After my parents got divorced, my mother became increasingly mentally unstable.
I don’t remember much about the divorce, or our lives immediately after, and there are several stories to tell about this so I will do my best to stick to just one, but I can clearly recall watching her sort of drift off into a person I longer cared for, or even loved.
My mother initially had custody but my dad contested and won, at which point my sister and I moved in with my dad and my grandmother. This move happened in the winter before I turned six, I think. And I can remember, even from that early age, my mother telling me horrible things.
She would always drag me into whatever extreme emotion she was experiencing, as if my commiseration with her had to be part of her total experience. She would tell me how sad and depressed she was. She would tell me how lonely she was. She would tell me how unfair it was. She would tell me how my father stole things from her, how he lied to her, and hurt her.