Hillbilly Gothic : A Memoir of Madness and Motherhood

by Adrienne Martini

• ISBN13: 9780743272735
• ISBN10: 0743272730
• Edition: 1st
• Format: Hardcover
• Copyright: 2006-06-01
• Publisher: Free Press

Summary

"My family has a grand tradition. After a woman gives birth, she goes mad. I thought that I would be the one to escape."

So begins Adrienne Martini's candid, compelling, and darkly humorous history of her family's and her own experiences w

Excerpts

Introduction My family has a grand tradition. After a woman gives birth, she goes mad. I thought that I would be the one to escape. Given my spectacular failure, my hope is now that my daughter will be the one. On the day that I admit defeat, I have been crying for days and I am on my way to the emergency room of my local hospital. But of course since I'm running on empty psychologically, my car would be, too. So I pull into a gas station in the middle of the mother of all summer storms. No one at the gas station will look at me, which is odd considering that most people will at least give you a smile at any time of day in Knoxville, Tennessee. The July air is heavy and wet. Oily splotches and knots of old gum dot the rain-slicked asphalt. My blue tie-dyed T-shirt is soaked and clinging to my quasideflated postpartum belly, showing all of the other drivers that I am wearing maternity shorts, the kind with the stretchy nylon panel in the front -- all that I could fit into two weeks after my daughter's birth. I could have braided the hair on my legs and the hair on my head looked like a nest of live eels writhing in the rain. My sneakers squoosh as I fumble out my debit card and swipe it in the pump. Miraculously, my hands remain steady for the first time in a few days, but I sniff and snort constantly as tears pour typhoonlike out of my eyes. Three other drivers gas up and studiously ignore me, including one right next to me. While Knoxville is known for its general friendliness, I've also discovered that it loves a good spectacle. If a stranger appears to be on the verge of a colorful collapse, gawkers flock for front-row seats. I'd assumed that no one could tell that I'd been crying, what with the rain. I'm lying to myself. My eyes are red-rimmed after forty-eight hours of not sleeping. I'm cursed with a near-constant sorrow so deep that it would make a great bluegrass song. Ralph Stanley and I could make millions, provided I can get through the next twenty-four hours without killing myself. I'd also assumed that no one would care at this particular station, simply because it is in one of Knoxville's few dicey areas. The projects, such as they are in this small southern city wrapped in Appalachia's arms, are just across the street. The rescue ministry is a few blocks away and, from here, I could toss my car keys into Knoxville's largest nightlife hub, where bars and dance clubs spill out their 2 a.m. drunks, then said drunks wander up to this gas station to stock up on cigarettes and six-packs. The clerks here must have strong nerves or they are researching sociology dissertations. Still, in the harsh light of day, I am enough of a sight that I unnerve even those who spend their nights dealing with drug-induced shootings and drive-by vomitings. Normally, I'd be proud of this. I always revel in the chance to break out of my cardigan-sweatered shell in a town full of supersized Baptist churches and Junior Leaguers. Now, I look like a freak who scares all of the other freaks. My father would be so proud. Once gassed up, I'll drive myself to the emergency room, where I'll check myself in to Tower 4, a local psych ward. I could have seen it from my gas pump if it weren't so overcast. I'll stay there for the better part of a week, bonding with my fellow loonies while someone else takes care of my brand-new baby because I am a failure. New moms are supposed to be joy made flesh, yet motherhood and I met like a brick meets water. I'm drowning here, not waving. This wasn't supposed to happen and, yet, it was inevitable, given my past. During my colorful confinement, in a conversation with a ward social worker, I described the hillbilly Gothic patchwork of suicides, manic depression, and bipolar disorders that is my mother's family and the notable suicide attempt on my father's side. She commented that it was a wonder I hadn't been there before. Now, I can