Roger was telling her to hurt me. Mary was writhing on the floor scratching and clawing at her hair and face, as she spoke to him. She then tore apart her bedroom and started screaming at other people who weren’t there. She screamed the neighbor’s name a few times shouting, “Call the police! We need the police!” She alternated between asking for the police because I was hurting her or because Roger was hurting her. In the meantime I attempted to hold her arms down away from me as she attacked me. I was lucky enough to leave the room, before I could get hurt.
Mary launched a fully loaded plastic bin and a trunk out of her bedroom door and down the hallway. Even though it’s been 2 years since she has had a violent outburst directed at me, I remembered to hide behind the bathroom doorframe. As soon as I could, I closed the door to her bedroom and called for help. Yes, the police would be coming after all.
While waiting for the ambulance I could hear Mary screeching from the other side of the door. She was relatively safe as I had already removed scissors and sharp or dangerous objects from her room. Obviously I hadn’t thought about the plastic bin or the trunk, but she’d removed them herself when launching them down the hall.
Half of her screams are wordless cries and howls. Some of them are directed at “Roger,” and another unidentified person. Sometimes she broke into an almost gentle, crooning song. Then she yells at me, “I hate spending time with you and I don’t want to be in this family! Roger tells me you make all the bad choices. He hates you! I HATE you!!! I don’t want to live here!” She throws her body against the door as if trying to physically break through it to get to me. In her all of her rage, she has forgotten that her door, like all bedroom doors, opens inward.
There is nothing I can do. She isn’t listening to my words. She is listening to what Roger is telling her about me. I can’t go in and physically restrain her. With my back injury I can’t even sit or stand for longer than 10 minutes. She hasn’t been like this since 2014. I am surprised to say the least.
When my husband comes and the ambulance comes she is still in her room screaming at me for being a “stupid B*tch” who “never gets anything right.” In the ambulance and at the hospital she tells the same story. Roger was being mean. He told her to hurt me. He told her to do these things. Imagine everyone’s surprise to learn that Roger is my deceased father. A man she never even met when he was alive.
She is admitted in-patient again, for safety, at the psychiatric hospital. I am tired. I am frustrated. I am mad. It’s not anger at my daughter. She can’t help the mental illness that is causing these auditory hallucinations. Somehow I am irrationally mad at my father. We always had a strained relationship, at best. Now, somehow, it seems he has managed to find a way to mess with my life from beyond the grave. Thanks a lot, Dad.
**Names have been changed to protect the privacy of those involved.