Book 1 of the Series: Dr. Seuss Does Depression. Read Aloud in Your Best Dr. Seuss Voice
So I rhymed and I reasoned, and never did tell/just how much/she felt like hell. Her kissing and screeching and sneaking around, left me to go underground. I hated and skated; cried while I tried not to argue or stink. No matter the muster, I did nothing but sink. Deeper and deeper into the deep of the hiding through gliding as if life was a pond, all quiet and rustic and doing no harm.
Every day I would wake in the shamelight of mother. Looking for fame, her mind was a gutter. She swore she would write the great American story, the one that would bring all of us glory. But year after year she wore us all out, sand papering our souls to the finest of grout.
My mother myself had made me this way. Nature through nurture she gave me no sway. She told me: “You will be hurting as if you were me. She told me and told me since I was three. You are not him, never will be. He was a swallow, and you just a wing. He was so creamy and soft in my arms. You squabbled and scrabbled I thought you’d do harm. I know you know, I would never say no. So, yes, it was me who made Daddy go. But I will not tell you or share you the truth as you sit quietly in that damn booth. Reading and reading as if that is proof that distance and drama can make you aloof.
She continued: You cannot know the pain I have lived; mine is far greater than any they give. You will not ever be in my heart. I tell you right now. Don’t even start. I have you, don’t need you. Love you, wouldn’t grieve you, so do what you want with your sad fettered life. Cut you or pee you or run out to see you. I could care less as I dress to relieve you. Crossing and crossing because it’s my time. No more waiting to find me the line. Daddy at war, with me fighting too. You no picnic, I’d have at the zoo. I hate you. I hate you. Because you are live. Your brother was the one I wanted to thrive.”
And over and over her voice rang in my ears. I tried and I tried to bring back the tears. In the end it was words that gave me the schemer of persistent resistance for this awful existence. I wallow and bellow as this is my home; the linoleum carpet is easy to roam. My daughter she visits me in the long yellow kitchen. Jello left over, it’s my favorite provision. She seems uncomfortable with the jolts through my body. It’s all very technical if a bit gaudy.
I mean who hasn’t had it, electric shock therapy? It’s only the most common of remedy. I hear voices in my eyes. See people listening to my ears. Coming to get me they all charge the rear. My daughter is maudlin. She crumbles and flusters and rages about, but with others her grace just tumbles out. I wave to my grandson. Through a small little window, cut out from the door, he can’t come in there’s only this floor for psychics and psychos and those who complain. Geriatric psychology is its own domain. No place for a boy so open and warm, may we all be so lucky he never weathers this storm.
©Gabriella Strecker, 2016
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