~The Dark Place

It was the end of September, 1986. I had just turned seventeen, and it was my brother's fourth birthday. I couldn't take not being around him. I knew what he was dealing with... who he was living with.

All the way around, I felt like crap... beaten down... face to the dirt. Helpless. Responsible. It was all my fault. I did this to myself. I was shit. I couldn't be there for my brother.

I picked up the phone and called my mother's apartment. I wanted to say Happy Birthday to him. Having split up with my step father (that's what happens when you sleep with your husband's best friend), my mother was living with my brother. That made me nuts. I knew what he was dealing with.

Yes, I called... and yes, it sent me sailing over the edge.

I heard his voice, and it ripped my heart apart. It ripped my head apart.

I begged her for help. Explained how bad off I was, living at the squat. I wasn't that bad off, but I just wanted to be able to be there for my brother. In the squat, I couldn't be. I had to climb back into the mold... play the game... endure the torture.

I asked her for help.

What was the result?

A night or two on her couch, a week or so back at the squat, signed over to the city, stuffed into a "Youth Shelter", and then... BAM!

I was institutionalized.

Thanks Mom. You always did really try to help me.

Cunt.