My mom gave birth to me when she was 20.
I don’t have a lot of memories of her back then, I… didn’t care much about her. My father meant the world to me and that was enough. It must’ve hurt her. I must’ve been pretty obvious. Kids tend to be obvious.
I remember she was beautiful. She was desired and loved. She had her high school sweetheart following her all over the world, where she’d break his heart every time.
She was pampered at home, dad took care of her.
She wasn’t happy. Schizophrenia hit when she was 28 and 15 years later she died.
What the fuck is gonna happen to me when I’m fucking 28?
I can already see a great deal of her in me.
This Christmas, I’m sending away my family, to let me Grinch in peace. She’d do this to us all the time.
She’d rarely go out. She’d Grinch in peace.
When she did go out, she’d be crazy and… crazy. In a fun, childish sort of way, but still – cuckoo. It was embarrassing. I’d scold her. Maybe I shouldn’t have.
I’m usually crazy. I’m not sure if I’m ever crazy embarrassing, I might be, but then look at A., one of my girlfriends, she carries a bottle of cognac in her purse. And R.- she was very crazy embarrassing.. until one year ago.
What stops us? What will stop me? Will it be a step further towards mental death? Will I give birth to 2, 3 imaginary friends and party on and on in my head, exiling myself from society?
Maybe it’s my dreams that keep me on track and the fact that, hey, they’re not far to reach. I gotta stand up to that Florence Nightingale nickname, don’t I?
It might be a lonely road.