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Detention: A Daughter's Memoir of Mental Illness
“I could take you away,” my mother said the first time I tried to run away. “Take you to the airport and fly you anywhere I want to; somewhere no one will ever find you. And I am your mother and there is nothing that anyone could do to stop me.” She smiled, humming cheerfully under her breath. Pleased with her cleverness, the infallibility of her plan, her power...
I was sixteen when my mother became mentally ill. I experienced first-hand the terror of watching someone I loved transform into a monster, the terror of discovering that I was to be her primary victim. For years I’ve lived with the sadness of knowing that she, too, was a helpless victim – a victim of a terrible disease that consumed and destroyed the woman I had called Mom.
She died in 2007. No one will ever know her side of the story now. But perhaps, at last, it’s time for me to tell mine.
PLEASE NOTE: This is a FREE EXCERPT from my memoir On Hearing of My Mother's Death Six Years After It Happened. It is NOT the full book.
I was sixteen when my mother became mentally ill. I experienced first-hand the terror of watching someone I loved transform into a monster, the terror of discovering that I was to be her primary victim. For years I’ve lived with the sadness of knowing that she, too, was a helpless victim – a victim of a terrible disease that consumed and destroyed the woman I had called Mom.
She died in 2007. No one will ever know her side of the story now. But perhaps, at last, it’s time for me to tell mine.
PLEASE NOTE: This is a FREE EXCERPT from my memoir On Hearing of My Mother's Death Six Years After It Happened. It is NOT the full book.
- GenresMemoir
10 pages, Kindle Edition
First published September 11, 2014
About the author
Lori Schafer
65 books136 followersWhen I was in the seventh grade, my English teacher assigned us a creative writing project for Halloween. We were to compose short stories, which we would then read aloud before the class, coupled with a competition of sorts in which the students would vote on who had written the best one.
Now in my pre-teen years, I was not what you would term the most popular kid in school. Perhaps it was those horrible "Student-of-the-Month" photos of me hanging in the main hallway, which they somehow always managed to take right after gym when my hair was flying every which way, or perhaps it was the oxford shirts and corduroy trousers in which my mother dressed me because I refused to participate in ridiculous wastes of time like school-clothes shopping. It certainly didn't help that in addition to being smart and studious, I was also very, very shy, which led many to believe that I was stuck-up. I suppose if you're naturally adept at making conversation, it's difficult to understand that other kids might not be.
You can therefore easily picture the scene in the classroom that day: the anxious adolescent girl slouched in her seat, sweat drenching the armpits of her button-up shirt as she watched the clock, fervently hoping that time would run out before her turn came. You can imagine my nervousness when, five minutes before the bell, my teacher called me to the front of the class, the last reader to go; my terror as I stumbled up to her desk clutching the half-sheets of paper on which I'd scrawled my assignment. As usual, I had pushed the limits on the suggested length - my story was at least twice as long as anyone else's - and the only saving grace of this enforced public humiliation, I thought, was that I would undoubtedly run out of time to finish it before the lunch bell rang.
Tucking my loose hair back behind my ears and focusing my eyes firmly on my papers, I began to read. It turned out that reading wasn't so bad; unlike giving an oral report, you didn't actually have to look at any of the other students. And it was a decent story, I reflected as I flipped through the pages, concentrating hard on not losing my place. At least my classmates were sitting silently, which made them easier to ignore.
At last I reached the climax of my tale, which was where it turned gruesome. The main character had gotten trapped in a fire, and I remember describing, in disgusting detail, the sizzle of the hairs frying on his arms as the hot flames neared. I remember describing the flames devouring his flesh, great flaps of it falling from his skeleton as his skin seared away. And I remember the silence of the classroom; I remember it breaking, the moans and groans that swelled all around me as I depicted my main character's excruciating demise, only to be interrupted by the harsh clanging of the bell.
No one stirred; no one rose; no one left. I glanced at my teacher, who nodded. The other students sat rapt while I finished my story, and they applauded when I was done. There was no question that I had won the contest.
I was pleased that my story had gone over well, of course, but it wasn't until the following week, when other kids were still coming up to talk to me about it, that I understood that I had somehow made an impression that went beyond my gruesome, graphic horror story. It was as if I had revealed that somewhere beneath that classic nerdy exterior was a real honest-to-goodness person, a kid who thought about things like destruction and death, and flames eating flesh, and how best to describe such horrific events.
I never wrote horror again - I suppose it just wasn't my thing - and I've never made much of Halloween, either. I've never liked the pressure of having to pick out a costume and then explain why I chose it; I've never even understood the appeal of dressing up and playing pretend. I have other ways of exploring my darker sides. Nowadays you won't find me in a starched, striped shirt, or in old-fashioned slacks, b
Now in my pre-teen years, I was not what you would term the most popular kid in school. Perhaps it was those horrible "Student-of-the-Month" photos of me hanging in the main hallway, which they somehow always managed to take right after gym when my hair was flying every which way, or perhaps it was the oxford shirts and corduroy trousers in which my mother dressed me because I refused to participate in ridiculous wastes of time like school-clothes shopping. It certainly didn't help that in addition to being smart and studious, I was also very, very shy, which led many to believe that I was stuck-up. I suppose if you're naturally adept at making conversation, it's difficult to understand that other kids might not be.
