the backyard of our Berkley home, where she grew pumpkins and watermelon.

Maybe from living in so many places, including the street, she also could be very tough. Not with her kids, but anyone she thought was a threat to us, even when there was no threat at all. I had to go to the Ferndale police station once to show that I had not been kidnapped by my diminutive roommate, Maria, after my mom had called 911, telling them that had happened.

Her protective nature stretched to all vulnerable souls, especially fellow patients, whom she would take under her wing. David was one of them. He was quiet, smoked and wouldn’t make eye contact. When David wandered off on the hospital grounds, I asked about him. My mom said, “Oh, honey, he doesn’t belong here. He’s not mentally ill. He’s just depressed. He just needs someone to talk to.” I knew what she meant. He did seem sad. Whether her diagnosis was accurate, I had no way of knowing. She denied being ill herself, a symptom of schizophrenia.

There was also Lori, who was mute and only smiled. My mom affectionately called her, “That Little Lori.” That Little Lori liked to be near my mom. She wasn’t supposed to be in my mom’s room at the adult foster care home where they lived, but Lori wouldn’t stay away. I could see that my mom felt protective of her, sharing her pop and chips, a small comfort to a young woman living in a place with little supervision and nothing to do all day.

Despite her limits, my mom gave a lot, especially to her kids. She gave us the ability to dream, to see beauty, to be kind, and the determination to heal from the damage that comes with having a mom who can’t fully be there.

The theme this year for the National Alliance on Mental Illness' Mental Health Awareness Month is "More Than Enough," because being who you are is more than enough. I want you to know, mom, you gave me what I needed to raise my son and daughter, who are flourishing, because you were more than enough.

Happy Mother’s Day.

Ann Mullen was a Detroit journalist for 20 years, and still tell stories, something she also got from her mom.

This article originally appeared on Detroit Free Press: Opinion: My mom was schizophrenic. Remembering her on Mother's Day