She mailed me her
journal after my stay at the psych ward. Maybe it was to help me understand.
Maybe it was to remind me that she was still alive despite the absence of me.
Maybe it was to hurt me. I don’t know why she sent it, but as I read the
entries, my heart ached for her. My mother was not a monster, but she was
mentally ill. My mother did the best she could and the best she could was all
she had to give.
July 2, 1974
The thing is, I’m happiest when I’m not me. When I escape and hide
behind whatever I can. I guess I never learned that lesson—to be a big girl and
face my problems. I think what gets people is the monotony of the everyday. I
wake up, make coffee, take care of my child, set my timer for fifteen minute
increments just to make it through to bedtime. And during those fifteen minute
increments, I feel lost. I don’t know what to do with myself that has any
value. And so I sleep. I get high. I drink. I break things. And after, I feel
so bad that Junie has witnessed yet another breakdown, but I can’t help the
madness. It’s clawing at me to get out and all I know to do is shatter glass.
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