How I Stopped Being the Queen of Pain

And so can you

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What I remember most about my mom is her encouraging me to frisk my friends before they left the house. Her paranoia turned clinical around my 14th birthday and grew delusions. By then, I wasn’t her daughter anymore. I was a clone from outer space.

According to her, I must die.

Our relationship never recovered. She could never stay on her pills, and the pills always changed. Every few months I became something evil that had to be destroyed. When I was allowed in the house, I didn’t feel safe unless my dad was home. He thought I was being dramatic — until one night she broke a dish over his head, and tried to push him down the stairs.

In the lobby outside the emergency room, I wanted to say “Told you.” But I didn’t. It felt inappropriate.

So we sat and waited.

Years later I launched myself headfirst into journalism. Crime drew my attention. Maybe it was because the police had been to my house so many times. The only person who’d ever seen me cry was a responding officer. At the age of 22, someone like me didn’t look very hardened or experienced in the dark sides of human nature.

Law enforcement treated me like an innocent little creature.