I never thought I would have one. Most people assume I don’t have one because when they look at me they see a mouth that never shuts and a smile that can either creep you out or invite you into the embrace of an awkward friend hug but then we laugh about it so it’s completely fine and…. sorry I lost my train of thought. Oh right! I never thought I had a mental disorder. I knew my mom had one and I knew I hated her for it. I can’t tell you why I never saw past her drooping eyes and forced smile. I can tell you why I thought she was faking it a

nd why I can’t say I’m sorry to her even though I want to.

I want to for example, say that my mom is and always has been a strong person. I can’t though. Even if she cradled my airy eight-year-old head all the while promising me that carbs weren’t that great and that I didn’t need to have fifteen Oreos in my lunch like the other non-diabetic kids, she wasn’t strong. Because a strong woman wouldn’t have played up domestic violence as a game where I was the ball and if I won, I got a back scratch and a lullaby. Sometimes though I could never win no matter what happened. Like the night Mom told me she was fine when she came out smelling faintly of queso and black beans. We were having Mexican when he decided to throw a dinner plate and car keys at her. I can’t tell you if the police sirens brought me comfort, panic, melancholy, or anger. I can tell you that while Mom was being questioned all I could see was Dad’s head hung low in the back of the cop car. I lost the game, I was a bad ball.

I remember when we got him back, Dad was fine for a while. He had those little orange bottles again, bottles that I could never open and were told to never touch. They made him better Mom told me. They make him a better player she told me. She’d still fight with him though, especially when Bush was in the Oval Office. Dad hated that man, and I hated him too. I told all my friends I hated him because he was stupid. They asked me what I meant by that. I always told them it was what my dad said and he was right about everything. Mom would agree but that mutual disgust didn’t erase their debt during that time, so our red barn of a manor was always held to the torch. So they fought about money and by some miracle that they would stop long enough for me to bring a friend over I would pull Mom aside with all the strength my arms could bear and tell her to just agree with Dad so the pills would work and I wouldn’t have to play for them. Or if that didn’t work, just tell him she lost her own orange bottle and was on her period. I didn’t know what period meant but I knew it made Dad nod his head and bow out before the yelling got too loud. I knew depression meant that Mom got sad but to me it was another part of the game, and it worked.

Later on I saw Mom as a different kind of weak, one who didn’t have enough willpower to overcome the very thing I once asked her to exploit. She would mope and cry all because of this thing I thought she could fight. She would swing back and overload my friends with sickly sweet smiles and shaky handshakes only to play the game as usual when they left, demanding through tear stained eyes that I assume my rightful place on the board. After all, she made her move, now it was my turn to play. It also added to the game that I was there that day too, watching when Dad threw a flurry of paper reeking of mailroom glue right into Mom’s face, chest, and hands. I can’t say why I still sided with Dad, but I had to keep playing.

I can’t tell you that my mother was strong because she wasn’t. I can’t tell you my mother was making excuses because she wasn’t. I can’t tell you how much it hurt when I got my non-corrupted clarity and played just as hard as she did on my own. But I can tell you I made my mother cry, talking about how suicide is a coward’s way out and she should ignore the pain to play. I sat in my cozy little side of the spectrum and judged. I judged my mother as manipulative, depressed, and weak. I judged my dad as aggressive, scary, and right. I can’t say that I ever really judged myself though. I can’t say if I’d like the ruling. I can tell you that I never bothered to understand the game we all played. I can tell you about how much anxiety I have over the thought of needing my own orange bottle. Maybe Mom, Dad, and I can play with them together.

© 2017 Jared "I.J" Steinberg. All Rights Reserved.

#nonfiction