CHAPTER ONE – DEFLATED
My earliest memories were of standing on a sidewalk in the bright afternoon sun, watching the bank of windows above me. I anxiously searched for her face anticipating a chance to wave to my mother. This would be one of many times my father would drop me off on the East sidewalk, nearest the psych ward, as children under twelve were not permitted inside.
If I were lucky, she would be feeling well enough to come with him to the window to blow me a kiss. However, if she had just had shock treatments, or was having a particularly bad day, the windows would remain empty, my father would return with the car, sigh deeply as he opened my door and we would ride home together shedding silent tears.
I was far too young to understand why she was not with us, or why she was different from all the moms in our neighborhood. The ones who would make spaghettios for dinner and buy ding dongs and go to PTA meetings.
We lived in the heart of suburbia, and my father seemed as normal as the next guy, getting up and leaving for work each day, tucking me in each night. Yet at the time I didn’t realize exactly how unusual it was to have a bathtub full of blood and an ambulance in my driveway on any given night.