Living Life with the Mentally Disturbed

I don’t like scrap-bookers! They make me feel guilty, with all their tidy albums lying on dust-free coffee tables. I have albums too! They’re still wrapped in plastic, but I have them!

Somewhere, in that huge box of loose pics waiting to be affixed to pretty pages, is a school picture of me at the age of nine. There are no bows in my hair, and I’m not wearing a special dress. Why? Because my mother was in a mental hospital.More arresting than the lack of “picture day” finery is the sadness in that little girl’s eyes. Every time I see that picture, I remember how I felt: confused, bereft, and very lonely.