You can therefore easily picture the scene in the classroom that day: the anxious adolescent girl slouched in her seat, sweat drenching the armpits of her button-up shirt as she watched the clock, fervently hoping that time would run out before her turn came. You can imagine my nervousness when, five minutes before the bell, my teacher called me to the front of the class, the last reader to go; my terror as I stumbled up to her desk clutching the half-sheets of paper on which I'd scrawled my assignment. As usual, I had pushed the limits on the suggested length - my story was at least twice as long as anyone else's - and the only saving grace of this enforced public humiliation, I thought, was that I would undoubtedly run out of time to finish it before the lunch bell rang.
Tucking my loose hair back behind my ears and focusing my eyes firmly on my papers, I began to read. It turned out that reading wasn't so bad; unlike giving an oral report, you didn't actually have to look at any of the other students. And it was a decent story, I reflected as I flipped through the pages, concentrating hard on not losing my place. At least my classmates were sitting silently, which made them easier to ignore.
At last I reached the climax of my tale, which was where it turned gruesome. The main character had gotten trapped in a fire, and I remember describing, in disgusting detail, the sizzle of the hairs frying on his arms as the hot flames neared. I remember describing the flames devouring his flesh, great flaps of it falling from his skeleton as his skin seared away. And I remember the silence of the classroom; I remember it breaking, the moans and groans that swelled all around me as I depicted my main character's excruciating demise, only to be interrupted by the harsh clanging of the bell.
No one stirred; no one rose; no one left. I glanced at my teacher, who nodded. The other students sat rapt while I finished my story, and they applauded when I was done. There was no question that I had won the contest.
I was pleased that my story had gone over well, of course, but it wasn't until the following week, when other kids were still coming up to talk to me about it, that I understood that I had somehow made an impression that went beyond my gruesome, graphic horror story. It was as if I had revealed that somewhere beneath that classic nerdy exterior was a real honest-to-goodness person, a kid who thought about things like destruction and death, and flames eating flesh, and how best to describe such horrific events.
I never wrote horror again - I suppose it just wasn't my thing - and I've never made much of Halloween, either. I've never liked the pressure of having to pick out a costume and then explain why I chose it; I've never even understood the appeal of dressing up and playing pretend. I have other ways of exploring my darker sides. Nowadays you won't find me in a starched, striped shirt, or in old-fashioned slacks, b
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Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews
November 28, 2014
This is a sample from the author's memoir about living with a mother suffering from mental illness. The excerpt alone is gripping and you feel for the author with what she's going through. I can't wait to read the entire book, based on the sample it's going to be an emotional story.
February 3, 2016
A mother's love for here daughter to help her through her mental illness, very moving.
October 6, 2014
I downloaded this single chapter sample and am very intrigued to read the full book. The sample gives a glimpse into the life of a teenage girl who's mother is suffering from paranoid delusions and the ways that it affects both of their lives. We see that the mother is so distrustful of the world around her that despite having locked all the doors and windows to her home before she prepares food, she frequently suspects that someone has poisoned it when her back was turned and so the food is thrown out. Her paranoia extends well beyond her home and causes her to be over-protective of her daughter to the point where she stays at school with her all day long. The school counselors and principal don't know how to deal with this, so they make a compromise where she is assigned a chair in the hallway outside of every classroom door.
The impact to this young girl's life is hard to imagine. I really look forward to the full book.
The impact to this young girl's life is hard to imagine. I really look forward to the full book.
March 10, 2015
Awesome Story
I can understand where the auth of the story. I have been through it with a paranoid schizophrenic and watching guards slowly stop working and his demons return. Great Book.
I can understand where the auth of the story. I have been through it with a paranoid schizophrenic and watching guards slowly stop working and his demons return. Great Book.
March 8, 2015
Disappointed that this book was only a preview - first few chapters.
March 10, 2015
Good read
Extremely interesting. A good look into the lives of people who also suffer while being a part of a life with mental illness.
Extremely interesting. A good look into the lives of people who also suffer while being a part of a life with mental illness.
March 17, 2015
Amazing
This book is about a girl who has mental illness and the teacher gives her detention about every day! SPOILER ALERT!: She does die in 2007.
This book is about a girl who has mental illness and the teacher gives her detention about every day! SPOILER ALERT!: She does die in 2007.
July 22, 2016
Brain Food:
Scandal Level:
Violence:
Must be ___ old to read:
Read if you liked:
Re-readability:
Thoughts:
Scandal Level:
Violence:
Must be ___ old to read:
Read if you liked:
Re-readability:
Thoughts:
Displaying 1 - 8 of 8 reviews