What I Know

I am the child of a manic depressive and a compulsive gambler.  My mother is the manic depressive, my father the compulsive gambler; both are slaves to their own chemical imbalances.  You can only imagine the stormy world in which these two live.  It's messy.  It's absurd.  It's pitiful.  It's tragic.  It's heartbreaking.

Neither have been formally diagnosed, as far as I know.  

I am in my thirties and just this week shared this information with my oldest friend.  At her prompting.  I've known her since I was fourteen.  

And so I'm putting it all down here.  Little by little.  Whenever I feel compelled.  It might be in a moment of anger, or momentary lapse in judgment, or superficial clarity, or intense sadness.  It won't matter, the conditions.  Because maybe if I put it all down, every time I look back, maybe it won't be so hard to turn back around and keep moving.

///   THERE were endless bouts when uhmmah would hole herself up in a dark room and sleep.  She would wake only to toss food on the table, complaining the entire time that if it weren't for her children, she wouldn't be tied to this lifestyle.  We were forbidden from making any noise.  We children took shifts massaging her aching legs and arms.  She moaned and sighed out loud.  She talked to me like I was her grown girlfriend.  TV was our only solace, on the lowest volume possible, to minimize the chances of stirring the chance that uhmmah might grab a stick on her way out of the bedroom.

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