When You Are Mad, Mad

Madness Strips You Of Memory And Leaves You Scrabbling Around On The Floor Of Your Brain For The Snatches And Snippets Of What Happened, What Was Said, And When.

It's Really Interesting To Me How All Of Us Can Experience The Exact Same Event, And Yet Come Away With Wildly Disparate Interpretations Of What Happened. We Each Have Totally Different Ideas Of What Was Said, What Was Intended, And What Really Took Place.

I Developed A Deep, Abiding Fear Of Jeans, Which I Still Have. I Hold My Breath And Shut My Eyes When I Pull On A Pair In The Dressing Room, Afraid They Will Now, As Then, Get Stuck At My Hips And There I Will Stand, Absurd, Staring At The Excess Of Hips That Should, If I Were A Good Person, Be „slim“.

The Biggest Fear Of My Life Is Living. My Second Biggest Fear Is Dying.

My God! People Say. You Have So Much Self-control! And Later: My God. You're So, So Sick. When People Say This, They Turn Their Heads, You've Won Your Little Game. You Have Proven Your Thesis That No-body-loves-me-every-body-hates-me, Guess-i'll-just-eat-worms. You Get To Sink Back Into Your Hospital Bed, Shrieking With Righteous Indignation. See? You Get To Say. I Knew You'd Give Up On Me. I Knew You'd Leave.