For some reason, my iPhone asks if I would like to connect to a network called “HOME” whenever I am in one of Manhattan’s most expensive neighborhoods.
But this time, the depression was worse than I could have ever imagined and I couldn’t handle it. I got my dad’s 45 caliber gun and shot myself in the stomach.
Then, there were those stories that made me want to call up my mother immediately and thank her for never being that insane. To thank her for not embodying the unfavorable stereotypes of the Jewish mother.
“I’ve already explained to you how ______ works at least seven times, and if I explain it again part of me is going to die.”
You can spend your nights trying to understand addiction, and how somebody can transform into a person so horrific right before your own eyes, but there is no understanding to it.
So while it may hurt to be a girl without a father, it doesn’t have to dictate the way you live your life.
You will forever spend your life avoiding being “average” or “normal” because your only claim to fame in your family was that you were the offbeat one that had other redeeming qualities besides just being the one born first or last.
Every part of me rejected that phrase. He said it casually in the hope that maybe I didn’t hear it, and maybe it didn’t have to be true, or perhaps so we could just glaze over it and move on to what was for dinner. “I’m sick,” he said.
I grabbed my laptop and sat on my bed. I searched “Karen Woods car accident, 2002.”
She drove me to every violin lesson and tennis game, practiced Spanish flashcards with me while watching “dramas.”