When I was little my mother used to play this game with me before bed. Most nights we were left to our own devices, my siblings and I–brush our teeth, put on our pajamas, read one book, turn out the light–but on the occasion that she was available for bedtime I would beg her to play our name game.

I really have no recollection of how frequent or infrequent these evenings were. They all sort of blend together into one singular experience. Me, lying face up under the covers, my mother hovering over me, sitting close enough that I can feel the warmth of her body against mine. It’s dark and I’m cuddling my favorite brown stuffed bear, or was it red?

“Good night, George,” she would say. I would stifle my laughter and shout, “I’m not George!” She would look confused, furrow her brow, lick her lips and look toward the ceiling. “Oh, you’re not? My mistake. Good night Marianne,” she would say. And, once again I would howl with laughter. This would go on for four or five names before she would finally settle on mine. “You are my daughter and I love you, whatever your name is.”

There were only a few moments when I truly felt my mother didn’t know me. They were during these seemingly random episodes of intense anger and fear–when, out of nowhere, she would look around and think that everyone was trying to harm her. She didn’t recognize anyone or anything, she didn’t know where she was or who she was. They wouldn’t last more than half an hour but they were traumatic and frightening events where I often had to elicit help from strangers because she would get so out of control. That marked the end of our outings to parks, restaurants, the movies–it was too risky to be alone with her in the car, impossible for me to restrain and carry her myself if and when she lost her faculties.

During these episodes I would try to soothe her–I would breathe deeply and make eye contact. I would hold her hands and hum and reassure her. I would remind her who I was and that she was safe with me. But her eyes were wild and her nails would dig into the undersides of my wrists, she would kick at me and curse, spit in my face and call me vulgar and nasty names. Words I had never heard come out of her mouth. Then slowly, slowly, she would come back to me. Her features would soften, her grip would release. She would smile and hug me and make jokes, hiding behind her large sun hat and marching around like a clown–as if nothing had happened–she would just come back into herself and any memory of the episode was gone. As if it never happened.

I would often think about our bedtime rituals after these episodes. Was it a game? Was she pretending at not knowing me just as she had done all those years ago? Was there some small part of her, screaming to tell me something, even as another part of her brain took over? Were the words she spoke and the words she thought the same? Did the actions she wanted to take get lost somewhere between her brain and her limbs–get reversed and scrambled and turned violent? Was there thought, was there understanding–or just instinct? Did she think I was someone specific or just someone who wanted to hurt her? If we weren’t in her favorite public garden, where were we? If I wasn’t me, who was I? But, these were never questions she could answer. The episode would pass and she would be docile again. Non-verbal and goofy, smiley and loving. As though her actions could express her every desire and emotion. Except when they couldn’t.