Moving... Ugh...

I am currently in the process of moving. I LOATHE moving. I am 25 and this will be the 35th time I've moved in my life. Getting boxes, getting newspaper for wrapping, wrapping breakables, Packing, Cleaning everything, Transporting, loading and unloading boxes... the list of things to be done goes on for a mile!

However, the number one thing I hate about moving is the memories it brings back. The majority of the time, moving was a product of an eviction brought on by Susan.

My mom had a fascination with screaming at the neighbors and putting her delusions on public display. Out in the middle of the street, she would stand on her soap box proclaiming her obscenities and wily beliefs. Meanwhile, some neighbors looked on in confusion and concern, while others found humor in the scenario laughed at the idea of "The Crazy Lady".

Countless times I found myself out in the middle of the street with her, begging her to be quiet, pulling her off of the neighbors' lawns and pulling her out of the way of traffic. I would apologize profusely to the neighbors, explaining to them that she was Schizo and didn't know what she was talking about.

Obviously, this caused some problems, especially because we always lived in rentals. Many neighbors, knowing the landlord or Apartment Manager, were quick to make phone calls, spreading the latest word of "The Crazy Lady".

Eviction was inevitable no matter where we went, and because of that, we never really got comfortable or felt at home anywhere we lived. Freaking out at the neighbors who were "Talking about her and laughing at her" was inevitable as well. We could have lived on an island in the middle of the ocean, and the "neighbors" would still have "talked about her".

Most times, when the Notice of Eviction would finally surface, she would simply turn up her nose and say, "That's alright. I don't want to live here anyway" or "They can't kick me out! Why are they persecuting me?!"

Looking back I remember moving as being absolute chaos. Susan, thinking that the Landlord didn't have the right to kick us out, would never pack ahead of time. Me, my brother and sister always found ourselves in a panic, literally throwing things into boxes, and scrambling to get things together the day before we were to be out. Yet Susan would still sit there, convinced that she had the right to stay, regardless of what the Landlord, or the Police, had to say about it.

Then there was the problem of finding another place to live. Not keeping our history of evictions in mind, there was the issue of finding a place that was acceptable to Susan. Susan was EXTREMELY particular about where she would live, and our search for a new place was always narrow, time-sensitive, and stress-packed.

Anywhere we moved she would have a laundry list of "problems" with it. She didn't like the neighborhood, or the carpeting, or the walls, or the windows, the street it was on, the spying neighbors, the finish on the water faucets, that funny-shaped piece of gravel in the backyard, etc... There was always something. Anything short of a giant house up high on some hill was just beneath her and what she had the "right" to live in.

I could go on for an hour about my experiences with moving. But Looking back at all this, I can't help but wonder why no one intervened. Landlords, neighbors... they all knew what was going on but they never wanted to do anything about it, they just wanted us to go away.

I think that is the world's view on Schizophrenia in general. No one really wants to do anything about it, they just want it to go away. They don't care how it is handled, as long as they don't have to handle it. As long as it is not in their neighborhood, they are satisfied...