Her mother's face was contorted, eyebrows furrowed in anger and concentration, lips tucked in and braced for impact, her body jerking awkwardly with the effort.

This was a defense, not an attack.

Her mother felt threatened and she lashed out at her daughter the same way she did in her sleep when she was being assaulted by invisible forces.

It was the first and last time that she tried to convince her mother to see a doctor.

She was fifteen; her mother was sick, the kind of sick that no one talks about, and her father was at work.


Her mother had a persecution complex.

There was a widespread conspiracy to torment her, no one could tell her different.

Every cupboard door that was left open, every placemat that was left crooked, every chair not pushed completely under the table was a thorn intended to puncture her.

It was three in the morning, and her mother had come into her bedroom, turning all the lights on, demanding answers.

Squinting.   I don't know, Mom.  I didn't use the oven today.

Pressing.   So are you saying that I left it on?  I didn't use the oven today either; I used the stovetop.  Who put you up to this?

Feeling the anger bubble up in her stomach and work its way up to her chest and throat, she tried to stay calm.    Mom, no one!  Can I go back to sleep?

Not until you tell me what this is about!  What do they want?  Did they promise you something?  Have they hurt you?  What else did they tell you to do to me?

Her mother rambled on about how they're all cowards, cowards and devils, and she'll be protected because she's on the side of God, and she won't let them take her family, and the book of Genesis says --

Interrupting:

Mom, this has to stop!  Why do you do this?  I'm your daughter.  I'm not out to get you. I would never hurt you.  No one is trying to hurt you or me or anybody!  This is crazy!  I don't understand what makes you think this way.  You need to see a doctor.  Something is wrong with you.

Sobby, messy, spitty words.  Fight-or-flight adrenaline running through her made her want to punch something.

And then, the slap.

Had she raised her hand to her mother?   No.

Did her mother say she did?   Yes.

The story would always be twisted.    Did she leave the oven on?  Did she take orders from someone to torment her mother?  Whose world was the real one?

So many wrinkles in her memory.


Previous Chapter



......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................
You just read a chapter from my first book, The Beautiful Disruption.  In honor of Mental Health Awareness Month, I am sharing most of the book here on the blog over the month of May in a series of blog posts.  You can start at the beginning and follow along here.   Create and be well.  xoxo
......................................................................................................................................................................................................................................

Facebook | Twitter | Instagram | Pinterest | Bloglovin | Tumblr | RSS |  Newsletter |  My Books